I couldn’t believe I said that. I heard Mary Anne gasp behind me, and knew she couldn’t believe it, either. Good grief, this campaign was making me crazy.
I almost said I was sorry (apologizing to Grace — double good grief!), but she turned and flounced away, with Cokie behind her.
Bending over, I picked up a piece of purple balloon.
“A+, Kristy,” I muttered to myself disgustedly.
I had planned on spending the rest of the day resting, sort of with my eyes open, at my desk. That plan got scorched in science when we were reminded of the major, major test coming up the next day.
And I had Krusher practice.
A short practice, a quick dinner, homework, and then cramming for the test?
I glanced at the science book and my notes. No.
Could I skip the homework? No.
I could try to skip dinner, but somehow, I didn’t think that would go over so well with Mom and Watson.
That left the Krushers.
The first thing I did when I got home was call the Krushers and cancel practice. I hated doing it. And I hated telling everyone it was canceled.
“Practice is important,” Jamie kept insisting when I told him, and I knew he was thinking about his bicycle, too.
“It is, Jamie. I know. We’ll practice soon.”
But I couldn’t say how soon. I wasn’t going to make any more promises that I couldn’t keep.
“Have you seen my new bike?” That was Jamie Newton’s first question.
Dawn was prepared. She laughed and said, “I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard about it. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
Jamie said, “It’s exactly perfect.”
Mrs. Newton had just left. It was a perfect afternoon. Lucy was lying on her back in her playpen on the porch, making pedaling motions with her legs and having an urgley-talk conversation with herself, with gurgles of laughter in between the urgley-words. Jamie was pulling on Dawn’s hand, trying to steer her in the direction of his bicycle.
“First, why don’t I make something like lemonade or iced tea, Jamie? We can let it chill while we’re practicing, okay?”
Jamie didn’t look too thrilled, but he followed Dawn into the kitchen. She found some lemons and sugar, and gave Jamie the job of squeezing the lemons (after she’d cut them).
He seemed to enjoy it for awhile, concentrating so ferociously that Dawn had to smile.
“That’s a lemon-face, Jamie,” she told him.
“What’s a lemon-face?” Jamie kept his face scrunched up while he juiced another lemon.
“It’s the face you make when you squeeze lemons. See?” Dawn picked up half of a lemon and demonstrated, making a scrunched-up face of her own. Jamie laughed and made an even worse face.
After that, he invented six more lemon faces to go with the six lemon halves left that needed squeezing, and Dawn made lemon faces back while she stirred the lemonade. When it was done, Jamie did a taste test.
“Is that a lemon-face I see? Again?” asked Dawn.
“Sour,” replied Jamie.
Dawn tasted it.
“Lemon-face!” crowed Jamie. He handed Dawn the sugar, and she spooned a little more in, even though it was white sugar. (Dawn would have used brown sugar, or even honey.)
Tasting it again, Jamie made another face, a big goofy-grin face, watching Dawn carefully. She caught on. “A lemonade face?” she guessed.
Jamie shrieked with laughter, and Lucy, who now was sitting in her high chair, shrieked, too. Dawn put the lemonade in the fridge, picked up Lucy, and let Jamie lead her outside. She waited while he wheeled his bike out of the garage.
“It’s a beau-, uh, a very cool, handsome, perfect bike, Jamie.”
“I know,” he answered solemnly. “Can we — may we — practice now?”
“Sure. Let me get Lucy settled first.” Dawn took Lucy over to her playpen and put a bright purple cloth ball near her. Lucy turned her head sideways and stared at it, then began talking to it. Babies don’t know that everything doesn’t answer. (Or maybe grown-ups don’t know that things do….)
“Dawnnn!”
“Coming.” She gave Lucy a quick pat and then went back to Jamie who was holding up his bike.
She stopped in surprise. “Jamie, where are your training wheels?”
“I told Daddy to take them off,” he answered. “Training wheels are for babies.”
“But —”
“Look.” Sure enough, a group of older boys were swooping up and down the street.
