Claudia and the New Girl (5 page)

"It was sort of the third time I threw it across the room. And it knocked over Simon Beal's tile mosaic. And the mosaic broke. And one of the tiles cut Lynn Perone's leg. ..." Jeff's voice was fading into nothingness.

"Oh, Jeff," was all Dawn could say. She paused, thinking. "You're sure you can't get in touch with Mom?"

"They said she isn't coming back to the office today. She's going to be in Stamford until five o'clock."

"Well," said Dawn slowly, "I guess I could come to school myself. Maybe I can talk to Ms. Besser or something. I can't let you sit there all afternoon."

"Oh, that'd be great."

"All right. But Jeff, I want you to know I'm not happy about this. I'm baby-sitting. I'll have to bring Myriah and Gabbie with me."

"Okay," replied Jeff, but he didn't say he was sorry.

Dawn returned to the bathroom. "You guys," she said, "I'm really sorry, but we have to close up your beauty parlor for awhile. We've got to go over to your school, Myriah."

"We do?" Myriah looked awed. At her age, going to school after hours is kind of like sneaking into an amusement park when it's been closed for the night.

Dawn tried to explain why they had to go, while figuring out the fastest way to get the girls there.

"But let's not close the beauty parlor," said Myriah. "Let's take it with us."

"Whatever," replied Dawn, who just wanted to get going fast.

"Goody!" cried Myriah and Gabbie, scooping up makeup and curlers and supplies.

Dawn hustled the girls and their junk downstairs. She didn't have time to wash their faces. She just loaded them and their things into Myriah's red wagon and ran them over to the elementary school in what must have been a wagon-pulling record.

When she reached the front door, she wasn't sure what to do with the wagon, so she pulled the girls right inside and down the hall to Jeff's fifth-grade classroom. She found him sitting sullenly at his desk, while Ms. Besser worked quietly at hers.

"Urn, excuse me," said Dawn.

Ms. Besser and Jeff both looked up in surprise at the sight of Myriah and Gabbie in the wagon with their lipstick-smeared faces.

"I'm Dawn Schafer, Jeff's sister." Dawn explained why she had come instead of her mother.

"And I," spoke up Myriah, "am Miss Es-merelda. I run a beauty salon. This is my assistant," she added, climbing out of the wagon and pointing to Gabbie.

"I am Miss Gabbie," said Gabbie.

"Would you like a makeover?" Myriah asked Ms. Besser.

"Oh . . . not today, Miss, um — "

"Esmerelda," supplied Myriah. She turned to Jeff. "Would you like a makeover? From our traveling beauty parlor?"

"No way," replied Jeff, turning red.

"I would like a makeover," Gabbie told her sister.

"Oh, good," said Myriah, and got to work.

Ms. Besser led Dawn into the hall. "I'm very concerned about your brother," she said. "He's gone beyond just being a nuisance or a disturbance in class. If Lynn's cut had been any worse, she would have needed stitches. I wanted to talk to your mother in person. I think we have a serious problem."

"I'm really sorry we can't reach her," said Dawn.

"So am I," Ms. Besser replied.

"I can have her call you tomorrow. Or even at home tonight. Maybe she could set up a conference with you or something."

Ms. Besser nodded. "At the very least. All right. Please do have her call me tonight. I'll give you my home number." She paused. Then she added, "Thank you for taking the trouble to come over here. I can see that it wasn't very convenient for you. You seem quite responsible."

Dawn wasn't sure how to respond to that, so finally she just said "Thank you." A few minutes later she left the school with her brother and the Perkins girls. Jeff immediately headed angrily for home. He had barely spoken to his sister. By the time Dawn and the traveling beauty parlor reached the Perkins house it was 5:15.

Mrs. Perkins met them at the front door. "Where were you?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm really sorry," said Dawn. "I should have left a note." She told Mrs. Perkins what had happened, and apologized six or seven times. Luckily, Mrs. Perkins was forgiving and understanding.

Later, as Dawn pedaled her bike home, she wondered how often she'd have to bail Jeff out of trouble. She flew over a little hump in the road just then, and as she did, pictured herself in a roller coaster, just beginning to pick up speed. Mom, she thought, I have a feeling you and I are in for a bumpy ride.

