Stacey fell silent. For a moment I thought we’d been cut off. “Are you kidding?” she finally said.
“Nope.”
“Oh my lord. Oh, that is so great! I am so-o-o-o proud of you!”
“Yeah? I guess. It’s just that … well, I don’t know if I want to.”
“Wait. You’re not serious. Because, Claudia, this is a no-brainer. I mean, you are coming back.”
“Well, that’s what I thought at first too. But now I’m not so sure, Stacey. I like seventh grade. I like my classes. I don’t feel so stupid anymore —”
“You won’t feel stupid in eighth grade. I mean it. I’ll tutor you. We all will.”
“But you guys are busy. I don’t want to tie you up just because I can’t —”
“But that’s just it, Claudia. You can. You always were smart, you just never knew it. But now you have the confidence. You believe in yourself. That’s what seventh grade did for you. And that’s all you ever needed. You won’t tie us up. We’ll tutor you for a week or two, and then you won’t need us.”
“You think so?”
“Guaranteed. Look, you have to be in eighth grade. We have to graduate together. It’s not just this year, Claudia. If you stay in seventh grade, you’ll be a year behind our whole lives!”
Whack.
Suddenly eighth grade didn’t seem so bad.
It seemed even better after I talked to Mary Anne, Kristy, Abby, Jessi, and Mal. They all had the same opinion. Yes for eighth grade.
Somewhere in the middle of all that was dinner. That was another long discussion. Janine’s reaction? “I don’t know how you could want to stay in middle school another year. Pass the pork chops, please.”
Dad said, “I hope you don’t base this decision on proximity to a boyfriend.” (Huh? I don’t even know what proximiting is.)
Mom was nicer. She promised to support whichever decision I made.
But my friends’ words were sinking in. They were right. I had to be where I’d started. Where I belonged.
In eighth grade.
As I went back to my room, my heart was somewhere around my toes. My seventh-grade friends were expecting me to call them. Some of them were not going to take this well.
Mark would be hurt. His best friend was leaving town, and now me. How could I do this to him?
I called Jeannie instead.
“Hello?” her voice greeted me.
“Hi, Jeannie? It’s Claud.”
“Claudia?” she practically shrieked. “I’ve been so-o-o worried! I thought, you know, since you didn’t call, it was some horrible news.”
“Well, Mrs. Amer wants to move me back to eighth grade, and I think I’m going to say yes.”
“Wha-a-a-a-at? You’re not serious?”
“I am.”
“Oh … that is horrible news,” Jeannie murmured. “I mean, it’s good news, for you. I guess. I mean, you can skip over the rest of seventh grade?”
“But I’ve already been through seventh grade.”
“You once told me you didn’t remember anything you learned in seventh grade the first time around. So that’s a whole year you have to catch up on.”
Ugh. I hadn’t looked at it that way. Most of seventh grade — the first time around — was a blur.
My decision was shriveling up in my brain.
“I should be quiet,” Jeannie went on. “I’m being so negative.”
“That’s okay. Maybe you’re right, Jeannie.”
“No. I was wrong. You should do this, because you know yourself better than I do —”
“That’s just it, Jeannie, I don’t know! Everyone’s been telling me what to do. And they’re all right. I can’t even think straight. And the worst thing is, I have to decide right away or it’ll be too late! And I have so much on my mind. The Color War is starting in two days and we have a meeting tomorrow and I didn’t even do my homework tonight and I have to call Joanna and Shira and Josh —”
“Don’t worry, Claudia,” Jeannie said gently. “I’ll call the other three. We can all talk about it tomorrow. Just shut it all out. Do the homework. Relax. Listen to some music. Go to bed. Okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice was cracking. Jeannie is such a good friend.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
* * *
Well, I did finish my homework, but I didn’t listen to music. I didn’t try Mark again either. I was too tired. I just conked right out.
The next morning I must have changed my mind a hundred times. Jeannie and Stacey had spread the news, so everyone knew now. And everyone had an opinion.
