Kristy opened the envelope as she entered the house. She took out a piece of paper and saw written on it in a child's handwriting: "What's that?" Mallory asked, looking over Kristy 's shoulder.
"Just some hate mail from a few of my fans," Kristy replied wryly.
"How dumb," Mal commented as she read the note. "Vanessa!" she cried.
Vanessa came in from the kitchen. "What's the matter?" "You like to write poetry," Mal said, showing her the note. "What do you know about this?" Vanessa read the note then looked up with wide, innocent eyes. "I didn't write this," she said.
"Do you know who did?" Mallory asked.
"I never saw it before in my life." Vanessa turned and hurried upstairs.
Kristy and Mal looked at one another. "That may be so," said Mal, "but she didn't say she doesn't know who wrote it." Mallory headed for the stairs. "I'll get to the bottom of this," she said.
"Don't bother," said Kristy. "It's just kids being dumb. I wonder if it has anything to do with Kristy's Krushers? I sometimes get this kind of stuff when the Krushers win a lot of games in a row. The Bashers get angry. You know, sore losers. But it's winter. The season hasn't even started." The phone rang again. This time Mal picked it up, but all she heard was a click as someone on the other end hung up.
By the time Mrs. Pike returned at five, the doorbell had rung two more times, and Kristy had found an unflattering picture of herself drawn in crayon shoved under the front door. Also, someone on the phone had muttered, "Beware, you are headed for doom, Crusty." "What's going on?" Mal asked as they headed to Claudia's house. , "I have no idea," said Kristy. And for Kristy, that was a first.
Chapter 10.
"Well, you're turning into your father's daughter," Mom said to me on Saturday morning as she came into my bedroom and opened the curtains, letting in a flood of sunshine.
I peeked out from under my covers. I couldn't believe how tired I was even though I'd slept eight hours. At least I thought I'd slept eight hours until I glanced at the clock on the stand beside my bed. It was ten o'clock. I'd slept twelve hours! I never do that! Rubbing my eyes, I sat up in bed. "What do you mean, my father's daughter?" I asked Mom. What was she talking about?
"You're becoming a workaholic just like your father." "Huh? Why did you say that?" Mom turned to me and smiled, but her smile seemed forced. "Well, in the morning, you're up and running to school. Then you race to the Cheplins'. Three days a week you hurry from there to your club meetings. You gulp down dinner so you can get to your homework. When you finish it, you're so exhausted you fall into bed. Just like your father." I knew what she meant. My dad would leave for work early, come home late, and even work on weekends.
Tossing off the covers, I swung my legs to the floor. "But I'm making so much money," I told Mom.
A breathy, surprised laugh escaped Mom's lips. "That's exactly what your father says." "Maybe we are alike," I said. Mom and I had always agreed that Dad's being a working maniac was a giant pain for us. But I had never understood how it felt from his point of view. Now I did. When you have an opportunity to make money you take it. And making money can be exciting. All of a sudden, you can think about having and doing all sorts of things that once seemed out of reach. (My red convertible sports car, for example.) Mom suddenly looked sad. I realized she hadn't expected me to admit I might be like Dad. "I might be like him but I'm not a workaholic," I said, hoping to make her feel better. "I'm not working this weekend." "Good," Mom said with a genuine smile.
Of course, I could very well have been working that weekend if a job had come up at a BSC meeting. Luckily, though, the others were interested in the weekend jobs so they didn't need me to take any of them.
"I know," Mom said brightly. "Since I've barely seen you these last few weeks, why don't we do something together this afternoon? We could go see a really, really sad movie. I'm in the mood to sit and cry into a large popcorn." "You are?" I said, concerned.
Mom grinned sheepishly. "I am," she admitted. "Nothing's wrong, just a mood. There's nothing like a good movie-generated cry once in awhile." "Sorry," I said. "I have an English paper due on Monday and I have to finish up my research today because the library's closed tomorrow." "What about going tonight?" she suggested.
I grimaced. "I made plans to go out with Robert tonight. I haven't seen much of him lately, either." I could see the disappointment in Mom's eyes. "All right," she said.
"Want to go tomorrow?" I asked.
