Claudia Makes Up Her Mind

“That’s not saying much,” Josh remarked.

  “This is no time to joke,” Jeannie called over her shoulder.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to cheer Claudia up,” Josh protested.

  I stopped walking about halfway down the corridor. A few yards away, the door to the guidance office was open. Voices were filtering out. One of them was Mrs. Amer’s.

  My heart was pounding. I was having a flashback. A flashback to the day Mrs. Amer dropped the bomb.

  “What if she’s going to do it again?” My voice was all parched and whispery.

  “Do what again?” Abby asked.

  “Send me back,” I said.

  Jeannie looked bewildered. “To sixth grade?”

  “It’s not so bad, you know,” Jessi spoke up.

  “At this rate, someone ought to notify the kindergarten teachers,” I went on. “They’re going to have to squeeze a big chair into the art corner.”

  “Claudia-a-a-a,” Mallory said.

  “If this were something really serious,” Stacey added, “your parents would have been called in.”

  “Maybe they are in there,” I replied.

  Josh took me gently by the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Claudia. Whatever happens, we’ll all stand by you. If you want, I’ll tell Mrs. Amer how much you help us in class, how hard you work —”

  “Yo, what’s going on?” a familiar deep voice called out from behind me.

  Mark. Just the person I wanted to see.

  I spun away from Josh and pushed through my crowd of friends. “Oh, Mark. I’m a wreck. A total wreck. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I threw my arms around him.

  He seemed a little stunned. “Whoa, what happened?”

  “You know … the note,” I replied, my face buried in his flannel shirt.

  “Oh, right,” Mark said. “From the guidance lady. Uh-oh.”

  “Yo, Jaffe!” yelled another voice from down the hall.

  “Oooh, no PDAs in the hallway!” said someone else.

  “Markie and Claudia, sitting in a tree …”

  “Just shut up, will you?” Shira shouted. “Babies.”

  I looked toward the voices. Two of Mark’s friends, Frank O’Malley and Tom Blanton, were at the end of the hallway, grinning at us.

  “Be right there,” Mark called over his shoulder. Then he gave me a quick squeeze. “Look, Claudia. It’s okay. Really. I mean, she’s probably, like, giving you a new locker or something.”

  “Guidance counselors don’t do that,” I said.

  Mark shrugged. “Or whatever. You know. Listen, I have to go to Frank’s, okay? He’s moving to Oregon soon, so —”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  “But call me. I really want to know. And don’t worry, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Mark smiled and ran his fingers gently through my hair. Then he turned and left.

  I felt a little better. But I wished he’d stayed.

  When I turned around, the first thing I noticed was Josh’s face. He was glaring in Mark’s direction.

  “Sensitive guy,” he muttered sarcastically.

  “Jo-o-o-osh,” Shira said.

  “He can’t help that his best friend in life is moving,” I explained as I started walking slowly toward the guidance office door. “Besides, he’s probably right. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Gee, why didn’t we think of that?” Josh murmured.

  “Should we wait for you?” Mary Anne asked.

  I shook my head. “Nahhh. You guys go ahead home. This might take awhile.”

  To a chorus of “good lucks” and “don’t worrys,” I went into the office and found Mrs. Amer’s cubicle.

  My parents were not there. That was a good sign.

  Hope, hope, hope.

  Mrs. Amer was sitting at her desk, a telephone cradled on her shoulder. When she saw me, she quickly ended the call. “Hello, Claudia. Please sit.”

  I did not like the tone of her voice. It seemed lower than normal.

  The look on her face wasn’t too reassuring either. She seemed preoccupied. Worried. Her brow was all scrunched up, and she wasn’t meeting my glance.

  Transfer.

  Boarding school.

  Military academy.

  Reform school.

  The words flashed through my mind as Mrs. Amer pulled open a file cabinet drawer and took out a folder with my name on it.

  I couldn’t let her do this to me. This was unfair. I had to say something.

  “Mrs. Amer, I’ve really been trying hard,” I blurted out.

  “Yes, indeed.” Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle went her fingers through my folder.

  “I got an A on my last math exam,” I said.

