Authors: Mary Downing Hahn
"Do you have an idea for your story yet?" Tracy asked me.
I shook my head. "I haven't really thought about it."
"Maybe you should find out what Daphne draws best and write about that," Tracy said.
"Ducks, Daffy draws ducks best!" Michelle almost choked on her milk, laughing and quacking at the same time.
"Did Tracy tell you what her and me are doing?" Michelle asked after she'd calmed down. "We're writing this story called 'The Nightmare Slumber Party.' It's about these girls who get killed one by one at this slumber party. It's really scary because they keep hearing these weird sounds and all these horrible things happen." Michelle paused and took a bite of her tuna fish sandwich.
"Like they step on this squishy thing, you know," she continued, "and they think it's a grape, but it's really an eyeball, and this girl gets her head cut off, and they find it hanging by its hair from the chandelier. All kinds of stuff like that happens, but in the end, just as the girl who's giving the party is about to be killed by this crazy man who escaped from the insane asylum, she wakes up and finds it was just a bad dream. It's a kind of surprise ending, you know?"
I glanced at Tracy, but she wasn't laughing and she didn't look embarrassed. "I've already started drawing some of the pictures," she said. She opened her notebook and pulled out a piece of paper. "This is going to be the cover."
She'd drawn five girls with huge chests and tiny waists like Barbie dolls. They were wearing tight jeans, high heels, lots of makeup, and perfect, flipped-back hair like Michelle's.
"But I thought it was supposed to be a picture book," I said.
"It's going to have plenty of pictures," Tracy said.
"And it's a lot more interesting than some dumb Jack-and Jill story," Michelle said. "One of the girls is going to have a boyfriend who sings in a rock band and drives a red Camaro." She looked at me and shook her head. I knew Michelle was thinking I was incredibly naive.
"Only I can't draw cars," Tracy said.
"So Tony's going to draw the Camaro if Tracy draws the soldiers for his story," Michelle added. "Tony can draw jeeps and tanks and planes, but he can't draw people."
"Only I can't draw men very well," Tracy said. "They always look like girls with mustaches. I draw girls, flowers, and horses best."
"I don't think Tony's story is going to have any of those things in it." Michelle looked doubtful.
Before I could ask any more questions, the bell rang and we hurried off to biology to learn about the fascinating life cycle of the amoeba.
While Mrs. Kaufmann described the amoeba's style of reproduction (which Tony found hilarious), I doodled little geometric designs in the margin of my notebook paper. Looking across the room, I noticed Daphne sitting a couple of rows away. Her head was turned toward the windows, and I wondered what she was thinking about.
It occurred to me that she probably wasn't any happier than I was at the prospect of our being partners. No doubt she thought I was just like all the other kids at Oakcrest. I tried to picture myself as she saw me. Just another girl in a Shetland sweater and blue jeans, following Tracy everywhere, too stuck up to speak to a person like Daphne. She'd probably never noticed I didn't quack or laugh at her.
Sighing, I stared at the picture of the amoeba in my text book. Its life was certainly boring, virtually pointless, but at least it didn't have anything to worry about. No complex social problems beset the amoeba.
As Mrs. Kaufmann passed out dittoed sheets of questions about one-celled creatures, I glanced at Daphne again. Why did she look so sad? For a second, I found myself wishing I could see her smile at least once.
T
HAT NIGHT
I lay in bed worrying about the Write-a-Book contest. No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn't come up with a good idea.
What was the matter with me? I'd always thought of myself as a writer. In my closet were boxes full of stories I'd written, some of them dating back to the second grade, but none of them seemed good enough to haul out and rewrite.
Turning onto my back, I stared at the moon outside my window. The size of a quarter, its full face seemed to return my stare. "It must be Daphne's fault," I said to the moon. "If I had a different partner, I'd have my story all written by, now. I know I would. And it would be good too. A lot better than The Nightmare Slumber Party.'"
I grimaced, thinking of Michelle sitting there at the lunch table, her mouth full of tuna fish, talking about her dumb story. She was such an idiot. How could Tracy stand her?
With a little thump, Snuff jumped up on my bed and walked up my legs. Stopping on my stomach, she stood there staring at me, kneading my blankets with her hard little paws. Stroking her, I coaxed a resistant purr out of her.