"I don't know. I could really use that cry today. Maybe I'll go to the movies by myself." As she left the room I knew I'd seen that look on her face before. The last time I'd seen it was when Mom and Dad were still married and he told us we'd have to take our vacation on Martha's Vineyard without him because he suddenly had to give a huge presentation to the board members of his company.
What else could I do, though? The paper had to get done. I was sure Mom wouldn't want me to let my schoolwork slide just to go to the movies with her. I'd thought I could get it done during the week, but by the time I finished my homework each night I was too tired to start researching the life of F. Scott Fitzgerald, which was the topic of my paper.
I decided Mom would feel better after she had her good cry.
And I'd feel better after that paper was out of the way. I dressed in jeans and a thick red sweater, tied my hair back in a red scrunchy, and headed downstairs. After a quick breakfast I grabbed my backpack and my jacket and hurried to the Stoneybrook library.
Mrs. Kishi, Claudia's mother, is the head librarian. "Hi, Stacey," she greeted me as I flipped through the F section of the card catalogue.
"Hi, Mrs. Kishi," I replied. "What's Claudia up to today?" Mrs. Kishi shifted the armful of books she was carrying onto the top of a low cabinet. "Nothing much. I think she's working on an outfit to wear tomorrow." "What's happening tomorrow?" I asked.
"Aren't you two going to the Valentine's Day Craft Fair at the community center?" My hand flew to my mouth. Claudia and I had made plans weeks ago to go to the fair. "That's right! I forgot about it completely," I admitted.
Mrs. Kishi replaced the stack of books one by one onto the shelf. "I think Claudia's working on an outfit and making up business cards to give out to people at the fair who might be interested in having similar outfits made up for Valentine's Day." I now remembered Claudia mentioning this plan to me. She hoped people would comment on her customized sweat outfit decorated with lace and satin hearts, and order some for Valentine's Day or other occasions. She figured she could make some easy and fun money that way.
I'd been so busy with the Cheplins it had completely slipped my mind. I was glad Mrs. Kishi had reminded me.
I said good-bye to her and gathered up my research books on Fitzgerald. There was a lot more to know about him than I realized. This paper counted for a fourth of my grade this term, too. It was supposed to be well-researched with footnotes and a bibliography- 1 threw myself into the project. I barely lifted my head until a few hours later when I sensed someone staring at me. I looked up into Robert's eyes. "Hi," I said, smiling. "How did you find me?" "Your mother told me you were here," he said as he took a seat beside me. "How's the work coming?" "Not good," I said with a frown. "I haven't even begun writing this thing yet. I'm hours away from starting to write and it's due Monday." I looked at him and sighed. "Robert, would you hate me forever if we don't go out tonight?" "Why not?" he asked unhappily.
"Because I'll never get this thing done otherwise." "Do it Sunday." "Can't," I told him. "I promised Claudia I'd go to this crafts fair with her." "Cancel that, then," said Robert.
"Robert, I made the plans with her weeks ago. I just can't cancel them now." "Then how come you can cancel your plans with me?" "Well . . ."I said in a quavery voice. "I made my plans with you after I made the plans with Claudia. At the time I thought I could do both, but I can't." "Stacey, I've hardly seen you at all in the last few weeks," Robert pointed out, getting to his feet.
I wanted to tell him that one of the reasons I was so busy was because I was earning money for his birthday present. That would have spoiled the surprise, though, so I kept quiet. "I promise we'll do something next weekend," I said.
"All right." He forced a smile. "I'll leave so you can finish your paper." He turned and left without looking back at me once. I felt terrible.
Once he was gone, I stared at the library door, thinking about Robert. Then I told myself to get back to work.
I read about Fitzgerald and took notes until the library closed at six o'clock. When I got home, Mom was making dinner. "Did you finish your paper?" she asked.
"Not yet," I reported as I gulped down my chicken. After dinner I hurried to my room to begin writing my paper from the notes I'd put on index cards at the library. The work went more slowly than I expected. Somehow the words just didn't flow out of me. I don't know, maybe I was too tired to think straight. Normally, I would have let the work go until Sunday, but I wouldn't be free on Sunday.
