Eleven Kids, One Summer

  “Perfect,” said Jan aloud.

  She dashed into the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. She really did look spectacular — except for her hair. Jan decided to brush it out. She brushed and brushed, and before she knew it, her curls were gone.

  “Oh no!” cried Jan. “Now what am I going to do? She looked in the medicine cabinet and found a pair of scissors. Maybe I could cut my hair, she thought. She began to trim away. When she was done, she thought the left side looked shorter than the right side. So she trimmed the right side. Then it looked shorter than the left side. So she trimmed the left side. By the time she heard her family coming home for lunch, Jan’s hair was cut almost up to the top of her ears. But her face and her nails still looked great. So Jan waltzed into the living room.

  “Hello,” she said casually.

  There were her parents, Nanny and Grandy, Aunt Martha and Uncle Jim, Abbie, Bainbridge, and the smallest children. For a moment, everyone stared at Jan. Jan was afraid that someone might laugh at her, but no one did. Finally, Mrs. Rosso said, “Honey, how beautiful you look. Who — who helped you get made up?”

  “Laura,” Jan replied. “She’s the makeup person for Summer Blues. Do I look older?” she asked hopefully.

  “At least twelve,” said Bainbridge. He started to laugh, but he stopped quickly when his father glared at him.

  “Older and gorgeous,” said Aunt Martha.

  Suddenly everyone was exclaiming over Jan. She was the center of attention, just like when she had been the baby of the family.

  But after lunch, Mrs. Rosso pulled Jan aside and said, “Jan, you do look very pretty. But you are not old enough to wear makeup. And I don’t think Laura should have cut your hair without checking with your father or me first. I think I should have a talk with her.”

  Jan let her mother leave Sandpiper House and walk partway to Laura’s before she ran after her. “Mommy! Mommy!” she called. “Laura didn’t cut my hair. I did that myself.” As they walked home together, Jan told her mother about the curls and the scissors.

  “It isn’t easy giving yourself a haircut,” said Jan.

  “No. And I don’t want you to do that again. Ever. Do you understand?” said Mrs. Rosso firmly. Then she sent Jan to her room for the afternoon.

  Darn, thought Jan. Now nobody can see me.

  That night, when dinner was over, Mr. Rosso took Jan by the hand and said, “Let’s walk down the beach.”

  “Okay,” said Jan. Her father must want to show her off, she thought.

  But Mr. Rosso had other things on his mind. “Sweetie,” he said to Jan, “I guess it’s hard not being the baby of the family anymore, isn’t it?”

  Jan hesitated. Then, “Yes,” she admitted.

  “But do you know what? No matter where you are in this family, you’re special. And you’ll always be important. Abbie is special because she’s very responsible. Ira is special because —”

  “Because he’s neat?” suggested Jan.

  Mr. Rosso laughed. “Okay. Because he’s neat. And you’re special because you’re Jan and you have interesting ideas and you are good with little kids. Your mother and I love you very much — with or without makeup. I hope you know that.”

  “I guess I do,” said Jan, who stopped to give her father a hug.

  But she was still not sorry about her beauty treatment. In fact, as she lay in bed that night, she thought, Maybe I’ll get another beauty treatment before the summer is over.

  Jan fell asleep smiling.

  Woody liked money. That was how it all began.

  And the Harbor Store, small as it was, carried plenty of things Woody wanted to buy: there were kites, Davis Park visors, hats and sunglasses and beach towels and toys. If Woody walked through the wildlife preserve to the snack bar and store in the next community, he found even more great stuff to buy.

  But Woody’s allowance didn’t begin to cover the things he wanted.

  “Mom?” he said to his mother one Saturday. “Can I have a raise in my allowance?” Then he remembered to add, “Please?”

  “May I have a raise?” Mrs. Rosso corrected him.

  “May I?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can buy cool stuff. I saw a foam hat shaped like a lobster. That would be neat. I would love to get that. But I don’t have enough money.”

  “You think I should raise your allowance so you can look like a lobster?”

  Woody knew where this conversation was going. “No,” he said.

  “How about earning some money?” suggested Mrs. Rosso.

