Finally, Mrs. Nicholls appeared in a black dress and heels. “You look nice,” I told her. She did, too. Her red lipstick was just right, and her hair was gleaming.
“She better look nice,” said Mr. Nicholls. “It took her over an hour to pull herself together.”
Mrs. Nicholls ignored him and smiled at me. “Thank you, Claudia,” she said. “We won’t be late tonight. Have a good time with the boys. I know they’re looking forward to seeing you.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
“In the living room, watching TV,” answered Mr. Nicholls. “I told them to sit tight in there until you let them know dinner was ready.”
I pictured the boys sitting stiffly on the sofa, hands folded in their laps, waiting obediently for dinner. With that image in mind, I hurried Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls out the door.
“Hi, guys,” I called, poking my head into the living room. “Are you enjoying your show?” They looked almost exactly as I’d imagined, except that Joey was sitting on an easy chair and Nate was on the floor.
“Not really,” admitted Nate. “It’s kind of boring.”
“Want to come help me make dinner?” I asked.
“Definitely!” said Joey, springing to his feet. “Dad never lets us help. He says we just get in the way. But I like to help when Mom lets us.”
“Joey is a good cook too,” Nate said. “You should see him mix cookie dough.”
The boys followed me into the kitchen, and the three of us had dinner (microwave macaroni and cheese with steamed broccoli) on the table in no time flat. I poured milk for Joey, apple juice for Nate, and grape juice for me, and we sat down to eat.
“So, what did you guys do today?” I asked after a few quiet moments had passed.
Nate glanced up with a surprised look on his face. He didn’t answer.
“Did you ride bikes? It was warm today. Or did you just hang out?”
Joey cleared his throat. “We — we aren’t supposed to talk a lot during meals,” he explained. “Like, it’s okay to ask for the salt and stuff, but Dad says he likes quiet time to concentrate on his food.”
I nodded. “Well, just for tonight, let’s talk,” I suggested. “I don’t mind a little conversation while I eat.” In fact, I was brought up to think that mealtime was family discussion time, but I didn’t mention that.
The boys didn’t need much encouragement. They relaxed, and talk flowed easily for the rest of the meal. I heard about their day in detail, along with news from the past week in school. Both of them seemed to have a lot to say.
Then I told them a little about Lynn. It was when I was showing them how I make her wave her arm that it happened.
I knocked over my grape juice.
Big deal, right? Well, apparently it was — in the Nicholls household.
Nate jumped up to grab the paper towels.
Joey jumped up to find the mop.
I tried to do my best with my napkin, but the juice ran all over the place.
“Now you’re really going to get it,” said Joey, returning with the mop. At first I thought he must be joking, but when I looked at his face I realized he was serious.
“You’re in big trouble,” Nate agreed.
He was serious too. I still thought they were overreacting, but you know what? It was weird how worried I felt as I wiped at the mess until every trace of juice had disappeared. And how, for the rest of the evening, I found myself checking that my spill really was cleaned up.
After dinner we played cards for a while (the boys let me win again) and before long it was time for bed. Now, bedtime can be a real struggle with some kids. But with Nate and Joey it was a breeze. For one thing, they were the ones who reminded me it was bedtime. For another, they jumped into their pajamas and brushed their teeth without having to be nagged. They even folded their clothes neatly before they hopped into the twin beds in their shared room.
Nate looked adorable with the covers pulled up to his chin. Adorable, but a little lonely. “Do you have a favorite stuffed animal that you like to take to bed?” I asked, looking around the room.
“We don’t have any stuffed animals,” Nate replied. “We’re not allowed.”
“Not allowed?” I repeated. How could a kid not be allowed to have stuffed animals?
“One time Mom bought us each one,” he went on dreamily. He was already half asleep. “A tiger for me and a bear for Joey. But Dad said they were babyish, and he threw them away.”
I drew in a quiet breath. Then I reached out to stroke Nate’s soft, fine hair. He wasn’t much more than a baby, really. He smiled up at me sleepily.