It was sometime in the middle of the night when I fell asleep on my bed with my research material spread out around me. Mom must have come in during the night because in the morning I awoke, still fully dressed, but under my covers with my index cards, books, and notebook neatly stacked on my night table.
I'd barely opened my eyes when Mom came into my room. " Claudia's waiting for you downstairs," she said. "Were you supposed to go to a crafts fair with her today?" "What time is it?" I cried, bolting out of bed. It was after noon. Still half asleep, I charged out of my room and down the stairs.
Claudia was at the bottom of the stairs. "What happened to you?" she gasped.
I realized I probably looked like a crazy person with my rumpled clothes, sleepy face, and tangled hair. "I overslept," I admitted. "Can you wait a few minutes?" Claudia glanced toward the door. "My father's waiting in the car, but I guess so. Hurry up, though." I staggered a few steps up the stairs, then stopped short.
"What's wrong?" Claud asked.
"My paper," I said. "It's still not written." I turned and faced her. "But that's okay," I said, backing up the stairs, "Don't worry. I can do it tonight." "Do you have much more to write?" Claudia asked.
"You could say that." "How much more?" "Half." "You'd better just stay home," Claudia said. "You're not in any shape to go out." "Yes, I am. I am," I assured her. "Just give me a minute." "Stacey!" "What!" "I'm leaving without you. You're a wreck. Go back to sleep." "I'm fine! Just wait for me." " 'Bye," Claudia said, waving to me from the bottom of the stairs. "See you tomorrow. Get some rest." I watched with mixed emotions as she went out the door. I felt bad about letting her down.
But I was not in the mood to go and I was glad to be let off the hook.
With sleepy eyes, I stumbled back to my room. And fell face first onto my bed. In an instant I was sound asleep.
Chapter 11.
The next day, I was still thinking about F. Scott Fitzgerald as I waited for Adam and Dana's bus to arrive. I'd handed in my paper, but I had no idea whether or not it was any good. I'd been so sleepy while writing it that I could barely remember what I'd written.
The bus pulled to a stop and I met Dana and Adam. As usual, Adam talked in a steady stream as we climbed the hill. Dana was unusually quiet, though. "Is something wrong?" I asked her while I unlocked the front door.
"No," she said with a shrug.
"Do you feel all right?" She nodded dully. "Yup." We walked into the house and I picked up Mrs. Cheplin's note. "I don't believe this," I muttered. It was two pages long.
"Okay, kids," I said, shrugging off my jacket. "I'll fix you a snack, then you have to go play until homework time. I have a lot to do today." As quickly as I could, I smeared peanut butter on some crackers for Adam and tossed an apple to Dana.
The kids took their snacks upstairs and I honestly didn't know what they were doing for the next hour as I swept the kitchen floor, unloaded the dishwasher, sorted a load of dirty laundry, shifted a load of wet clothes from the washing machine into the dryer, and put another load into the washing machine. Then I called to cancel Mrs. Cheplin's subscription to a magazine, confirmed Adam's dentist appointment, and called to find rates on the gymnastics lessons he wanted to take.
I was in the middle of peeling potatoes for dinner (the third to last item on my list) when Dana came into the kitchen. "I don't feel so good," she said.
I continued peeling potatoes over the sink. What doesn't she want to do this time? I wondered. "I don't have the time for this, Dana," I said with an edge in my voice.
"Fine!" Dana whirled around and stomped out of the kitchen.
Instant remorse. I shouldn't have been so crabby with her. Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I left the kitchen and found Dana lying on the loveseat in the living room.
"Sorry, Dana," I said. "What hurts?" "Forget it," Dana mumbled. "Don't bother." "Come on, Dana," I pleaded. "I said I was sorry." I noticed that Dana did look pale. I remembered how listless she'd seemed on the way home. "I'm going to get your kit and test your blood," I told her.
"Nooooo," Dana whined. "I hate that! I hate it! I'm not doing it!" She rolled over and buried her face into the back of the loveseat.
Upstairs, I found the glucose testing kit on top of Dana's dresser. "Dana's being a big crab," Adam called to me from his room.