Just as I was starting to relax, Snuff hopped off my bed and stalked over to the closed door. She scratched at it and meowed plaintively. Reluctantly, I left my nice warm bed and let her out.
As I turned to go back to bed, I glanced at my dollhouse. In the moonlight it looked almost magical. Its roof was touched with silver, and its two towers cast sharp shadows on my bedroom wall. Picking my way through the shoes, books, and clothes heaped here and there on the floor, I knelt in front of the dollhouse and groped in the dark for the switch that illuminated its interior.
As the tiny chandeliers lit up the rooms, I saw that Snuff had been sleeping in the dollhouse, wedging her fat, furry body in among the little tables and chairs, scattering them about and leaving cat hair on the carpets.
Although my room was cold, I resisted the urge to go back to bed, and set to work straightening up the dollhouse. As I rearranged the furniture, I remembered the day last summer when Michelle and Tracy had caught me playing with the inhabitants of the house, a family of small stuffed mice that I had bought one by one at a crafts shop in the mall.
I had tried to convince them that I was redecorating the house, not
playing
with it, but they had teased me for weeks about it. I had been so embarrassed that I hadn't touched the dollhouse since.
When all the furniture, except for a few pieces that Snuff had broken, were in place, I began putting the mice in their favorite rooms. First, Princess Heatherfern. She belonged in the best bedroom, the one with the canopy bed and the bureau with tiny drawers that opened and shut. I stood her near the window, where the moonlight would touch her white fur and make her satin cape gleam.
Cragstar the Wizard was next. Up to the tower he went to stand peering into the fireplace, thinking of grand schemes and magical feats.
Into the cozy nursery went Baby Mouse and faithful Nurse Marigold, and up into the attic went the wicked witch Malvolia, the sworn enemy of Cragstone. There in the shadows she plotted deeds of evil.
But where was Sir Benjamin, my favorite mouse? Dressed in a blue velvet cape, wearing a plumed hat, and carrying a shiny sword, he was the guardian of the dollhouse. Without him, who would protect them from Malvolia?
Crawling around the floor, I looked under my bed, poked about under my bureau, rummaged through dirty clothes, pawed through shoes and books, and even risked my life by searching my closet. Nowhere did I see Sir Benjamin.
Sadly I left Princess Heatherfern keeping a lonely vigil at her window and crawled into bed. Undoubtedly Snuff had mistaken Sir Benjamin for a real mouse and dragged him away to some secluded spot. There she had probably torn him to shreds, velvet cape, plumed hat, and all. Rolling over on my side, I fell asleep promising myself to look for him in the morning.
"What were you doing up so late last night?" Mom asked me at breakfast. "I heard you moving around in your room after I'd gone to bed. It must have been midnight."
"I couldn't sleep, so I straightened up my dollhouse. Snuff got in it somehow and messed it all up."
"Oh, Jessie, don't let that miserable beast wreck your (tollhouse. Your grandfather spent a lot of time making it, and I want you to take care of it."
I nodded, feeling bad. Grandfather had died four years ago, not long after he'd finished the dollhouse, and Mom and I both missed him a lot.
"Keep your door closed when you're not home so Snuff can't get into your room," Mom added.
"I will." I swallowed some orange juice. "Have you seen Sir Benjamin?"
"Who?" Mom looked puzzled.
"One of my little mice. The one with the plumed hat and sword."
She shook her head. "Can't you find him?"
"I think Snuff ate him or something."
"I could say something about cleaning your room, but I'll do my best to keep my mouth shut." Mom got up and put on her coat. "Have a nice day, sweetie. I have to go." Giving me a kiss, she left for work.
I finished my breakfast and read the comics and my horoscope. As usual, it predicted a dull day: I should visit someone in a hospital, I should heed a colleague's advice and sell my shares in a company owned by a Pisces, and I should avoid taking any transatlantic flights for the next two weeks. Realizing I'd wasted five minutes pondering the meaning of three sentences, I grabbed my parka and ran outside.
The rain and gray skies had disappeared, blown away by the wind that almost knocked me down as I cut across the parking lot. To make it worse, the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees. By the time I got to school, I was afraid to open my mouth for fear my face would crack.
