Mitch and Amy (3 page)

Marla, who was not even a member of the family, looked sympathetic too.

Mitchell kicked the leg of the kitchen table with the toe of his sneaker, and Amy noticed that their mother restrained herself from telling him not to kick the furniture. “Aw, a couple of guys—” he said and stopped.

“What did they do?” Mrs. Huff asked gently.

“They wrecked my skateboard and pounded up my skate so it isn't any good anymore and told me to start running and then threw the pieces at me.” Mitchell scowled
at the floor when he had finished.

Amy was shocked. Mitchell's skateboard that he had worked so hard to build! Oh, poor Mitchell—

“Why, Mitchell—what did you do?” asked Mrs. Huff, and Amy could see that her mother was just as shocked as she was.

Mitchell did not take his eyes from the floor. “I ran. What else could I do? There were two of them and they were older than me and bigger.”

“Then you did the wise thing,” said Mrs. Huff. “You would have been foolish to try to stay and fight.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Mitchell, looking up at his mother.

“Yes, I do.” Mrs. Huff was emphatic. “You will always find bullies in this world and the wisest thing to do is stay away from them. Who were these boys?”

“Alan Hibbler and Dwight Hill.”

“Alan Hibbler. Isn't he the son of Judson
Hibbler, the distinguished—” began Mrs. Huff.

Amy interrupted. “That old Alan Hibbler,” she said scornfully. “He thinks he's so big because his father is famous. He used to kick my lunch box when I was in the second grade.”

“He sure does think he's big,” agreed Marla. “He grabbed my raincoat once when I was running and tore the pocket right out.”

“And once when I was a Brownie he pulled off my beanie and threw it into the boys' bathroom,” continued Amy. “I had to ask the custodian to get it back for me.”

“Well, he is bigger than me,” said Mitchell, “and he's the one who pounded up my skate.”

“But he looks like such a nice boy,” said Mrs. Huff. “He's clean-cut and has good manners.”

“He's the type who's nice to grown-ups
but not to children,” Amy explained. “He doesn't have evil beady eyes or anything like that, but he's a bully just the same.”

“I don't think a boy should be allowed to get away with destroying another boy's skate,” said Mrs. Huff. “Perhaps I should telephone his—”

“Mom!” Mitchell was alarmed. “Promise you won't call his family!”

“But Mitchell, the boy destroyed your property.”

Amy knew exactly how her brother felt. “No, Mom, don't call,” she pleaded, backing up Mitchell.

“He would really get me if you did that,” said Mitchell. “Boy, he would really get me then.”

Amy watched her mother study Mitchell's face. Please don't call, she thought. Please, please don't call. Mitchell was going to have enough trouble. If Alan Hibbler had made him run once, what was to keep him
from trying again? And he would be sure to try if he thought Mitchell had got him in trouble with his family.

“I think Mitchell is right,” said Marla timidly, because, after all, she was not a member of the family.

“Believe me, Mom. I know,” insisted Mitchell. “Sometimes parents embarrass their children and get them into all sorts of trouble.”

“Yes, Mitchell knows,” Amy agreed earnestly. “Alan really would be after him.” Although she and Mitchell no longer walked to school together, she knew her brother often met Alan on the way.

Mrs. Huff relented. “All right, Mitchell, I won't call. But I'm not sure it's good for Alan to let him get away with destroying your skate.”

“Mitchell has outgrown roller-skating anyway,” said Amy, anxious lest her mother change her mind.

“That's not the point,” said Mrs. Huff. “The point is, if Alan is allowed to get away with this, what will he try to do next?”

“Nothing, I hope,” said Mitchell. “Just don't go calling his family. Maybe he'll forget the whole thing.”

Amy could see that her mother was still troubled, and she was troubled herself. She did not like to think of Alan telling her brother to start running. The whole thing sounded like part of the kind of television program her mother would not let her watch. Alan seemed to think he was some kind of TV character, a bully on a shooting program. And the skateboard! Thinking about the broken skateboard her brother had worked so hard to build all by himself hurt Amy. Thinking how Mitchell was feeling hurt her, too.