Chapter 7.

"I am an artist and my craft is calling," said Ashley earnestly.

"Calling what?" I replied.

"Calling me. Like the call of the wild."

It was lunchtime, and Ashley and I were sitting by ourselves again. We had this conversation going, only (and this was so stupid) I didn't know what we were talking about. It's pretty pathetic to be one of the persons in a two-person conversation and not following the drift of things at all.

I glanced across the cafeteria at the Babysitters Club's table and sneaked a peak at Kristy, Stacey, Mary Anne, and Dawn. The usual lunchtime things seemed to be going on. Dawn was eating what looked like homemade fruit salad. Kristy was holding up a noodle from the hot lunch and saying something about it which was making Mary Anne turn green. Stacey was rolling her eyes.

I smiled to myself. Kristy always gets gross at lunch and we always give her a hard time about it, but right now I was missing her disgusting comments.

I kind of hoped that one of my friends would look over at me and smile or wave, but none of them did.

I was sitting with Ashley because it was getting to the point where, if I didn't choose a subject for my sculpture and start working right away, I'd have to withdraw from the show. Here's what had led up to Ashley's saying, "I am an artist and my craft is calling":

"Ashley, we really better get to work on our sculptures." (That was me, of course, since, what with baby-sitting and pottery and everything else I do, I'm more pressed for time than Ashley is.)

"Well, I've reached a decision," said Ashley.

"What?" I asked excitedly.

"I'm going to sculpt an inanimate object. I think maybe you should, too."

"You're going to sculpt a what?" (Why is it that when I'm with Ashley, the word that gets the most use is "what"? But Ashley never seems to mind explaining things to me.)

"An inanimate object," Ashley repeated. "Something not alive."

"You want us to sculpt dead things?" I asked

in horror. I was imagining ghouls and corpses and mummies.

"Oh, no. I just mean I want to sculpt objects that aren't living. Look at us. We're surrounded by inanimate objects — books, pencils, tables, chairs, trays. They're all inanimate."

"But," I said skeptically, "I've hardly ever seen sculptures of, um, un-alive things. Aren't most sculptures of people or animals? I mean, except for abstract sculptures. That's what Ms. Baehr says sculpting is all about — capturing the spirit of something alive in something that doesn't move, like clay or stone. ... I don't know, Ashley. Are you sure we want to go out on a limb like that? Why don't we stick to the more usual stuff?"

And that was when Ashley had said her craft was calling and I'd gotten some good mileage out of the word "what."

"Come downtown with me after school today," she said finally. "We'll go right into the field. I'm sure we'll be inspired."

"What field?" I replied.

"I mean the real world."

"Oh. Well, all right." The "real world" sounded very exciting. Going into the field was probably something only true artists did. A smile spread across my face. We were going to be pioneers, sculpting pioneers. Ashley and

I would try techniques other sculptors had never thought about. I looked across the table at Ashley's serious, eager face. "Great idea," I added. "It'll be exciting. Plus, then we can get to work right away. . . . Oh, but I have another club meeting this afternoon, so I have to be home by five-thirty."

"Sure. No problem," replied Ashley tightly.

Just as going to the watercolor exhibit with Ashley had been an eye-opening experience, so was simply walking around downtown Stoneybrook with her. Maybe because she was new to town, or maybe because she was such a talented artist, Ashley noticed all sorts of things that had never seemed particularly noticeable to me before. And she saw things in them that I never saw. Well, never saw first. After Ashley pointed them out to me, I saw them.

As soon as we reached Stoneybrook's main street, Ashley grabbed my arm.

"What, what?" I cried, getting double use of the word.

"Look at that!" said Ashley, pointing.

"What?"

"That."

"That fire hydrant?"

"Yes. Look at the way it's shaped. It's . . .

almost noble. It's little and squat, but it's sitting up straight and square, like a jockey on a prize winning steed."

"Wow," I said, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"That just might be my subject," said Ashley thoughtfully, nodding her head.

"For your sculpture?" I repeated incredulously. "But why would you sculpt it? What's so special about an old fire hydrant?"

"That it's little but noble. I'd try to bring out those qualities when I sculpt it. I think that the secret of sculpting inanimate objects is making them look animated."