  That was just like a mother, thought Woody. He wanted to say, “Forget it. Just forget it.” Instead he said, “All right,” and left Sandpiper House.

  * * *

  Woody decided to take a walk. He made his way toward the beach where he found a bunch of his brothers and sisters.

  “What’re you doing?” Hardy asked Woody.

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About how to earn money. I want that lobster hat we saw.”

  Hardy was squatting in the sand, examining an empty clam shell. Woody walked right by him.

  “Hey!” said Hardy, standing up. “Where are you going? Can I come with you?”

  Before Woody could say yes or no, Hardy was running after him. They walked along the beach together.

  “You need to go into business,” said Hardy.

  “I know,” replied Woody. “But what can I do?” “How about a lemonade stand?” asked Hardy.

  “Baby stuff,” replied Woody.

  And then he noticed a small crowd gathered farther down the beach. What was going on?

  “Come on!” cried Woody.

  Woody and Hardy ran to the crowd and worked their way to the front.

  “Maybe a shark washed up on the beach!” said Woody.

  Hardy tried to peer around a heavyset man. “Nah,” he said. “It’s just a couple of little kids making crayon designs on shells. Let’s go.”

  “Wait!” exclaimed Woody. “A lady just gave those kids fifty cents for one of the shells. And it’s only a clamshell with a stupid pink design on the back. Anyone could make that.”

  The boys looked at each other. They grinned. Then they backed out of the crowd. “I could make that,” Woody continued. “And I could do it a thousand times better. Those kids are only about seven years old.”

  “What would you put on your shells?” asked Hardy.

  “Oh, beach scenes and stuff. Except I would use paint, not crayons, and I would decorate the insides of the shells.”

  “I thought you hated art. You got a C minus in it last year.”

  “I don’t hate art. I just hate Mrs. Pill.”

  “Mrs. Hill,” Hardy corrected his brother.

  “Well, anyway, all I need to do is collect clamshells — they’re everywhere — and buy some good paint. Maybe Dad can get me some in the city this week. Boy, I bet I could become a millionaire. I could buy every lobster hat in the Harbor Store.”

  * * *

  Mr. Rosso agreed to give Woody an advance on his allowance, and that week he did buy paints for him. Meanwhile, Woody collected all of the clamshells he could find. And when Mr. Rosso returned to Fire Island the following weekend, Woody got right to work. He had been practicing drawing sunsets and boats and fish and other beach things. Now he tried painting them on the smooth insides of the shells.

  Not bad, he thought, when he looked at his first few attempts.

  “What do you think?” he asked his father. “Be honest,” he added.

  Mr. Rosso looked at the shells critically. At last he said, “I think they’re very good. What will people use them for?”

  “Oh, you know, candy dishes,” replied Woody, pleased with his father’s approval.

  “Or they could just be objets d’art,” said Abbie, who had wandered into the living room. (She pronounced the words “ob-jay dar.”)

  “’Scuse me?” said Woody.

  “Objets d??
?art. You know, nice things to look at.”

  “You mean like art?” said Woody witheringly. “Why don’t you talk like a regular person?”

  “All right, you two. Calm down,” said Mr. Rosso.

  Woody shot Abbie a look. Then he took the shells into his room.

  Three days later, Woody had painted approximately thirty shells. That afternoon, he spread them out on the floor in the living room. Then he laid them in rows. He examined them for a long time.

  Woody decided they were quite good. He also decided he needed more variety in his artwork, maybe some animals made from shells and stones. If he bought pipe cleaners and glue, he could get right to work.

  Woody’s first animal was a frog with a small clam shell for its head, a stone for its body, pebbles for its feet, and pipe cleaners for its legs. Woody painted it green. Then he painted a face on it.

  “That’s adorable!” cried Abbie when she saw it. “I’ll buy that. How much is it? I’ll put it on my dresser.”

  “It’s — it’s a dollar twenty-five,” said Woody. The price sounded high, but he’d worked hard on the frog.

  “Great,” said Abbie, and forked over a dollar and a quarter.