  “We-e-ell, that must be a nice feeling,” Mrs. Amer murmured.

  “And an ‘Excellent’ on my last social studies paper. The one about the Japanese internment camps? I mean, okay, I know my spelling still isn’t good. But I work on it. Really. Janine, my sister? She’s been making these flash cards. And she says I’m showing improvement. That was one of the words. Improvement. I got it right. I-M-P-R-O — well, it’s easier if it’s on paper….”

  I was babbling. My mouth was running on its own. I couldn’t stop.

  Mrs. Amer listened patiently. Finally she leaned across the desk and said, “Claudia, dear, I know how hard you’re trying. And I also know you’re doing well.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded and began shuffling through my folder again. “Your teachers seem very impressed. Although I do see Ms. Chiavetta’s comments about the spelling. Anyway, to tell you the truth, Claudia, I was thinking about moving you again —”

  “I’ll do better, really!” I blurted out. “What am I going to do about the Color War? To have a Queen of the Seventh Grade who’s in sixth grade — I mean, I know it’s not supposed to mean much, but I —”

  “Pardon me?” Mrs. Amer looked up from the folder to peer at me. “What about sixth grade?”

  I gulped. “You said you wanted to move me!”

  “I do.” Mrs. Amer cocked her head curiously. “Back to eighth grade.”

  Bonnnnng.

  I felt as if I’d been hit over the head.

  “Eighth?”

  “I know it sounds a little ridiculous, yanking you out and then putting you back in,” Mrs. Amer went on. “But I’ve been thinking long and hard about this. I’ve discussed it with the principal, your teachers, and your parents. We think you have improved rapidly, and are perhaps ready to move on.”

  I opened my mouth to speak. All that came out was air. Air in shock.

  Mrs. Amer began flipping through several reports in the folder. “Your cognitive skills, your creative thinking, your maturity — all are way above your seventh-grade peers. Let me ask you something. Do you feel challenged enough, Claudia?”

  “Well … um … I, uh …”

  “Here’s my thinking,” Mrs. Amer said. “You haven’t been out of eighth grade for very long. You could probably catch up with a little help. The school will provide you with tutors. If you want them. Please understand that I don’t want to railroad you. The decision is entirely yours.”

  She was looking at me expectantly. I swallowed a huge glob of saliva.

  The first words that popped into my brain?

  GO FOR IT!

  I could picture the expression on Stacey’s face. She would absolutely faint with joy. I imagined myself making an announcement at a BSC meeting.

  I’d be back in eighth grade.

  Back where I belong.

  That thought lasted about a nanosecond.

  Then I thought of Mark. And Jeannie. And Shira and Joanna and Josh. And my teachers.

  And my Queenship.

  Was I crazy? I was going to leave my first serious boyfriend? Turn my back on four fantastic friends? Give up the first classes that didn’t make me feel like a total doofus? Not to mention tossing aside the throne.

  “Do I have to d
ecide now?” I asked.

  Mrs. Amer smiled. “Of course not. But I don’t want this to drag out too long. The marking period ends soon. Why don’t we make an appointment — you, me, and your parents — for sometime next week?”

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll tell them to call you.”

  “I know this isn’t going to be an easy decision,” Mrs. Amer said, standing up. “Please don’t hesitate to come see me between now and then. I’m here to help.”

  I stood up too. “Thanks, Mrs. Amer.”

  We shook hands and I left.

  I was kind of hoping one or two of my friends might have stayed. But the hallway was empty.

  I needed to talk to someone — but who? Stacey? Mark? Jeannie?

  A seventh-grade friend? An eighth-grade friend? My family?

  How could I possibly decide something like this?

  As you can see, I wasn’t the only one who’d had a tough Tuesday.

  The afternoon started innocently enough. Abby went right to the Papadakis house after school. Linny Papadakis, who is nine, met Abby at the door. Hannie, his seven-year-old sister, raced into the living room behind him.

  “Hiiiiii!” they squealed.

  Linny was wearing a black suit, and Hannie had on a black velvet party dress with a black-and-white sash.