I smiled back, but my heart wasn’t in it. Then I turned to Joey. He didn’t look sleepy at all.
“Do you want me to read to you for a while?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Bed is for sleeping,” he said. It sounded like another of Mr. Nicholls’s rules.
“But you don’t look too sleepy,” I answered.
“I’m not,” he admitted. “But Claudia? If my dad asks, tell him that we both went to sleep right away, okay?”
I looked down at his anxious face. “Sure, Joey,” I said. I pulled the covers up around his chin. “Good night, then. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
The next couple of hours were quiet ones. I turned on the TV, just so I could forget the nervous look in Joey’s eyes. Something wasn’t right in the Nicholls household, but what could I do about it? I hated to see two kids so unhappy, but if Mr. Nicholls had his rules, who was I to question them? It was his house. Joey and Nate were his sons.
Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls came back early. (When I heard the car, I ran into the kitchen to check on the grape juice spill one last time.) As he was paying me, Mr. Nicholls asked me a lot of questions about how the boys had behaved. I told him the truth, that they’d been very, very good and had gone to bed without any problems. I’m not sure he believed me, but he seemed too tired to argue.
Since it was after dark, Mrs. Nicholls insisted on driving me home. The ride is short, but the silence in the car made it seem long. I didn’t know what to say to her, and she seemed to be in another world. Finally, I mentioned something about Joey and Nate being excited about the St. Patrick’s Day parade plans. She didn’t say much, though.
When she dropped me off, she suddenly seemed to notice me. “Thank you, Claudia,” she said as I unbuckled my seat belt. “And please tell your mother I said hello.”
I promised that I would. In the dim glow of the streetlight, Mrs. Nicholls looked very sad. And I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to cheer her up.
When I went inside that night, I said a quick good night to my parents and headed straight to my room. I needed to talk to someone about the Nichollses, and somehow I wasn’t ready to tell my mom or dad about it. I called Stacey, and we spoke for a long time. Talking it over made me feel a little better, but I still felt confused about what to do.
At Monday’s BSC meeting, I talked with the rest of my friends. I explained how much I liked Joey and Nate and how upsetting it was to see the way Mr. Nicholls treated them. We agreed that there wasn’t much I could or should do about the situation. After all, while I didn’t like Mr. Nicholls, it wasn’t as if he were doing anything illegal. And when I told them that I wouldn’t want Joey and Nate to feel as if I’d abandoned them, we agreed that I should continue sitting for them as long as I didn’t feel too uncomfortable around Mr. Nicholls.
That sounded good to me, especially since I knew I wouldn’t see much of him for the next few days. Joey and Nate and I would be out of the house, working on the St. Patrick’s Day preparations.
Or so I thought.
I had a sitting job at the Nichollses’ the following afternoon. Mr. Nicholls answered the door, just the way he always does. He was dressed in a suit again, so I assumed he was going on another job interview. He greeted me as pleasantly as always.
But something felt wrong. The house was too quiet, and Mr. Nicholls’s smile seemed fake.
br /> “Um, are the boys around?” I asked. “I was planning to take them over to my friend’s house, to work on the St. Patrick’s D —”
Mr. Nicholls cut me off. “They won’t be going,” he said flatly.
“But it’s —”
“No buts,” he said, dropping the fake smile entirely. “My sons have misbehaved, and they understand what that means. No going out. No TV. No snack. They’ll be doing some housework this afternoon, and I’ll need you to supervise.”
“Uh, okay. What should they do?”
“They know,” he said. “Just make sure they stick with it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” (In a couple of hours it will be close to 6:00, too late to go.) The fake smile returned. “Have a nice afternoon, Claudia,” he said. “And just because the boys can’t have a snack doesn’t mean you have to go hungry. Help yourself.”
Right. I wouldn’t go near his kitchen, even if it was stuffed to the brim with Cheetos and Cracker Jacks. I was beginning to realize that I just plain didn’t like Mr. Nicholls.
But I did like his sons. I called to them as soon as their father had left. “Hey, Joey! Hey, Nate!” I said, trying to sound cheerful as I entered their room.
