Claudia Makes Up Her Mind

  If the BSC were a body, Kristy would be the mind and Mary Anne would be the legs. As secretary, Mary Anne makes the club run. She keeps the BSC record book, which contains a job calendar and an up-to-date list of client information: names, addresses, phone numbers, rates paid, and children’s ages. When a call comes in, Mary Anne knows at a glance who’s available for the job. That’s because she also marks down every one of our conflicts on the calendar, including lessons, after-school activities, doctor appointments, family trips, and so on.

  If I had to do Mary Anne’s job, I’d probably have a heart attack. We are so different. Well, except for one thing: We’re the only BSC members who have steady boyfriends. Mary Anne’s is a guy named Logan Bruno. He’s an associate member of the BSC, which means he helps out when we’re super busy, but he doesn’t have to attend meetings or pay dues. Which is too bad because we like having him around. He’s a good guy, and he also embarrasses easily in a roomful of girls.

  Mary Anne definitely picked up her organizational skills from her dad, Richard. For years, he ran Mary Anne’s life on a strict schedule. I mean, up to the minute. He made my parents look lenient. According to Mary Anne, he was always worried about being a perfect single parent. You see, Mary Anne’s mom died when Mary Anne was a baby, and Mary Anne’s grandparents wanted custody of her. They thought Richard couldn’t handle being a single father.

  People have been underestimating poor Richard his whole life. Back in high school he had a girlfriend named Sharon whose parents thought he wasn’t good enough. How do I know this? Because he’s married to her now.

  That story is right out of a soap opera. Remember when I said the BSC had to expand? Well, one of our new members was a girl named Dawn Schafer, who’d just moved here from California with her brother and their newly divorced mom. Mrs. Schafer was a Stoneybrook native named — you guessed it — Sharon. When Dawn and Mary Anne discovered the ancient connection, they reintroduced the former lovebirds. The electricity was still there, I guess. They married, and Mary Anne and her dad moved into the Schafers’ farmhouse.

  The marriage has been great for Richard. He’s loosened up a lot. It was great for Mary Anne too, until Dawn moved back to California to live with her dad (following her brother, who had done the same thing earlier). Now Mary Anne feels siblingless again. Sob, sob. (I told you it was a soap opera.)

  Dawn is now our honorary member. We all love and miss her, even though her move was rough on our schedule. We were swamped with the extra work. We didn’t even have time to look for a new member.

  But one fell into our laps.

  That was Abby Stevenson. She moved from Long Island into a house on Kristy’s street, with her twin sister, Anna, and their mom. (Mrs. Stevenson works for a New York City publishing company. Mr. Stevenson, sadly, died in a car accident when the girls were nine.) Kristy invited both Abby and Anna to a BSC meeting, and we asked them to join the club. Abby agreed but Anna said no (she wants to be a professional violinist and spends most of her spare time practicing).

  Sometimes it’s hard to believe Abby and Anna are identical twins. Abby is outgoing and hilarious. She’s a fantastic natural athlete, her hair cascades in ringlets to her shoulders, she’s allergic to just about everything, and she has asthma. Anna is quiet and thoughtful. Her favorite sport is dragging a bow across a fiddle and her hair is short. She’s not allergic or asthmatic, but she does have a severe spine curvature problem that Abby doesn’t have, called scoliosis.

  Abby and Anna became our good friends right away. They invited all of us to their Bat Mitzvah. That’s an important ceremony many Jewish girls go through at age thirteen, to symbolize their passage into womanhood. Abby and Anna had to recite in Hebrew, which was pretty mind-boggling.

  Abby is our alternate officer, which means she takes over the duties of any officer who’s absent from a meeting.

  As I passed around my orange treats, Abby was munching thoughtfully on a marshmallow pumpkin. “Just think,” she said, “if you were still in eighth grade, you’d have to find blue food.”

  “Blueberries,” Jessi suggested.

  “Bluefish,” Kristy chipped in.

  “Gross,” said Mallory.

  Stacey swallowed a mouthful of Doritos. “No offense, Claudia, but orange? I mean, were you in your right minds? What’s your charity, Fashion Victims of America?”