I was relieved to escape to homeroom.
Mark was late for school (which is not that unusual). As he slid into his seat, he smiled and whispered, “What’s going on?”
Ms. Pilley was glowering at us. So I wrote him a note and handed it to him when she wasn’t looking.
He read it carefully and wrote something back.
Stay, dear Claudia, or my life is over, he scribbled on a sheet stained with tears.
As if.
Actually, this is what his note said:
Okay, so it wasn’t romantic. Guys are programmed to hide their feelings. Everyone knows that.
Mark was hiding them pretty deeply as we walked to class after homeroom.
“So?” I said. “What do you think about the news?”
“What I want to know is, how did you do it? Did your parents pay off Amer?”
“Oooh, that’s low, Jaffe. Very low.” I began punching him on the arm. He ran off, laughing, but I caught up.
“Truce!” he yelled, shielding himself with his books.
“Aren’t you upset?” I blurted out.
“No way. I was relieved. I thought you were sending me a note about the Color War meeting or something.”
“Mark, I can’t believe you! I’m, like, a nervous wreck about this. How will you feel if I decide to go back to eighth grade?”
Mark shrugged. “So? We’ll still be in the same school.”
Good point.
I smiled and took his arm.
Maybe I was taking this too seriously. Mark had the right attitude. Keep cool, no matter what.
I knew there was a reason I liked him.
“Hey, queenie babes!” shouted Ron Tibbets from the other end of the gym. “How do you spell ‘limerick’?”
I looked up from the SMS Color War banner I was helping to paint on the gym floor. “Queenie babes?”
“What a jerk,” Shira said.
Josh rose to his feet. “I’ll beat him up!”
Joanna nearly collapsed with laughter.
“Look it up!” I called back. “And it’s Claudia!”
“Okay, Claudia babes!”
Sigh. I guess every class has an Alan Gray.
To be honest, in the back of my mind, I half wished Mark would beat him up. He might have offered, if he’d been there.
But he wasn’t. And it was already twenty minutes into the biggest Color War meeting of the year.
Wednesday, after school, was the seventh-graders’ time to decorate the gym (sixth grade had Tuesday and eighth had Thursday). We were putting up orange streamers, balloons, posters, the works. Josh, Shira, Joanna, Jeannie, and I were painting a humongous mural with a “war” theme, using our class color.
I looked at the door, hoping Mark would show up. He was supposed to be in charge of setting up a sound system. No one else seemed to know how. Mr. Kingbridge, our faculty adviser, had already brought in two sets of wires that didn’t work.
I tried not to be angry with Mark. He can be pretty absentminded. But he was co-coordinator, and I had reminded him twice that day.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Shira said, carefully painting an orange gladiator.
“Maybe he’s at Frank’s,” I replied.
Shira peered up. “Who?”
“Mark.”
“I was talking about you, going into eighth grade. Weren’t you listening? It d
oesn’t make sense that you’re at the top of your class now, and you want to go back to the bottom.”
“How do you know she’ll be at the bottom?” Josh retorted.
“Eighth grade is hard,” Joanna remarked.
“You guys have no faith,” Josh said.
“Am I hearing right?” Shira asked. “You want her to go, Josh?”
“I didn’t say that! It’s just that, well, Claudia should do what makes her happy.” Josh quickly looked down at the orange Sherman tank he was painting. “I guess.”
No one said anything for a while. Then Jeannie sighed and sat back. Her eyes were kind of moist. “This feels so weird. I mean, here we are, painting all this seventh-grade Color War stuff, using your plans, Claudia, because you’re our class Queen and all — and soon you may be in another grade!”
Glurp. I felt as if a big day-old Swedish meatball had lodged itself in my throat.
I did not want to talk about this now. Preparing for the Color War was stressful enough. “Look, guys, can we —?”
“We’ll really miss you if you go, Claudia,” Joanna murmured softly.
“A lot,” Shira added.