Amy no longer felt like pretending she was a pioneer girl enduring hardships, cooking cornmeal mush in a fireplace during a
blizzard. The magic had gone out of the game, and she did not want to pretend anymore. She thought about Mitchell and how much he liked anything with a motor, and so she said, “Mitch, would you like to make the instant pudding?”

Mitchell looked suspicious, and Amy knew he was wondering why she was giving up a chance to use the electric mixer. “How come?” he asked.

“Oh well, if you don't want to—” Not for anything would Amy let her brother know how sorry she felt about what had happened.

“Sure I want to.”

“Then go ahead.” Now Amy knew what she wanted to wish for on her third dandelion. She would wish that that old bully, Alan Hibbler, would leave her brother alone. And when she made her wish she would blow so hard that every single dandelion seed would fly off dancing into the wind.

D
o I really get to make the pudding?” Mitchell asked his mother after Marla had discovered it was time to go home.

“Of course,” answered Mrs. Huff.

“And be sure you don't spoil it,” said Amy. “Do you want me to read the directions for you?”

Mrs. Huff answered. “You don't have to read for him, Amy. It will be good practice for him. And you can be setting
the table for lunch.”

People were always telling Mitchell he could read, but somehow he had trouble believing them. If he could read,
really
read, not just stumble along in an easy book, why was he always in the slowest reading group in his class?

But Mitchell was not a boy to stay down-hearted long. He studied the printing on the pudding-mix box, which was much smaller than the printing in a
Think and Do
book.

“Sound out the hard words if you have trouble,” said his mother, who was taking a package of hamburger out of the refrigerator. His mother was always telling him to sound out words.

“Aw, Mom, it isn't that hard to read.” Mitchell tore open the package and emptied the pudding mix into the bowl of the mixer and consulted the directions again before he took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator
and carefully added two cups of milk to the yellow powder in the bowl. Once more he consulted the directions, reading each word slowly and carefully and feeling pleased that he really could understand the words and do what they told him.

Next he took an egg from a carton in the refrigerator and cracked it gently against the bowl. He pushed his two thumbs against the cracked place, and the whole side of the shell caved in. Mitchell quickly held the egg over the bowl while the white ran out of the shell. “Yipe!” yelped Mitchell, bringing Amy to look over his shoulder.

“Mom!” cried Amy. “Mitchell is putting
egg
in the pudding. He isn't supposed to put egg in instant pudding!”

“You are, too. It says so on the box.” The rest of the egg, shell and all, slipped out of his fingers into the bowl. “Now see what you made me do.”

“It does
not
say you're supposed to put
egg in the pudding,” insisted Amy. “I've made instant pudding millions of times, and I know.” She snatched up the box while Mitchell wiped his eggy fingers on his jeans.

Mitchell grabbed the box away from his sister. “I'm making this pudding,” he informed her.

“All right, let's not have a battle,” said Mrs. Huff. “Read it out loud, Mitchell.”

“‘Empty two cups of cold milk into bowl. Sprinkle contents of package over milk. Beat with egg—'” Mitchell, who was usually nervous when reading aloud in front of Amy, was triumphant, but his triumph ended with the next letters printed on the box. “‘Beater,'” he said sheepishly. “‘Beat with egg
beater
for two minutes.' I guess I didn't read far enough.”

“See!” said Amy gleefully. “I told you there wasn't any egg in it!” Amy could read anything—pudding directions, newspaper stories in small print, even parts of grown-up books like Dr. Spock's.

“Don't feel bad, Mitchell.” Mrs. Huff took a spoon from a drawer and dipped out the eggshell. “I don't see why it shouldn't be good with egg in it. Go ahead and mix it and see what happens.”

“Raw egg. Ick,” was Amy's comment.