  “Tell me about it,” I said with a sigh.

  I knew Stacey would feel the same way I did. She is my best friend in the world. We both love clothes. We also love to shop together, even though she buys from boutiques and I raid the thrift shops. She likes sleek, urban high fashion. Black is her absolute favorite color. It sets off her golden blonde hair and fair complexion.

  Stacey likes to say she picked up her fashion sense in New York City. She grew up there, until her father’s company relocated him to Connecticut. That was when Stacey joined the BSC. Since then she’s moved back to NYC and back to Stoneybrook again. Along the way, unfortunately, her parents divorced. Her dad stayed in the Big Apple, so she often takes the train there for visits.

  After the divorce, Stacey tried so hard to please both parents that she became sick. She aggravated this condition she has, called diabetes. Stacey has explained it to me a million times, and I think I finally have it straight: Basically, when you eat sugar, your body’s supposed to store some of it, then release a little at a time into your bloodstream. But in a diabetic, the sugar zooms right into the blood, like jumping into a freezing ocean instead of inching in to get used to it. If Stacey eats one candy bar, her body could go into shock. How does she deal with this? Fine. She has to eat meals at regular times, stay away from refined sugar (the carrots in my backpack were for Stacey), and inject herself daily with a hormone called insulin. (I know, it sounds like torture, especially that last part. But Stacey deals with it well and leads an active, normal life filled with lots of energetic shopping.)

  I don’t know how Stacey can stand to be around a chocoholic like me. Oh, well, I guess even best friends can have major differences. Actually, we have two. The other one is math aptitude. Stacey is a whiz. (She actually scored the highest in the whole state in a math team competition.)

  Because of those math skills, Stacey is the club treasurer. She collects dues each Monday and stores the money in a manila envelope. Once a month she pays our expenses — including part of my phone bill, gas money for Charlie, and supplies for Kid-Kits. And occasionally she’ll allow us to spend leftover money on a pizza party.

  Now you know our senior officers. Stacey, Kristy, Mary Anne, and Abby are all thirteen, like me. (Unlike me, they are in eighth grade.)

  Jessi and Mallory are our junior officers. They’re best friends. They both adore horse books, and each of them has a cool creative talent. Jessi’s is dance. She takes tons of lessons, practices all the time, and has performed in ballets. Mallory loves to write and illustrate her own stories.

  Why do we call Jessi and Mallory junior officers? Because they’re eleven and in sixth grade and their parents won’t let them baby-sit at night, unless it’s for their own siblings. (Boy, do they grumble about that.)

  Actually, Jessi and Mal are more mature than most seventh-graders I know. Maybe that’s because they’re each the oldest kid in the family. Jessi has a sister and a baby brother, and Mallory has seven siblings. (Yup, seven, including very loud boy triplets. Mature? I’m surprised she doesn’t have gray hair!)

  Physically Jessi and Mal are not alike at all. Mallory’s skin is creamy white and freckled, and her hair is a mass of reddish-brown curls. Jessi has chocolate-brown skin and she keeps her black hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  Jessi, by the way, grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood in Oakley, New Jersey. Unfortunately, when her family moved here, they found that Stoneybrook was not exactly multicultural. Some of their neighbors gave them a hard time, just because the Ramseys are black. (We Kishis have faced this kind of stupidity too.) Things have managed to work out, though. Sometimes
even prejudiced people can change.

  Anyway, that’s it for our regular members. We also have two associate members. As I mentioned before, Logan Bruno is one of them. The other is Shannon Kilbourne. She goes to a local private school called Stoneybrook Day School.

  Too bad she doesn’t go to SMS. She’s a real joiner. She’d have great ideas for the Color War.

  At this point, I could have used a consultant.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to pull this together fast enough,” I said, looking at a roomful of chomping orange mouths. “Mark didn’t want to help me out at first, but I think I convinced him.”

  “Maybe you guys can set up a kissing contest,” Abby suggested. “You can compete to break the Guinness record. Longest liplock.”