Both boys looked up briefly, but they didn’t smile or meet my eyes. “Hi, Claudia,” said Joey. Nate didn’t say anything. Then they continued tidying up their room. Nate was dusting, swiping a rag over the contents of a bookcase on the far wall. Joey was rearranging a row of shoes in their shared closet. They worked quietly, as if what they were doing required all their attention.
“Hey, this room is looking terrific!” I said, still hoping for a smile.
Joey shrugged.
“Dad will find something wrong,” Nate said. He balled up the rag as if he’d like to throw it away. Then he shook it out and started dusting again.
Obviously, nothing I could say was going to cheer the boys up. I might as well pitch in and help. “You know,” I said, “I’m a whiz at cleaning windows.”
“Uh-huh,” said Joey, who was now concentrating on arranging the pencils on his desk.
“I’d be glad to do yours.”
“Nate, run and find a bucket and some paper towels,” Joey told his brother.
Nate left the room.
“It’s not his fault,” said Joey as soon as we were alone. “It’s mine, but he’s being punished too.”
“What did you do?” I asked. It was hard to imagine Joey being bad enough to deserve such punishment.
“I touched Dad’s briefcase,” he said.
“You mean you took something from it?”
“No, I touched it,” he repeated. “I was moving it out of the way of the racetrack we were building for our cars.”
“Did you break it?” I asked. I was still confused.
“I told you,” he said. “I touched it. That’s against the rules. So we’re being punished.”
Whoa. So the boys had to stay inside all day to clean house, just because one of them had laid a finger on a briefcase. I shook my head and began to say something, but then I stopped. Maybe it was better if Joey didn’t hear my opinion on the matter.
Nate returned with my window-cleaning supplies then. “Hey, all right!” I said. “Now we can do some real cleaning.” I brushed off my hands and pushed up my sleeves, grinning.
For the next couple of hours, I acted like a peppy Ms. Clean, leading the boys around the house and cleaning every surface we could touch with a rag, brush, broom, or mop. Being busy took my mind off things. I hoped it did the same for the boys.
We finished up by organizing the recycling bins in the garage. I tried to make a game out of it, and for a few minutes the boys seemed distracted and almost happy.
Then Mr. Nicholls came home.
We heard the front door slam. Joey and Nate exchanged a frightened glance.
“Joey? Nate? Where are you? What’s this mop doing out in the hall?” Mr. Nicholls sounded mad.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said quickly. “You guys finish up in here.” I ran to the kitchen and found Mr. Nicholls shoving the mop back into the small closet we’d taken it from. From the look on his face, I had a feeling the job interview hadn’t gone well.
“We left it out to dry,” I said, trying to explain.
He turned, scowling. When he saw me, he tried to turn on that fake smile, but I could tell it took a big effort. “Where are the boys?” he asked.
“They’re finishing up in the garage,” I said. “They’ve been very, very good today.” He snorted and began to walk toward the door to the garage. “Can I show you what we did?” I asked.
“Tell you what,” he said, shoving his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled wad of bills, separated a few, and shoved them into my hand. “You’re off duty. Bye-bye, now!”
I stood there for a second. Then I realized that if he wanted me to leave, I had to leave. On my way out, I remembered I’d left my jacket in the boys’ room. I dashed upstairs to grab it.
Just as I reached the top step, jacket in hand, I heard Mr. Nicholls start to yell. “Where’s my newspaper?” he roared. Then I heard the door to the garage fly open. “What did you little jerks do with my paper?”
“It — it might be in with the recycling,” Joey answered, in such a tiny voice I could barely hear him.
Then I heard something louder, something that made my heart stop.
It was like the sound of a fish hitting the water.
It was like the sound of a stick hitting a drum.
It was like — no, it was — the sound of a hand hitting a face.
For a second, my knees felt so weak I thought I was going to fall down.
“What’s it doing in there?” Mr. Nicholls shouted.
I wondered if I was going to hear another slap. I felt paralyzed. I felt like throwing up. I felt like running away.