  Woody stayed home for a few more days and created all sorts of things, mostly animals. His collection of things to sell grew so big that he didn’t know how he was going to carry it from house to house. (He planned to be a door-to-door salesman.)

  “Set up a stand,” said Hardy sensibly.

  A stand. That was a great idea. Woody could carry a small table to a spot near the ferry dock. He could set out his shells and stones and animals for people to buy. And in a bag next to him, he could store the rest of his work. That way he could keep the table full, so the supply wouldn’t look as if it was getting too low. (Although Abbie pointed out that if the supply did look low, then people would think Woody’s work was selling really well, and they’d want to buy more.)

  Woody set up his stand late one Friday morning when weekenders were beginning to arrive on the ferry. Nearly everyone who got off the boat had to go past the stand. And nearly everyone stopped to look at Woody’s creations.

  “Aren’t they darling!” said a woman, pointing to a collection of stones with teddy bears painted on them.

  And “How sweet!” exclaimed someone else, looking at a group of shell-and-pipe-cleaner poodles.

  “Yeah, sweet,” said a third voice. Woody glanced up. The voice had come from a boy about his age. Woody hadn’t noticed him on the island before. The boy put one hand on his hip. “And that little froggie is simply the cutest.”

  Woody could feel his heart pounding. He also felt a fight coming on. But several people were clamoring to buy things, so Woody tried to ignore the boy. He concentrated on selling a candy dish and some shell poodles. He had to think hard when he needed to make change.

  The crowd slipped away as people continued toward their houses. At last everyone who had gotten off the ferry was gone. A few kids drifted into the Harbor Store to buy candy, but that was it. Woody was about to pack up his objets d’art when he realized that another ferryload of people would be coming soon. He sat down behind the stand and waited … and waited.

  He almost fell asleep.

  But he opened his eyes when he heard a familiar voice say, “My, they are darling,” and another voice say, “Absolutely adorable.”

  Woody found himself looking at the boy who had teased him earlier. He was back, with two younger boys about Ira’s age.

  Woody glared at the boys. He could feel his fists tightening. He took a step back, getting ready to —

  “Hey, Woody!”

  Woody turned around. Ira was trotting along the boardwalk.

  “Woody!” Ira called again. “Mommy wants you to baby-sit Keegan.”

  “Yeah. Mommy wants you to baby-sit,” mimicked one of the boys.

  Woody unclenched his fists. He decided he’d better not have a fight while Ira was looking on. So he packed up his shells and animals and went home.

  * * *

  “Cliffy, Cliffy bo biffy, banana fana fo fiffy, fee fi mo miffy, Cliffy!”

  Woody stopped Keegan’s stroller. It was a sunny, warm Monday morning. He was baby-sitting, following a very profitable weekend. Woody had earned nearly thirty dollars, just by selling his animals. And he had seen those three boys only once, on Saturday afternoon. (They had not seen Woody.) But now he recognized that voice. He looked up. Coming toward him on the boardwalk were the boys. The two younger ones were singing about the older one, whose name, apparently, was Cliffy.

  The boys stopped singing when they recognized Woody.

  “Hey!” cried Cliffy. “Hey, little mommy!”

  “Shut up,” said Woody.

  “Da-da,” added Keegan and drooled down his sunsuit.

  “You’re looking very cute today,” one of the other boys said to Woody. “I like the bottle. The Three Little Pigs. Adorable.”

  Woody had stuck one of Keegan’s bottles in the pocket of his jeans. It was decorated with small pink pigs. A baby blanket (known in the Rosso family as a “didey”) was slung over one shoulder. Woody clenched his fists again. He stepped out from behind the stroller and advanced on the boys. Cliffy took a step backward.

  “Ted!” he shouted. “Scott! Let’s go!”

  “Chicken!” Woody yelled after them.

  “Barfburger!” Ted yelled back.

  Woody narrowed his eyes.

  Okay. This meant war. No one called Woody a barfburger and got away with it.

  * * *

  Woody took a vacation from his work. He set aside his stones and shells and pipe cleaners and glue. Then he snagged Hardy and asked him to do some sleuthing. Hardy did not need any encouragement. It wasn’t often that he found good detective work.