  I could feel myself blush. Jessi and Mallory were dissolving into giggles.

  Kristy did not look amused. She’s a little sensitive about the topic of Mark. She and Mark’s friend Steve double dated with Mark and me not long ago, and it was a disaster.

  I was relieved when Mary Anne changed the subject. “When I sat for the Barrett/DeWitt kids the other day, I mentioned the Color War. You should have seen the look on Suzi Barrett’s face.”

  “She hates orange too?” Stacey asked.

  “No, she wanted to have a family Color War,” Mary Anne replied. “They all did. But they couldn’t agree on colors before I had to leave.”

  Kristy was sitting forward on the edge of her chair. Her eyes were wide, her lips curled up into a half smile.

  I knew that look. Kristy’s brain was cooking up something.

  “That’s a great idea!” she said.

  “What?” Abby asked.

  “I move we plan for a Kids’ Color War. Just for our charges.”

  Abby looked impressed. “Hey, I second that motion.”

  “All in favor?” Kristy asked.

  “AYE!” we called out in unison.

  Kristy grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Okay, let’s think of a few events before the phone rings….”

  “Alan Gray?” I murmured. “That name wasn’t there yesterday.”

  It was Tuesday morning. I’d arrived at school early to collect ideas for Color War events from students. I was hanging out by the poster, pen in hand, with Josh, Shira, Jeannie, and Joanna.

  How many kids had volunteered ideas so far? Two. One suggested a pinball tournament, the other an arm-wrestling match.

  With this kind of imagination, we were in big trouble.

  But now I was more concerned about something else. I was going to have to lead my class against the biggest dork of the eighth grade.

  “Who’s Alan Gray?” Josh asked. “An old boyfriend or something?”

  I almost barfed. “Alan Gray is the absolute lowest form of life on the planet,” I explained. “Amoebas run away when they see him.”

  “Amoebas don’t have legs,” Josh said.

  “You know what I mean,” I snapped.

  “Claudia?” Joanna said. “Mark’s name doesn’t look right somehow.”

  “It’s Mark with a k, not a c,” I explained. “I made that mistake once before.”

  “Uh, hello? Homeroom is starting soon?” Shira said. “If no one’s going to give us ideas, fine. Write ours down, at least, Claudia. Number one. How about a bake-off? Everyone submits baked goods.”

  “I’ll do chocolate chip cookies,” Jeannie said.

  “Mississippi mud fudge cake,” Josh piped up.

  “You can make that?” Shira asked.

  Josh looked crushed. “I have to make it?”

  “How about a writing contest?” suggested Jeannie. “The seventh grade could win that, no sweat. Like, limericks or something.”

  “Great,” I replied.

  I wrote.

  “Weird foot races!” Joanna said. “You know, three-legged, blindfolded …”

  “I love those!” I said.

  “An art contest!” Josh blurted out.

  “Now you’re talking!” I let out a whoop and flung my arms around him.

  When I let go, Josh’s face was red.

  Shira looked about ready to crack up. “Uh, Joshie? Are you feeling all right?”

  “You look a little flushed,” Jeannie remarked.

  “No, I’m —” Josh’s voice broke off in a squeak. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m fine.”

  “How about those Mets, Josh?” Jeannie asked.

  Boy, do they love to tease him.

  “I have one!” Shira blurted out. “A hog-calling contest!”

  “Hog-calling?” Jeannie and I said at the same time.

  “My cousins in Nebraska do it,” Shira insisted. “Like this: SOOOOO-EEEEEEE!”

  I thought I would never recover my hearing.

  Bravely I kept writing. As ideas flew at me from all sides, I scribbled down as many as I could:

  (That was Josh’s idea, of course.)

  “It’s one e,” Mark’s voice said.

  I looked up. Mark was there, smiling at me.

  “Oh, hi!” I exclaimed. “Thanks.”

  I crossed out the last e of agrede.

  “No, I mean my last name,” Mark said, gesturing toward the sign. “It’s J-A-F-F-E.”

  Ugh. Just when I thought it was safe to stop feeling like a dunce.