But I couldn’t leave those boys.
I tiptoed back down the stairs, almost too frightened to breathe. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, Mr. Nicholls spotted me. “Hey, Claudia,” he said casually. He flashed me that smile. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
Duh. If he’d known I was still there, would he have done what I thought he had done?
He angled his body as if to hide Joey and Nate, who stood behind him. It didn’t work. I could see them both clearly, and I could see that they were crying. They didn’t make a sound, but tears were rolling down their cheeks. And — I’m not one hundred percent positive about this — it looked to me as if Joey’s right cheek was redder than his left.
“Do you need a ride home?” asked Mr. Nicholls. “I’d be glad to drive you.”
“No.” That’s all I could squeak out. Not “No, thanks.” Not “No, I can walk.” Just “No.”
I ran all the way home, with the picture of Joey’s tear-stained face and Nate’s brimming eyes haunting my mind.
The house was empty when I arrived. I ran straight to my room, grabbed the phone, and started dialing. It was time for an emergency meeting of the BSC.
Kristy wasn’t home. Nobody answered at Abby’s house.
Jessi wasn’t home.
Mary Anne and Stacey were both out.
Finally, just as I was frantically dialing Mal’s number, I remembered where everybody was. I ran back downstairs and out the door.
Kristy wrote that entry in the BSC notebook toward the end of that afternoon’s job at Mal’s house. Or, to be more exact, in Mal’s yard. With over a dozen kids. Fortunately, the other BSC members (except me) were on hand to help.
The plan? To make costumes for the St. Patrick’s Day parade.
The materials? Lots of cardboard, plenty of paint (mostly green).
The scene? Total chaos.
The results? Hmmm … how can I put this nicely? Let’s just say that if I had been there, things might have turned out differently.
The original bunch of kids — the Pikes, Becca and Charlotte, Karen, Andrew, and David Michael — ha
d been joined by the Arnold twins, eight-year-old Marilyn and Carolyn, as well as by the Rodowsky boys: Shea (nine), Jackie (seven), and Archie (four). Jackie, otherwise known (to the BSC, in private) as the Walking Disaster, was holding the Rodowsky dog, Bo, on a long leash made of shoelaces.
“Mom says it’s okay for us to bring Bo if it’s okay with you,” Jackie explained to Kristy sheepishly. “I even put on a leash I made from …” His eyes traveled down to his shoes, which were flopping around loosely. Shea’s shoes looked the same, and Archie was tripping over his own feet. Jackie looked up at Kristy and grinned.
Kristy sighed and called to Mal, “Okay if Bo stays out here?”
“Sure,” Mal said. “Pow’s sleeping inside, so he won’t mind.” Pow is the Pikes’ basset hound, and he’s a lazy old dog. “We can tie Bo to this tree,” she said, showing Jackie, “so he won’t be in our way.”
Jackie ran to his mom’s car to tell her it was all right. (Kristy wasn’t sure Mrs. Rodowsky knew about the “leash,” but she figured she’d let it pass.) When Jackie returned, he knelt to tie up Bo. Then he ran to join the other kids, who by that time were clustered around the three folding tables Kristy and Mal had brought outside and covered with newspaper earlier. The tables were set up in a U shape, and each was supplied with jars of paint, big brushes, and a huge pile of cardboard.
“Where’s Claudia?” Mary Anne asked.
Kristy shrugged. “Maybe she’s not going to make it. I guess we don’t have to wait for her. If we don’t start soon, the kids are going to stage a mutiny.”
“How hard can it be to make a few cardboard shamrocks?” asked Mal. The idea we’d come up with was to make cardboard cutouts that the kids could wear, sandwich-board-style, as they danced and marched their way down the street. Kristy thought a bunch of oversized shamrocks would look very cute.
“I don’t want to make a shamrock,” cried Margo. “I’m going to make a leprechaun.”
“Uh-oh,” said Jessi under her breath. “Does anybody know how to draw a leprechaun?”
“I do,” said Mal, who draws very well. “But I’m going to be busy setting up paints. You guys can handle it.”