  “Let me guess … a funeral for a doll?” was Abby’s greeting.

  “No, silly,” Hannie said, “this is our color, for the Color War!”

  “Cool,” Abby replied. “Just getting into the spirit a little early, huh?”

  “Come on, let’s go,” Linny insisted.

  “Go where?” Abby asked.

  “To Brenner Field. To the War.”

  Abby grinned. Linny loves to think big. If he decides he wants to do something, he goes for it. Even if no one else in the world is going with him.

  “Uh, guys,” Abby said patiently, “it’s not today.”

  “Yes it is!” Hannie insisted. “Mom said she’d drive us on the way to the doctor.”

  “I know you’re eager,” Abby said, “but let’s not hatch our chickens before they’re caught. Or whatever. These things don’t just happen. You have to prepare. Find contestants. Make lists and stuff —”

  “Everybody knows,” Linny replied. “The Pikes are going … Buddy Barrett and his brothers and sisters …”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait —”

  Rrrrriiiing! a phone sounded.

  “I’ll get it!” called Mrs. Papadakis’s voice from upstairs. “Hi, Abby! I’ll be right down!”

  “We have to go,” Linny insisted.

  “Or we’ll tell Mom you should never be our baby-sitter again,” Hannie said.

  “But — I mean — what do you think you’re going to do?” Abby stammered. “What events?”

  “You’re the baby-sitter,” Linny replied. “You’re supposed to think of them.”

  “WAAAAAAAHHH!” cried Sari from the top of the stairs. “DON’T WANNA GO TO DOCTOR!”

  The wailing became louder as Mrs. Papadakis clomped downstairs, dressed in her office clothes and carrying Sari. “Abby, it’s for you. You can take it in the kitchen…. What are you two doing in your Sunday clothes? Go change right now!”

  “Mo-o-o-om!” Hannie complained.

  “Our team color is black!” Linny explained.

  “WAAAAAAAAAH!” Sari commented.

  “Excuse me,” said Abby. She raced into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  On the other end she heard screaming and yelling too.

  “Abby, it’s Jessi!” Jessi shouted.

  “Don’t tell me,” Abby said. “The Color War, right?”

  “They planned all this behind our backs — at school, over the phone —”

  “Okay. Okay. We have to calb dowd.” Abby’s allergies were kicking in. “Dow. A — a — ahhhh-choooo!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s the stress. Or maybe the dust.”

  “I called Kristy,” Jessi said. “She’ll meet us at Brenner Field to help out. Mal will come over with her brothers and sisters. Mrs. Arnold, too, and Franklin’s home from work —”

  “What about evedts? Add prizes add stuff?”

  “Buddy and Lindsey thought some up. So did the Pikes. And between Kristy and us — oh, I almost forgot. Kristy told me to ask you: Could you get your mom to donate a box of kids’ books to the winning team’s charity?”

  “By the tibe we get to Bredder Field?”

  “No! The kids want this to last a week, like the SMS Color War.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her todight.”

  “Great. See you in a few minutes.”

  Abby hung up and dashed into the living room.

  As Mrs. Papadakis bundled Sari up, she gave Abby some last-minute instructions. Soon Hannie raced downstairs, dressed in black sweats. Linny was behind her, wearing a black-and-white plaid sweater and pants decorated with some awful black-costumed superhero.

  They all ran outside and piled into the car. Linny and Hannie were practically bouncing out of their seats the whole way.

  “I’m going to hit the farthest home run in the history of Stoneybrook!” Linny predicted.

  “It’s not sports,” Hannie said. “It’s crafts and stuff.”

  “No way!”

  “Way!”

  “Nobody says way anymore!”

  “WAAAAAAHHH!” screamed Sari.

  “Ki-i-i-ids!” said Mrs. Papadakis.

  “Sssshh,” said Abby.

  When they arrived at Brenner Field, the kids raced out of the car. Kristy was already on the baseball diamond, hitting fly balls to Jackie and Shea Rodowsky.

  Hannie stopped in her tracks. “It is baseball!”

  “Yesss!” Linny cried, running onto the field.