  “Sorry,” I murmured.

  “No problem,” Mark said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You can make it up to me.”

  “Didn’t I hear that line in a bad movie?” Josh asked.

  Shira gave him a shove. “Josh was just going to the bathroom. Right, Josh?”

  “Well,” Jeannie said, backing away, “I guess we’ll leave you two alone.”

  She pulled at Joanna and Shira, and they all scurried down the hall, giggling.

  Mark and I began strolling toward homeroom.

  It was kind of funny. I mean, why were they acting so embarrassed? What did they expect us to do? Start making out in the hallway, two minutes before homeroom?

  “What movie was he talking about?” Mark asked.

  “Josh?” I said. “Oh, just ignore him.”

  “No, really. He’s always saying stuff like that.”

  “He just has a weird sense of humor.”

  Mark shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “So, what are your ideas for the Color War?”

  “Ideas?” Mark laughed. “That’s your department.”

  “Anyone can think of ideas, Mark.”

  “I don’t know. Football, I guess.”

  “A game? Or, like, individual competition — throwing a ball the farthest, or coolest helmet …”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  I took a deep breath. I had figured I’d be working harder on the Color War than Mark would. I don’t mind that. Mark’s not exactly a joiner. But he’s not a slacker either. I was hoping he’d at least have a few ideas.

  “Mark, are you sure you want to do this?” I asked.

  “Yes, Claudia,” Mark replied. “I told you I would. I mean, do we need to have it all planned now?”

  “No, but —”

  “I’ll think about it. I’ll help out.”

  “Help out? But we’re supposed to be —”

  The homeroom bell cut me off before I could say co-coordinators.

  We were turning into Ms. Pilley’s room now. One of Mark’s buddies was rushing in behind us. He slapped Mark on the shoulder and they both started talking about some pro sports game.

  Was I too stressed about the Color War? Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I should relax.

  As I walked to my desk, I noticed a folded sheet of paper.

  Brandon Klein Alert. Last time this happened, I opened the sheet to find a note in his handwriting that read, “At 8:07, everyone blow your nose.”

  I sat down and quickly hid the note in my lap. When I was sure Ms. Pilley was looking away, I unfolded it and read:

  Stoneybrook Middle School

  Guidance Department

  Memo from Mrs. Flore
nce Amer

  To Claudia Kishi

  Oh. My. Lord.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I almost dropped the sheet.

  Most students only see Mrs. Amer once a year, in June. She smiles, pats you on the back, and says good luck in your new grade. If you’re called in before the end of the year, you worry.

  This year, I’d been called in once before. The day Mrs. Amer sent me back to seventh grade.

  What now?

  Take it easy, Kishi, I told myself. Calm down. Maybe it’s no big deal.

  Right.

  And the world is flat.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Jeannie said.

  I gripped her arm tightly as we turned the corner toward the guidance office. My other arm was clutching Stacey’s. Mary Anne and Shira flanked us on either side. Behind us were Josh, Kristy, Joanna, Abby, Jessi, and Mallory.

  A procession. That’s what it felt like. A procession to a public hanging.

  I had told my seventh-grade friends about the note during lunch. I’d told my eighth-grade friends right after, as they walked into the cafeteria for eighth-grade lunch. They must have passed the word to Jessi and Mal.

  I hadn’t wanted to make a big deal about it. I’d tried to mention the note casually. No big emotional traumas.

  I guess they could tell how I really felt. Because they’d showed up at my locker after school.

  Now, with all of them surrounding me, I could not hold it back. I was petrified.

  “I can’t do this,” I muttered.

  “Maybe it’s just a progress report,” Mary Anne suggested.

  “I mean, my grades aren’t that bad,” I said. “Are they?”

  “Maybe she’s just checking up on you,” Kristy suggested. “Finding out how you like seventh grade.”

  “Tell her the teachers stink but the kids are great,” Josh said.

  “Okay, my last English test wasn’t so wonderful,” I continued, “but I passed. And I’m doing okay in math and history.”

  “Better than okay,” Stacey agreed.

  “Better than me,” Shira added.