Josh’s eyes darted toward me. He looked as if he were going to say something, but he didn’t. He seemed deeply into his art.
Tears began to well up in my eyes. I blinked them back.
And then I saw Mark, coming through the gym door.
I put down my brush and ran.
“Hi! Where were you?” I called out.
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Frank and me? We were having this big, heavy conversation about packing? And I started walking out of school with him. I’m halfway to his house and I slap myself on the head, like, ‘What am I doing?’ So I ran back.” He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, duh!”
What could I say? My anger was melting. “Come look at our mural.” I held his hand and we walked across the room.
“Yo, Mark!” Shira blurted out. “Can’t you talk some sense into her?”
“About what?” Mark asked.
“Not now, Shira,” I pleaded.
“Tell her not to skip into eighth grade,” Shira barreled on.
“We know she’ll listen to you,” Joanna added.
“Yeah, well, sure,” Mark said with a shrug. “She should. If she wants. Definitely.”
“Don’t sound so upset,” Josh muttered.
“Uh, guys? This is a meeting?” I reminded everyone. “Mark, can you help Mr. Kingbridge set up the speakers?”
Mark looked at his watch. “Sure. For about twenty minutes. Then I have to go. The O’Malleys are taking me to dinner.”
He jogged away toward the sound system.
Josh looked as if he’d smelled something bad. “The O’Malleys are taking him to dinner?”
“He couldn’t tell them no, for something like this?” Shira muttered.
“It’s important,” I explained. “Frank’s moving. They’ve been friends for life. They have to, you know, bond.”
“Why doesn’t he just move with them?” Josh asked.
I threw a paint rag at him. “Get back to work, Rocker.”
* * *
The meeting ended late. We straggled out of school, exhausted. I said a weary good-bye to my friends and headed home.
Unfortunately I had to walk fast. The BSC meeting would be starting in a few minutes.
A cold November wind made me button up my coat. Leaves were falling around me, but the gray sky seemed to dull their colors.
A perfect day for my mood. Gray.
I had thought the Color War meeting would be refreshing. I had thought it would take my mind off my Big Decision.
But it hadn’t. I felt worse. Something else was creeping into my mind now. Something else that just didn’t feel right in my life.
My relationship with Mark.
“I’ll walk with you.”
I jumped at the sudden sound of Josh’s voice. “Don’t scare me like that!”
“Walking home with me is scary?”
“You know what I mean. And thanks, but I’m kind of in a hurry. Anyway, how can you walk me? You live in totally the wrong direction.”
Josh shrugged. “Depends on your definition of wrong. If I keep going, I’ll get home anyway. Columbus proved it.”
“You are weird, Rocker.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Now, what’s up? You look awful.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“No! Not awful awful — I mean, you look great. Just — awful in the mood sense. Like something’s wrong. Like you could use a friend. That’s all.”
I couldn’t help laughing. I love it when Josh becomes flustered. It brings out the sweetness in him.
And it sure felt nice that someone cared.
“Josh, have you ever felt your whole life turn upside down?” I asked.
“Sure.” Josh nodded. “It was at this cool amusement park. The Cyclospin —”
I gave him a slap. “Can’t you ever be —”
“Serious? Yeah.” Josh took a deep breath. “Like when my grandfather was dying. He was living in our house. I couldn’t do a thing about it. I felt upside down, inside out, you name it.”
“Oh, Josh. You never told me this.”
“You never asked,” Josh said with a sad smile. “Anyway, I don’t like talking about it. You know me. Hap-hap-happy. I have to really care a lot about somebody before I open up.”
“You should talk to Mark.”
“Mark?”
“Yeah. He just closes up when he cares about someone. At least that’s the way he is with me. I mean, I figured it was a guy thing, but you’re not like that. Why would he be?”
“Wait. You want to talk about Mark? That’s why you’re upset?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Sure! I just … assumed you wanted to talk about, you know, something more serious. The eighth-grade thing.”