But after Mitchell had run the mixer for two minutes and poured the yellow liquid
into bowls, the mixture was still runny and refused to turn into pudding. “Now what do I do?” he asked, disgusted with himself.

“Cook it?” suggested Amy, tilting a bowl to see how runny the pudding was.

“We can try.” Mrs. Huff scraped all the pudding into a saucepan and handed Mitchell a spoon. “The egg may thicken it. Keep stirring until it begins to bubble, and we'll see what happens.”

“Quit breathing in it,” said Mitchell, when Amy leaned over the pan to watch. “We don't want any of your cooties in the pudding.” Amy backed away, and Mitchell stirred round and round until the mixture began to steam and then to bubble. He lifted a spoonful and watched the pudding trickle back into the pan. “Nope,” he said unhappily. “It isn't going to work. I wrecked the pudding.”

Mrs. Huff took the spoon and stirred a moment before removing the pan from the heat. “I'm afraid you're right. It isn't
going to thicken.”

Mitchell glared at Amy. If she started making fun of him, teasing him about stopping at “egg” when he should have gone on and read “egg beater,” poking fun at the runny pudding…. All Mitchell could think was
Pow!
and Mitchell was not supposed to hit his sister. Hitting was one thing his parents were very strict about, but it was a temptation sometimes. “Stupid old knuckleheaded me,” he muttered. If Amy was such a good reader, she could do the reading. He didn't care.

“Oh, come on, Mitch. It isn't as bad as all that,” said Amy. “We could put it into glasses and drink it. Like a milk shake only different.”

“Sure,” agreed Mitchell, relaxing. “It would still taste like pudding, and that way we wouldn't have to waste it.” He never could tell about Amy. Sometimes she did
just the opposite of what he expected.

After a lunch of hamburgers topped off by a glass of lukewarm lemon pudding, Mitchell said, “Well, so long, Mom. I think I'll go ride my bike.”

“Oh, no, you don't. Not yet,” said his mother. “Follow me into the living room.”

“But, Mom, don't you want me to get any exercise and fresh air?” Mitchell asked, hoping to divert his mother.

“Not right now,” said Mrs. Huff cheerfully. “Not until you read two pages aloud to me.”

“Do you want me to grow up weak and puny?” Mitchell asked.

“Certainly,” agreed Mrs. Huff. “A weak, puny good reader.”

“Oh, Mom, cut it out.” Mitchell could not help laughing as he followed his mother into the living room. He decided to try a different tactic. “How about Amy going
over her multiplication tables?” he asked.

“Because right now we are talking about you, not Amy,” said his mother.

Mitchell flopped down on the couch beside his mother. Everyone seemed to have something to say about his reading. His third-grade teacher had written on his progress report that reading aloud during the summer should help him move up to a higher reading group in the fourth grade.

“All you need is practice to help you gain confidence,” his mother kept telling him.

“We're glad to help you, Mitch. That's what we're here for,” his father repeated almost every day.

“It isn't hard, Mitch. Really it isn't,” Amy insisted.

Well, maybe reading was easy for Amy, but it wasn't for Mitchell. Reading was not only difficult, it was embarrassing because Mitchell suspected everyone of thinking, How come Mitchell is in the low reading
group when his twin sister can read any old thing she wants to?

Mitchell glowered at the book that his mother opened and spread between them. Just because he had to read did not mean he was going to like it. “‘Jeff climbed up on the pony,'” he read to his mother while thinking, Stupid old babyish Jeff who rode a pony instead of a horse.

“Climbed up on what kind of pony?” interrupted his mother.

Mitchell stared at the sentence he had just read. What was wrong this time? It sounded right to him.

“Look at each word as you read,” said his mother, as she had said many, many times before.

“‘Climbed up on
his
pony,'” corrected Mitchell with a sigh. The pony, his pony. What difference did it make?