“None of them have training wheels.”
“And you’re ready to try riding your bike without training wheels now, too?”
Jamie nodded emphatically. But his voice wasn’t so emphatic when he added, “Yes. Now.”
“Okay, what do we do?”
“Hold my bike while I get up.”
That was easier said than done. Poor Jamie. He put one foot on the pedal and Dawn, who didn’t quite realize how off balance it would make the bicycle, staggered back.
Jamie hopped off, quick as anything. His eyes were huge. “You dropped me!”
“No. I just wasn’t ready.”
“You can’t drop me.” Jamie’s voice grew shrill.
“I won’t. I promise. It’s just that —” Dawn stopped. She was going to say, “It’s just that without the training wheels, your bike is really unsteady.” But she didn’t want to scare Jamie any worse.
“It’s just that I wasn’t ready. That’s all.”
“Okay.” Jamie got back into position, put his foot on the pedal, and waited. Dawn held the bike firm. Satisfied, Jamie grabbed her shoulder with one hand (which almost threw her off balance again), and swung up onto the bike seat.
“I’m ready to go,” he announced.
Dawn held onto the seat and the handlebars to keep the bike upright. But even doing that, it was an extremely unsettling trip to the end of the driveway. Jamie kept wrenching the handlebars, pulling Dawn sideways. She had to struggle to keep from falling over, bike, Jamie, and all.
It didn’t take her long to realize, either, that Jamie wasn’t pedaling hard enough to get any momentum going. She was not only holding him up, she was pushing him forward. And sure enough, when they reached the end of the driveway, Jamie insisted on getting down, “helping” Dawn turn his bike around, and getting back up again.
Meanwhile, it seemed that every kid in the neighborhood had decided to ride his bike down Jamie’s street. Dawn saw Jamie glance at them from time to time with a sad expression. But most of the time he was wearing his bicycle variation of the lemon-face: eyes scrunched up, frowning, his lips pressed tightly together.
They headed up the driveway and back down again. Dawn’s arms were getting tired, her legs were aching, and her back was beginning to hurt.
“Jamie,” she began.
“Watch out!”
“Wh-what?” Dawn swung around, half expecting to see a car bearing down on them — and then spent the next minute teetering precariously. Jamie didn’t help. He was wrenching the handlebars around and flailing his legs wildly. One of his feet kicked Dawn in the stomach.
“Uhh.” It knocked the wind out of her, but it also knocked her backward a little, and she was able to straighten the bike out.
“Jamie! What is it? Are you all right?”
“Stop, stop, stop!”
Dawn looked around wildly, and then gradually, remembering what she had read in the BSC notebook, it — dawned — on her. She looked down.
Sure enough, there in the driveway was a branch from the maple tree, with a couple of leaves still attached to it.
“That branch?” she asked. But she knew the answer.
“We have to move it,” declared Jamie.
This was twice as hard to do without the training wheels. But Dawn finally managed to kick the branch out of the way with the toe of her sneaker.
As they rode slowly up the driveway, Dawn heard Lucy’s voice. She wasn’t talking to the purple ba
ll or to herself anymore. She sounded fretful.
“Jamie,” Dawn began. But before she could suggest that he’d had enough practice for one afternoon, the front wheel wobbled, then turned completely sideways. Jamie, his bike, and Dawn all went down in a heap.
Dawn managed not to fall all the way, but she landed in a sort of tripod above the bike and Jamie. By the time she’d straightened up, Jamie had begun to cry.
Pulling the bike off Jamie, Dawn checked him for broken bones and for bumps. Fortunately, he’d just skinned his hands and one elbow.
“Come on,” she said. She helped Jamie to his feet, being careful not to touch his skinned places, and led him into the house. She got the first aid kit out of the bathroom cabinet, then brought it and Jamie to the porch where she could keep an eye on Lucy.
As carefully as she could, Dawn wiped off Jamie’s cuts and scrapes and put some ointment and Band-Aids on them. By the time she’d finished, Jamie had stopped crying. But his face had gone from lemon to mule.