"What a terrible day to go to the library," Michelle was saying as we walked down the hall to English. "My hair is just
going to
be all over my head, you know? I hate it when the wind blows and it's cold. I wish my father would get transferred to Florida or something. I mean I just can't take this weather."
Although I didn't say it, I wished Michelle's father would get transferred, too. To Alaska, maybe, or the South Pole. Some place far away where the wind would mess up Michelle's hair every day. Some place where she would be miserable and I would never have to see her again.
"Maybe Mr. O'Brien will make us walk with our partners." Michelle shot me a sly little smile.
"Oh, poor Jess!" Tracy said. "I hope he doesn't do that."
Luckily for me, Mr. O'Brien didn't say a word about partners. After all, we weren't in elementary school. So I walked along with Tracy and Michelle and Sherry, but for all the attention they paid to me I might as well have been invisible.
Not too far ahead, I saw Daphne walking all by herself, her head down as if she were watching her shadow or something. The wind lifted her black hair in plumes and swirled it about, then dropped it down in ripples across the back of her dirty red parka. No matter what people thought about her, she certainly had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen.
When we got to the library, I looked around for Mom. She was sitting at the Information Desk in the Adult Reading Room talking to a nice-looking old man. When she saw me, she smiled and waved.
"Who's that?" Sherry asked.
"My mother. She's a librarian here," I said, hoping Mom wouldn't do anything to embarrass me. I knew I'd die a thousand deaths if she were to come over and give me a big hug or something.
"No wonder you read so much." Sherry turned to Michelle. "Can I borrow your comb when you're done?"
As Michelle handed Sherry her comb, Mr. O'Brien herded us into the Children's Room and gathered us together. "Please get a table with your partner," he said, just as I was sitting down next to Tracy. "It's important that you work on this as a team."
Tracy smiled sympathetically at me, but Michelle said, "You better find another table, Jess. I don't want Daffy sitting here." Although she was laughing when she said it, I knew she wasn't kidding.
Reluctantly I got up and looked around the room for Daphne. I finally spotted her sitting at a small table all by herself in a corner. As I sat down across from her, she moved her hand to cover the picture she was drawing in her notebook. She didn't look up or say a word to me. We sat there as mute as two statues, waiting for Mr. O'Brien to tell us what to do.
The children's librarian had filled two book carts with picture books. Holding a couple of them up for us to see, Mr. O'Brien told us to take a few from the carts and examine them.
"Try to figure out what makes them good. Is it the pictures or the words, or is it both?" He smiled encouragingly. "Get some ideas for your own books, but don't copy. Your book has to be completely original."
Leaving Daphne sitting at the table, hunched over her drawing, I walked to the cart, selected a couple of books, and sat back down. Tony followed me, carrying two books. Dumping them in front of Daphne, he said loudly, "Here's some I thought you'd like, Daffy.
Make Way for Ducklings
and
The Story About Ping.
"
Everybody laughed except Mr. O'Brien, Daphne, and me. "Sit down and get to work, Tony," Mr. O'Brien said.
As I sat there reading
The Snowy Day,
I could hear everybody else laughing. They were reading funny things out loud and showing each other pictures they liked. At our table all I heard was the rustle of turning pages and an occasional sniff. I wanted to offer Daphne a Kleenex, but I didn't have any, so I gritted my teeth in frustration and tried to hear what was going on at Tracy's table.
They were all laughing at
In the Night Kitchen
because the little boy in the story is naked. It was a dumb thing to giggle at, but at least they were having fun.
"Look, Tony," Michelle shrieked. "Here's a picture of you!" She held up an illustration of Mickey falling into a milk bottle.
"Hey, that kid's indecent!" Tony snatched the book away from Michelle and held it up for everyone to see. "Libraries shouldn't have dirty books like this lying around for little kids to see. Hey, Mr. O'Brien, look at this picture. The kid doesn't have any clothes on!"
Mr. O'Brien shrugged and reminded Tony that libraries are supposed to be quiet places. Then he came over to our table, which was, of course, a perfect little oasis of silence.
"How are you two doing?" He smiled down at us like a benevolent god, stroking his beard.