The word "what" was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. When I thought about it, I understood what Ashley meant. I just couldn't see any way to do it.

"Come on, let's see what else there is."

Now, over the years I have scoured Stoney-brook in search of a new pair of shoes, in search of a certain kind of blue-jean jacket, in search of .school supplies, and once in search of Mary Anne's reading glasses. But this was the first time I'd scoured the town exclaiming over hubcaps and litter baskets and street lamps. I did sort of get into the spirit of things, though.

"Oh!" cried Ashley. "Look at that traffic light!" Ashley sounded more excited that afternoon than I'd ever heard her. It was amazing what art did to her.

"Yeah," I replied. And (I swear I don't know where this' came from) I added, "Think of the power it holds. It controls the traffic. It can make people late. It can prevent accidents. It's a little box doing an awfully big job."

"Yeah!" said Ashley admiringly. She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Maybe that's your subject."

"Maybe," I replied uncertainly.

We walked on.

"Look at the gum wrapper," said Ashley.

"Look at that squashed soda can," I said.

By the time we sat down in Renwick's for a snack, all I could say was, "Look at that straw!" and "Look at that dish rag!" Stuff like that. Until I checked my watch. Then I cried, "Look at the time!"

"What time is it?" asked Ashley.

"Five-ten. I'm going to be late for another meeting. I'm sorry, but I've got to leave."

"But Claudia, we haven't made any definite decisions. We have to go back and look at the fire hydrant and the stoplight again."

"I have to go to the meeting. The club is

important to me. We started that club. We made it work. It's a business. And besides, the other club members are my friends."

Ashley blinked. "But I'm your friend, too . . . am I not?" she said, sounding like my genius sister, Janine. (I have this older sister who's a genius. Not just smart, like Ashley, but a true and honest genius. How is it that I always end up hanging around people who know enough to say things like "am I not" instead of "aren't I"?)

"Yes," I replied slowly. "You're my friend."

Ashley gave me a tiny smile. I began to feel bad. Maybe I was really important to her. I wasn't sure. I was pretty sure I was her only friend, though. I had four good friends, but so far, Ashley only had me. Besides, this was art. What Ashley and I were doing was important — and it was something I could do' only with Ashley, not with any of my other friends.

"You know," I said, "that meeting isn't urgent or anything. We really should go back and look at the fire hydrant and stoplight again. Why don't you wait for our food while I call Dawn and tell her I won't be able to make the meeting. I'll be right back."

I stood in the phone booth by the front door of Renwick's and dialed Dawn's number, hop-

ing fervently that she was at home and not out baby-sitting. I breathed a sigh of relief when she answered the phone herself.

"Hi," I said. "It's me, Claudia."

"Oh, hi," replied Dawn lightly, but there was a cautious edge to her voice.

"Listen," I told her, "I'm not going to be able to make the meeting today. Ashley and I have to choose subjects for our sculptures — you know, for the show. So can you be the vice-president for me today?"

"Sure."

"And tell the others that I won't be coming."

"Sure/An embarrassing pause followed.

Finally Dawn said, "Do you want us to sign you up for any jobs? I mean, are your art classes and things on the appointment pages so we know when you're busy?"

"I think so," I said. "Well, I better go before my money runs out. I'm downtown in a pay phone."

"Okay," said Dawn shortly. " 'Bye."

She hung up before I could answer her.

With a sigh, I returned to Ashley, who greeted me with a smile.

That evening I read, for the fifth time, the note Mary Anne, as club secretary, had left for

me after the meeting which had been held in my room that afternoon: Claudia — you're sitting for Nina and Eleanor Marshall next Friday from 3:30-6:00. — M.A.S.

That was it. The entire note. No "Hi, Claud!" or "See you soon/' or anything. I guess my friends were mad at me. By the time I went to bed, I was sure of it. That was because, hidden under my pillow, I found a note from Kristy which said: Everyone at school thinks Ashley is weird. I just thought you should know. — Kristy.

The worst thing about the day was that I hadn't even chosen a subject for my sculpture. Ashley had chosen the fire hydrant, but I just couldn't bring myself to sculpt a stoplight. Not even in order to become a sculpture pioneer. I had missed a meeting, wasted an afternoon, and was no closer to entering the art show than before.