Abby's Un-Valentine

  “I’m glad at least one other person in here feels the same way I do,” Ross went on.

  There was my math homework! Whew.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Valentine’s Day is turning everyone’s brains to mush. I mean, the dance is a week and a half away and that’s all anybody can talk about. Don’t people have lives?”

  “You have more interesting things to do, I guess.”

  “Believe it,” I told him.

  “I don’t care about the dance either,” Ross said as we walked out of the room. “I prefer something more low-key.”

  Ms. Frost, my math teacher, was going to be amazed when she saw my homework. I was actually looking forward to class. Math, I decided, was like soccer — you did better when you were prepared.

  I realized we’d stopped outside the door to Ms. Colley’s room. “Gotta go,” I said.

  “Want me to walk you?”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. I know the way. See ya.”

  I hustled toward my next class, holding my math homework like a flag, no creative excuses required.

  The violin was violining when I got home, which meant that Anna was practicing. She is rigorous about practicing every day, as rigorous as Jessi is about ballet.

  I tossed my books on my desk, still feeling all warm and fuzzy about the “excellent job” Ms. Frost had bestowed on me. It more than erased the bad feeling that Ms. Colley’s class had given me.

  “Shall I compare thy class to a winter’s day?” I mentally addressed Ms. Colley. “Thou art more drippy and more disgusting.”

  I went back downstairs to the kitchen to seek nourishment.

  The violin stopped.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and along the hall to the kitchen. Anna said, “Abby? Is that you?”

  “No, it’s Mia Hamm.”

  Anna entered the kitchen, her brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “The uh, the … Stradivari of soccer players, that’s who.”

  “Oh. A good soccer player. I get it,” she said.

  Stradivari, in case you didn’t know, made famous fiddles long, long ago. Oh, excuse me, violins. They are worth gazillions of dollars today.

  “The best soccer player,” I corrected her.

  I was a little surprised that Anna had stopped her music-making to join me. She usually doesn’t. In fact, we usually don’t do any bonding until dinner, when Mom comes home.

  “Heard any good music lately?” I said.

  It was feeble, but Anna smiled. I pulled a bag of microwave popcorn off the shelf and started nuking it. While it was popping, I poured out some Gatorade. When I offered some to Anna, she shook her head and wrinkled her nose.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s an acquired taste. Want a soda?”

  “Put some water on for hot tea,” she suggested.

  “Okay.”

  When the popcorn, Gatorade, and hot tea were on the table, I sat down across from Anna. She wrapped her hands around her mug and stared at the tea bag.

  “You’re taking up fortune-telling?” I asked.

  She shook her head. You didn’t have to be Anna’s twin to sense that she was a little down.

  “Well, I can predict the future. I predict that for the next week or so — until the Valentine’s Day Dance — everyone at SMS will totally lose their minds except you and me.”

  “I’m not so sure about me,” Anna murmured.

  “What?”

  She shrugged.

  I said, “You haven’t bought into the madness, have you? Sucking face in the hall? Desperately seeking dance date? Spending entire English classes talking about romance?” My voice was going up. I couldn’t help myself.

  With a laugh, Anna said, “No! Come on, Abby. You know me better than that.”

  “I hope I do.” I eyed her suspiciously.

  Anna took a sip of tea. “It’s just that, well, going to the dance might be kind of fun.”

  “More fun than listening to everybody talk about it, maybe,” I muttered.

  “Dances are fun, Abby. Having someone special to do things with could be fun too.”

  Trying to be reasonable and sympathetic, I said, “You could go to the dance.”

  “I don’t have a date.”

  “You don’t have to have a date. Just go with friends. Lots of people do that. Jessi is going to. Shannon is, at her school.”

  Anna shrugged.

  “What about some of the people in the school orchestra? You could go with them.”

  Again, Anna shrugged. I realized that she wasn’t comfortable with the idea. Neither of us has a lot of friends, but I at least have the BSC to backstop me. If I wanted to go to the dance, I’d feel fine about asking any or all of them to make it into a team effort. Anna clearly didn’t feel the same way about her musical friends.

  Abruptly, she stood up. “Oh, well,” she said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t.” I made a face.

  Anna made a face back. Then she went upstairs to continue her violin practice, leaving me to nurse my Gatorade and consider the possibility that for some people, the Valentine’s Day Dance was a serious event — and not having a date was a real problem.

  Weird.

  * * *

  Maybe it was the conversation with Anna, but when I reached SMS the next day and cruised the romance-saturated halls to my locker, I didn’t feel quite so cranky about it all. Oh, I still didn’t think Public Displays of Affection were necessary. In fact, I think for the most part they are downright low-rent.