  “I udderstad there’s a whole list of evetts,” Abby said, putting her arm around Hannie’s shoulder.

  “Hi!” came a shout to their left.

  Jessi was running onto the field with Jake Kuhn and his sisters, Laurel and Patsy. The kids were all wearing red.

  “Can we play soccer?” Jake asked.

  Hannie was looking at them curiously. “Hey, you were supposed to be on our team.”

  “We are,” Patsy said.

  “But our color is black.”

  Now the oldest five of the seven Barrett/DeWitt kids were charging toward us.

  Two of them wore purple and three wore white.

  Abby quickly glanced back toward the ball field. Kristy was rounding up the Rodowsky boys. They were dressed in blue.

  “Uh, did anyone consult anyone else about colors?” Abby asked loudly.

  Her answer was a sea of shaking heads.

  “Uh-oh,” Kristy said. “Okay, everybody over here, on the double! Let’s form three teams and pick colors.”

  “What if we’re dressed wrong?” Lindsey DeWitt asked.

  “I brought a pad of paper and some safety pins in my backpack,” Kristy replied. “If you’re in the wrong color, wear a sign with the name of the right one.”

  “Then can we hit home runs?” Linny asked.

  “After colors, we discuss events,” Kristy said.

  “Yay, black all the way!” Linny cried out. He sprinted toward the backstop, where Kristy’s backpack was lying in the grass.

  “Purple rules!” Buddy screamed, running after him.

  “Let’s go red!” bellowed Jake.

  “Wait? Is that it?” Jackie asked. “But I hate those colors!”

  “Too late!” Buddy said.

  The Pike kids were now noisily crossing the street toward the field, dressed in shades of orange and yellow.

  Abby, Jessi, and Kristy exchanged a weary Look.

  The War was raging, and it hadn’t even begun.

  Beep. “Why aren’t you home? Call me!”

  Beep. “This is Kristy. Are you still alive?”

  Beep. “See, it wasn’t as bad as you thought. Or was it?”

  My answering machine had
fourteen messages when I arrived home Tuesday evening. All of them were from my friends who’d been with me outside Mrs. Amer’s office.

  Mark hadn’t left one, but I wasn’t really bothered by that. It’s not his style to get all worked up.

  Still, I really would have liked to talk to him.

  I was a wreck.

  My mind felt like a tennis ball, being whacked from one decision to the other.

  Whack. Eighth. I wanted to be around my lifelong friends. Kids my own age.

  Then, whack. I’d flash back to earlier in the year, when I was in eighth grade. I’d almost forgotten how I’d felt back then.

  Like a total, absolute dunce.

  I remember looking at the smart kids in class, the Staceys and Mary Annes, and knowing — knowing — that I could never understand schoolwork the way they could.

  Don’t worry, I used to say to myself. Artists don’t need algebra. Or social studies. Or whatever class I happened to be in.

  Now I knew what lame excuses those were. I was pushing down a deep feeling inside myself. A feeling that I was a big, fat nothing.

  Boy, had my life changed since then. In seventh grade, I was one of those smart students. Kids were asking me for help. I could actually show Mom and Dad my tests without feeling ashamed. Once, when I brought home a perfect math test, Dad called me “an artist and a scholar.” Even Janine was jealous.

  I liked that feeling. A lot.

  I was comfortable in seventh grade. I got good grades. I had friends. I had a boyfriend. I was Queen.

  As Kristy says, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  Easy decision.

  So why was I so torn?

  Mark. I had to call Mark. He’d help me figure this out.

  I remembered he was at Frank O’Malley’s. I grabbed the phone book and flipped to the O section.

  No. I couldn’t. Frank’s family was moving soon. They were probably busy packing. I didn’t want to bother Mark there.

  I mean, if he called me, that would be another story….

  Rrrrriiiing!

  I grinned.

  Mark had read my mind.

  I snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Was I right?”

  Stacey’s voice. Not Mark’s.

  I felt let down. Come on, Kishi, she’s your best friend. “Right about what?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Amer! She didn’t flunk you, right?”

  “No. She wants me to go back to eighth grade.”