“This is serious too, Josh! Look, you’ve known Mark longer than I have. This is just his style, right? Being kind of cool and absentminded? Should I be worried?”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, he’s cool and absentminded to me, and I don’t worry —”
“But he’s more than that, Josh. He’s kind and funny and — well, you wouldn’t know. But I’m just not seeing that good stuff anymore. Maybe I’m not important to him. Even with this big decision of mine he says, ‘Hey, we’ll still be in the same school.’ Which is true, but still. Shouldn’t he show some emotion? I mean, he seems more interested in Frank.”
“But Frank’s moving, right? And —”
“Now you’re making excuses for him. I am so sick and tired of excuses. Frank Frank Frank. Frank’s not his girlfriend. I am. And I may be moving too, just in a different way.”
We were already in front of my house. I stopped and turned to face Josh. “I’m sorry. I’m yelling. And I’ve been talking your ear off.”
“It’s okay,” Josh said. “Really.”
I grabbed his hand. “You are such a good friend.”
Josh blushed and looked suddenly downward. “Uh, Claudia …”
I glanced at my watch.
“Five twenty-eight?” I let go of Josh and ran toward the house. “Oh my lord. Kristy’s going to kill me if I’m late. Thanks, Josh, you were a big help!”
“Wait … Claudia?” Josh called out in an urgent voice.
As I opened my front door, I looked over my shoulder. “What?”
All Josh said was, “Have a good meeting.”
I thanked him, bolted inside, and shut the door.
Our Wednesday meeting was a zoo. We stopped being the Baby-sitters Club. Instead, we were archrivals. The White, the Blue, and the Orange, at our last BSC meeting before the SMS Color War.
And we had fistfuls of junk food, which meant …
FOOOOOD FIIIIIGHT!
I, the only orange member, was outnumbered but not outclassed. No matter how many rivals pelted me, I managed to e
at their ammunition.
After the battle, Kristy told us her news: She’d talked her way into co-coordinating the eighth-grade festivities. Which meant she had to work shoulder-to-shoulder with her least favorite person in the world, the horrible and disgusting Alan Gray. (Alan, by the way, adores Kristy. He just has funny ways of showing it. Like picking his nose over her lunch tray.) Kristy insisted they were working fine together.
During lunch the following day, Thursday, I spotted Kristy chasing Alan through the hallway with a handful of wet papier-mâché.
That evening Stacey called me in hysterics (laughing, not crying). At the eighth-grade setup in the gym, Alan had “practiced” at the portrait booth by doing a likeness of Kristy that resembled a rat. Kristy broke it over his head.
Who needed a Color War? All we needed to do was watch those two.
As for us seventh-graders, well, we were hot. All day Thursday, my design committee was at work. Orange posters in the hallways. Plastic oranges hanging from the light fixtures. Orange streamers and balloons everywhere. And across the front hallway of our school, our class motto:
ORANGE YOU GLAD YOU’RE IN SEVENTH GRADE?
(No, I can’t take credit. It was Josh’s idea.)
I could barely sleep Thursday night. From total, utter, sheer excitement.
That was the best thing about the Color War. It was taking over my life. Making me forget about everything else. I was too involved to worry about Mark. Or my Big Decision.
It could all wait. The whole school had Color War fever. Even the teachers were going light on the homework.
And I, Claudia the Fashion Doctor, had actually found a cool orange outfit — right in my closet. It was an electric orange rayon bowling ensemble I’d bought at a flea market and almost forgotten about.
Friday was It. Day One of the Color War of the Century.
On the way to school, Stacey, Mary Anne, Mal, Jessi, and I could hear the buzz of excitement two blocks before we reached SMS.
“Oh my lord,” Stacey said as the school came into sight.
We all stopped short and gaped.
Above the front door, hanging across the marble slab carved with our school’s name, was an enormous blue banner.
It read EIGHTH GRADE RULES!
“This really is war,” I murmured.
“Who put that there?” Jessi asked.