  But hey, let Cupid worry about that.

  I did notice that some people seemed a little over-the-top about their couple status, and I don’t just mean PDAs. I mean, the way some guys and girls clung to each other, they looked as if they were afraid they’d die or something if they let go.

  These were the people who seriously needed to get lives.

  But other people made a nice argument for being part of a couple. I spotted Mary Anne and Logan by Logan’s locker. He was leaning against it, talking to Mary Anne, and she was smiling and gesturing as she answered. You could tell by the way they interacted that they were good friends and a good couple, even though they weren’t engaged in any kind of lip lock or body twining.

  I passed Claudia’s locker a on my way to my first class and she motioned to me, grinning. “Check this out,” she said. Then she added simply, “Josh.”

  Josh had given Claudia’s locker a new look. It reminded me of the Valentine’s Day locker decor at my old school. He’d bought a box of those valentines that little kids give one another and had strung them together on red ribbon to loop back and forth across the front of Claud’s locker. In between, he’d hung individually wrapped valentine candies: Hershey’s Kisses, Reese’s peanut butter cups, and I don’t know what else.

  Claudia, her cheek bulging from one of her early morning candy-grams, said a little thickly, “This is so cool. Want one?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “But it was a sweet thought.”

  “Yes,” Claudia agreed with a little sigh, either ignoring or missing the joke completely. “It was.”

  I left her to finish collecting her candy and went to class. Josh, I decided, might be perfect for Claudia. Maybe it really was true love … or at least, a long summer’s day.

  At lunch, Stacey announced that Ethan had sent her “the most romantic e-mail.”

  “Stop right there,” I said. “E-mail and romance do not belong in the same sentence.”

  “You’d change your mind if you could see what he wrote,” Stacey said.

  “Try me,” I suggested.

  Stacey actually blushed a little. “N-No,” she said. “All you need to know is that he’s coming to the dance.”

  “Excellent!” Claudia cried.

  “That’s nice,” I said, trying to be neutral.

  In English class, Ms. Colley continued to lead us in a romantic exploration of the sonnets of Shakespeare.

  At one point, Emily raised he
r hand. “Ms. Colley,” she said. “What about the Sonnets from the Portuguese? You know, the ones by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

  Ms. Colley lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. “Ah!” she said. “Those sonnets include one I am sure all of you have heard.”

  Emily nodded. “I have it here,” she said, laying her hand reverently on a small book on her desk.

  “Please,” said Ms. Colley. “Share it with the class.”

  Emily stood up, opened the book, turned the pages carefully, and began to read:

  “ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace …’ ”

  I saw nods of recognition. Jacqui made a face but leaned forward and looked at Emily intently as Emily read.

  I groaned. Loudly. Ms. Colley’s eyes flicked in my direction.

  When Emily had finished, Ms. Colley said, “Elizabeth Barrett Browning is writing about her love for her husband, Robert Browning, himself a poet. Theirs is a great and true love story.”

  She told the story, which, as far as I could tell, went like this: Lizzie Barrett hung around on a sofa being a poet and enjoying ill health until the Robster came along. Then she fell in love with him and jumped up off the sofa — because love cures all.

  Only, if you ask me, she probably just replaced one sickness with another: lovesickness.

  I yawned.

  Ms. Colley’s eyes flicked toward me again. “Yes, Abby? You have something you’d like to share with the class?”

  Did I ever! “Obsessive,” I said. “That’s what it sounds like to me. She’s obsessed with this guy. I mean, it sounds creepy. She’s almost like one of those wackos who follow people around and watch them —”

  “Okay, Abby,” Ms. Colley stepped in.

  “What Abby’s saying, and I agree,” Ross spoke up, “is that this sounds like an unhealthy love.”

  “This is poetry, Ross,” said Ms. Colley. “I believe you could safely say that she is using extravagant language and extravagant imagery, for the sake of effect. But why don’t we talk about some of the images Barrett Browning and Shakespeare used? How do you think their use of imagery compares?”

  Folding my arms, I sank back in my seat. Clearly, Ms. Colley was as besotted with love and Valentine’s Day madness as all the rest of SMS.

  When Ross stopped by my desk after class, I said, “Ms. Colley doesn’t want to hear it, does she? I mean, puh-lease! Give me a break!”

  “It is a little over-the-top. But if you don’t take it too seriously, Valentine’s Day can be fun,” he said.