“That's right!” said his mother, as if Mitchell had done something remarkable.
Well, she wasn't fooling him even for a minute. He hadn't. Mitchell liked stories, but he liked good stories like those his mother read aloud—
The Jungle Book
and the book about Robin Hood with the old-fashioned words like “odd's bodkin.”

At that point Amy came into the room with a book in her hand, a book three times as thick as Mitchell's. She sat down in a chair and began to read.

Mitchell scowled, but continued reading the story of Jeff riding his pony along with the ranch hands who were driving a herd of cattle. He must have skipped a word in a sentence, because suddenly what he was reading did not make sense.

“Guess what page I'm on now!” exclaimed Amy, interrupting.

“Mom!” cried Mitchell. “Does
she
have to be in here when I'm reading?” Amy never hesitated to let people know she was in the
fastest reading group in her class.

“I'm on page ninety-two,” announced Amy.

“I'll bet that book doesn't begin on page
one,” said Mitchell. “I'll bet it begins on about page twenty.”

“It begins on page eleven.”

“Then you haven't read ninety-two pages,” said Mitchell hotly.

“Amy, why don't you read in your room for a while?” suggested Mrs. Huff.

“But, Mom, it's more comfortable in here,” protested Amy with an innocence that did not fool Mitchell. He knew there was something about his having to read aloud that always brought out the worst in his sister.

For a minute Mitchell was hopeful. If an argument developed he might get out of reading. But no, Mrs. Huff sent Amy off to her room where, Mitchell noticed, she did not close her door. Grimly he read on, disliking Jeff and his pony more with each word. He read, his mother corrected, and a single paragraph seemed to take hours. Mitchell squirmed and picked at the rubber sole of his sneaker.

“Go on, Mitchell,” urged his mother. “Don't let Amy bother you. Just remember, some things are easier for girls than for boys.”

Maybe his mother was right, but all the important things seemed to be easy for girls. Nobody talked about boys being in the highest ball-throwing group.

Mitchell plodded on until he thought of a way to give himself a rest. He looked up from the book and said rapidly, “Is your family getting the vitamins it needs? Eat Superbread, the bread enriched with one million vitamins to help your children grow!”

“What on earth—” began Mrs. Huff.

“That's the commercial,” explained Mitchell.

“Oh, Mitchell—” Mrs. Huff laughed as Amy, book in hand, came back to the living room to see what was funny. “Please. Spare us commercials in books. That's one place we're safe from them.”

Mitchell, who had gained a moment of rest from reading, knew he was dangerously close to a lecture on the evils of television. His mother often said that if it weren't for the French Chef they would get rid of the television set. While Amy settled herself once more in the living room, Mitchell quickly returned to stupid old babyish Jeff and words, words, words. Words with endings that had to be looked at carefully. Mean words that looked like one thing, but if he missed a single letter somehow turned into something quite different. Little words that didn't seem worth bothering with, but if Mitchell failed to bother with them, suddenly the whole sentence was saying something it was not supposed to say. And the worst part of the whole thing was it was all so boring and babyish. Stupid old babyish Jeff. Nobody ever broke up Jeff's skateboard and threw the pieces at him. Nobody ever tried to get Jeff. Oh no. Old Jeff rode around on his pony,
and anybody could tell from the pictures that everything turned out just dandy.

“Mom, I've been reading for hours,” Mitchell finally protested, when he had sent Amy into giggles by reading “stamper” when the word was “stampede.” “Can I stop now?”

Mrs. Huff smiled in a tired sort of way. “It's only been ten minutes. Come on, finish this page.”

Mitchell flopped back on the couch, his eyes closed and his tongue hanging out to show his mother how exhausted he was.

“You poor boy.” Mrs. Huff pretended sympathy. “Come on, pull yourself together. There are only four more lines.”

Four more horrible lines full of horrible words about stupid old babyish Jeff and his stupid old babyish pony. Mitchell groaned and tried not to think, Stupid old babyish me.