Frowning ferociously, he announced, “I’m never going to ride that stupid bicycle again.”
“Jamie …” Just then Lucy began to cry in earnest. Dawn picked her up. She wasn’t wet. Maybe, thought Dawn wryly as she gave her a little juice in a bottle, the purple ball had said something to her she didn’t like.
She walked Lucy up and down, and Lucy gradually stopped crying. Her eyes closed.
“Jamie, I’m going to take Lucy to her crib. Stay on the porch. I’ll be right back.”
Jamie nodded, staring straight ahead and still scowling.
What am I going to tell him? Dawn worried the whole time she was putting Lucy down for her nap. In fact, she held an entire conversation with herself. She imagined saying to Jamie, The important thing is, after you fall, to get up and try again. But then her self said back, he needs those training wheels. He’s not ready to ride without them. But how, she asked herself, can I convince him to put them back on? And how, another part of herself asked, can I manage to walk up and down that driveway, pulling that bike ONE more time?
Returning to the porch, Dawn took a deep breath. “Hey, listen,” she started to say.
But Jamie wasn’t listening to her at all. He was watching the other kids flash by on their bicycles, their wheels spinning with silver flashes in the late afternoon sun. He was listening to the sounds of wheels on the pavement and the gears clicking and the whir of the wind as they flew by.
Gently Dawn put her hand on his shoulder. Poor Jamie, she thought.
He turned.
“Dawn?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Dawn, can we practice on my bike some more?”
I didn’t believe it.
Quickly I flipped the test over, so no one could see it.
Not that anyone was trying to copy me or anything. No way. Not even if they’d wanted to.
Because I’d just failed the test. There was a big red 60 at the top. Which was not surprising when you saw how many red X’s there were by my answers.
I don’t know why I couldn’t believe it, but I just couldn’t. I mean, I don’t get 60s. Generally, I’m a good student, even in subjects I’m not crazy about. Like science.
But I wasn’t a good student anymore. Part of me had to admit that, looking at those big (enormous) red numbers. Part of me said I should have been able to guess the right answers, just this once. And part of me was mortified.
I thought of Claudia, too. She’s not good at school, and she doesn’t get great grades. I wondered if she was actually used to seeing these kinds of numbers at the tops of her tests. Somehow I didn’t think it was something anyone could get used to.
Except maybe Alan.
The bell rang and gratefully I shoved the awful test into my notebook, then shoved that deep into my pack. I told myself I didn’t have time to think about it. I told myself to concentrate on what I was really good at. Just by stepping out of this room, I knew I’d see the signs: K+ — KRISTY FOR PRESIDENT.
Uh-oh. Would this mean I couldn’t run? No. It was just one test. All I had to do was study and —
“Kristy?”
I jerked to a stop. It was Ms. Griswold. She smiled.
“You know, Kristy, everybody has bad days.”
“I guess.”
“I think you’re having a bad one now.”
I smiled a little. What an understatement. “That’s a fact,” I said.
She smiled, too. “A scientific fact. Another fact is that you are a good student, generally. I have to say, your grade surprised me.”
“Me, too.”
“Did you study?”
I shifted my weight. I wanted to lie and say that I had. But I hadn’t. The test was telling the truth.
“No. I guess I … I guess I earned that grade.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Ms. Griswold. She nodded slowly. Then she said, “Kristy, I know you are running for class president. I know you are the president of a thriving business. I don’t usually do this, but under these circumstances, I want you to retake this test.”
Who would ever think anyone could be so excited by the words “retake this test”?
Ms. Griswold pulled her lesson book toward her and turned the page. “How about tomorrow at lunch?”
I thought quickly. No BSC meeting this afternoon, and no baby-sitting job, either. How had I wound up with a whole free afternoon? Never mind. I’d have plenty of time to study. Maybe I could even ace the test.
“Great!” I said. “Thank you, Ms. Griswold.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t be late to class, now.”
“I won’t. And thank you again!” I hurried out.