  “What do you want me to do, sir?” asked Hardy.

  “Find out where those boys live,” said Woody. He and Hardy were standing at the top of the steps to the beach. Woody was pointing to Cliffy, Ted, and Scott.

  “No problem,” replied Hardy. “Let me go get my detective equipment.”

  Woody wasn’t sure what Hardy did that afternoon, but at dinnertime Hardy said, “Okay, Woodman, here’s the scoop. The men in question are Clifford and Theodore Wallace and their cousin, Scott Hoban. They’re here for a week — family vacation — and they’re staying at fifteen Seahorse Walk. Clifford is eleven. Theodore and Scott are almost nine. Their hobby is teasing people. Any questions, sir?”

  “Nope,” replied Woody. “That was just what I needed to know.”

  The next morning, Woody got up early. He tiptoed into the living room. He found a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote some words in his best penmanship. He discovered that he was badly out of practice. So he made some neat letters and traced over them a few times. Then he took a fresh piece of paper and very carefully wrote:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wallace and Mr. and Mrs. Hoban, This is to inform you that your sons, Clifford and Theodore and Scott, are very bad pests. (Woody wanted to call them “nuisances,” but he didn’t know how to spell that.) They have been teasing and tormenting all the kids around here in Davis Park. We suggest that you send them to their rooms. Sincerely,

  The Chief of the Davis Park Police Department

  Several policemen did patrol Davis Park, although Woody was not sure there was an actual chief of police. He was hoping that the Wallaces and the Hobans would think there was, however. But Woody never found out what the adults thought. The next morning he was leaving Sandpiper House with a bag containing his paperweights and candy dishes and objets d’art when —

  “Gotcha!”

  Three figures jumped around a corner of the boardwalk.

  “Lay off!” shouted Woody.

  “Jerk!” That was Cliffy. “We know you wrote that note. You are so lame.” He swung at Woody, who dropped his bag. The bag landed on the walk with a crunch as nearly every shell inside cracked or broke.

  Woody swung back. He missed Cliffy, but he hit S
cott in the face.

  He swung again.

  Someone caught his arms from behind. “Give it a rest, Woody,” said Bainbridge. He glared at Scott and his cousins. “And you get out of here.”

  Scott, Ted, and Cliffy ran down the boardwalk.

  Bainbridge helped Woody back to Sandpiper House.

  Mrs. Rosso grounded Woody for a day.

  “But Cliffy — that other kid — he hit me first. I mean, he tried to,” Woody complained to his mother. “And he made me drop my bag. Half my stuff is ruined. I bet that’s about fifty bucks worth of, um, merchandise.”

  “You can spend the day making new things then,” said Mrs. Rosso more gently. “The point is, you are not supposed to fight. Besides, it’s a long trip from here to the emergency room.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  That afternoon, Woody was carefully gluing a shell head onto a stone lion when Hardy burst into the house. “Hey, guess what!” exclaimed Hardy. (He didn’t give Woody a chance to guess.) “I just found out that every summer on Labor Day weekend, there’s this big crafts fair in Davis Park.”

  “So?” said Woody.

  “So anyone who wants to can sell stuff at the fair. You just have to rent a table for the day, or something like that. Think of all the stuff you could sell, Woody. Everyone goes to the fair.”

  “All right!” exclaimed Woody.

  * * *

  On Saturday, Scott and his relatives left Fire Island. They sailed off on an afternoon ferry.

  Woody stood on the dock. “So long, suckers!” he yelled.

  The boys didn’t hear him.

  Woody was glad he’d never have to see them again. But he sort of wished they could be around for the crafts fair to watch him earn a million dollars with his cute little froggies.

  Woody headed for the store to buy himself a lobster hat.

  “Pssst! Hey! Faustine! Today’s the day!”

  Faustine didn’t move. She didn’t even open her eyes. After several seconds she finally murmured, “What time is it, Dinnie?”

  Gardenia turned on the light. “It’s —”

  “Ohhhh, Dinnie. That’s killing my eyes. What are you doing?”