I kept on hurrying for the rest of the day. I spent lunch in the library, doing homework that was due that afternoon. I spent every spare minute between classes checking on posters. (Was it my imagination or had someone been knocking all of mine askew. Someone named, say, Grace?) Study hall was spent on more catching up.
This afternoon, I was definitely going to study science. Big time.
But I got home after school and met … David Michael, wearing his Krushers hat and T-shirt.
Krushers practice! I’d forgotten I’d rescheduled it.
“Are you ready, Kristy?”
“Uh, David Michael …”
“We need to practice. You said so.”
“Yes. You are absolutely right. I was just going to say give me a minute to get suited up.”
“Okay.” David Michael sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the clock. He really was going to give me only a minute.
I couldn’t help but smile. As I walked by him I gave the bill of his hat a little yank.
“Hey!” he said.
“Maybe a few minutes,” I said, and raced to my room to change.
It was a perfect day for softball. Everyone else seemed to think so, too. Most of the Krushers were already waiting for us when we arrived at the field.
“Plaaaay ball,” shouted Karen as we walked up.
“First we should practice some basics, okay?”
“Plaaay basics.” Karen went into gales of laughter and about half the team went with her.
I waited a minute to give them a chance to giggle themselves out. After all, the Krushers are not your usual softball team. For example, the average age of a Krusher team member is 5.8. And one of the youngest players, Gabbie Perkins, is two and a half and doesn’t quite understand the game yet. We throw Gabbie a wiffle ball and stand very close to her when it’s her turn to bat.
But age doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t try hard, and isn’t good at something — even though not all of them are home run hitters, or fielders with rifle throws to first.
The giggling lessened and I held up my hands.
Then I looked over at Matt Braddock, who is just about our best player and who is also deaf. He was laughing, too. A lot of the kids know some sign language now (especially when it comes to playing softball), so they can talk to Matt. Someone had told him the
joke, too. And I realized also that his sister, Haley, who can use sign language at top speed, was there to translate, in case.
But holding up your hands is universal, I guess, for GET QUIET. (I mean, look at how many principals and teachers use it.) Anyway Matt got quiet, too, although he kept this huge grin on his face.
“We’re going to practice fielding grounders, okay?”
“What’s a grounder?” asked Karen.
“I know, I know,” said Jackie Rodowsky. “It’s a ball that is hit along the ground.”
“Good, Jackie.” Jackie looked extremely pleased. He’s sort of a, well, a walking disaster. Wherever Jackie goes, look out! The sound of something crashing or breaking or being bumped into is not far behind. But he’s probably one of our toughest players. He never gives up.
“Does everyone understand? Okay. Now, what you do is, you get your body behind the ball. You don’t bend over with your legs apart, because then the ball would go right through them. And you put the tip of your glove all the way to the ground. That way the ball doesn’t roll underneath it. But even if it did, your body would be there to stop it. Right?”
I looked at the circle of suddenly serious faces.
“Okay, Matt — why don’t you just come roll a ball to me and I’ll demonstrate catching a grounder.”
After we’d tried a few, I divided everyone up into twos and let them practice.
I stared off into the outfield.
It’s funny how, when you have so much to do, and so much to think and worry about, your mind can just start thinking of nothing at all. I mean, it goes on a mini mind vacation, without warning.
At least that’s what was happening to me. The big, puffy clouds drifted overhead, the sun shone, and I drifted along with them, basking mindlessly in — mindlessness.
I don’t know how long I hovered there. But suddenly I realized that someone was standing next to me, staring.
I looked down. It was Karen. Her hands were on her hips. The one with the baseball glove on it made her look like she was growing a wing.
“Uh, yes?”
“Have we practiced enough?”
I glanced around. David Michael and Linny were sitting on the ground, rolling the ball to each other. Matt and Nicky Pike were using bats like golf clubs to hit the ball back and forth, pretending they were playing golf (or croquet, maybe). Jackie was wandering around in right field, looking for something. (The ball?) The team wasn’t practicing much of anything.
Kristy for President Page 6