  “Maybe. I’m trying to maintain an ironic distance,” I replied. I wasn’t quite sure what I meant, but it sounded good.

  Ross nodded. “Of course, sonnets like this don’t mean that romance doesn’t exist in the real world.”

  “I know. That’s not the problem. The problem is the way everybody thinks it’s the only thing on earth, you know?”

  “So you do agree that romance is not a bad thing,” Ross said.

  We’d made it to the hall. Time to go to math class. Since I didn’t have a perfect homework paper to flaunt in front of Ms. Frost, I didn’t mind lingering a little. “Romance is not a bad thing, in its place.”

  “Like the Valentine’s Day Dance,” Ross said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I conceded.

  “So you want to go?”

  “Go where?” For a moment, I thought Ross was talking about class. Then I saw him duck his head.

  “To the dance,” he said to his feet. “With me.”

  “The Valentine’s Day Dance? Here at SMS?” I was incredulous.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  He looked surprised. He looked taken aback. He looked hurt.

  Maybe I’d been a little rude. “Ross,” I began, “I truly don’t buy into all this stuff. Nothing personal, but I’m just not that kind of person.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, recovering. “Just checking.”

  “Did I pass the antiromance test?” I joked.

  “Yup.”

  “Good. I have to go. See you,” I said.

  Feeling a little weird about our exchange, I turned and walked toward math class. I happened to look back just before I turned the corner.

  Ross still stood there, staring after me.

  In my mind, I began composing a new sonnet. It was called, “To Valentine’s Day” and it began, “How do I detest thee? Let me count the ways.”

  On Friday afternoon, Kristy was on her way to a Sports Committee meeting for the softball team, even though it was the middle of the winter. So Mary Anne went to Kristy’s house to sit for Karen, Andrew, and David Michael until the BSC meeting, when Nannie (who was running errands with Emily Michelle) would be back to take over.

  Mary Anne was expecting to have fun, especially since she hadn’t seen Andrew for a while. He had only recently returned to the big house, as he and his sister call Watson’s mansion, after spending several months in Chicago with his mom and stepfather. And Karen’s ever-active imagination could always be counted on as a source of entertainment.

  Mary Anne was also rather pleased with her foresight. She had called Mrs. Brewer and arranged for her to buy certain items for a special baby-sitting project Mary Anne had planned.

  Nannie had just finished buttoning and zipping Emily Michelle into layers and layers of winter clothing when Mary Anne arrived.

  “Here, I’ll finish that,” Mary Anne volunteered.

  “Thanks,” Nannie said, and began to pull on a coat, a hat, gloves, and a scarf. She was pretty well bundled up but not as thickly wrapped as Emily, whose arms were sticking almost straight out thanks to the layers of clothes she was wearing.

  “Emily Michelle doesn’t like the cold,” Nannie said, hoisting Emily to her hip. “Say ’bye-’bye, sweetie.”

  Emily’s mitten moved slightly. “ ’Bye,” she said.

  “ ’Bye, Emily Michelle,” replied Mary Anne.

  “Grocery store, then the hardware store, and that may take awhile,” Nannie said crisply. “Phone numbers are posted by the telephone, but we should be back no later than five.”

  “I think Kristy is going straight from school to the BSC meeting,” Mary Anne reminded Nannie.

  Nannie nodded. “And Charlie is supposed to give you a ride. Kristy already told me. Several times. She told Charlie too.” Nannie and Mary Anne exchanged a smile that said, Of course she did.

  By this time, the rest of the family had realized that Mary Anne had arrived. Karen, David Michael, and Andrew came charging toward her as she walked down the hall. Following them was Shannon, the Bernese mountain dog puppy, and Scout.

  “Hi, hi, hi!” Karen shouted, hurling herself at Mary Anne. Not to be outdone, David Michael high-fived her. Shannon leaped up and barked.

  Andrew hung back a little. He smiled at Mary Anne, but he kept one hand on Scout. Scout stood calmly, her tail wagging, and waited for Mary Anne to say hello to her.

  “Come see Pumpkin! She’s all black! That’s why she’s Pumpkin, the Halloween cat!” Karen said. She wasn’t talking as loudly as she could (that would be her outdoor voice), but she managed to fill her indoor voice with plenty of exclamation marks.

  Mary Anne bent to pet Scout and say hello to Andrew. “How are you guys doing?” she asked.

  “My dog is fine,” Andrew answered in a clear voice. “Come on, Scout. Karen wants to show Mary Anne her kitten.”

  My dog? Her kitten?

  Karen slipped a hand into Mary Anne’s. “Pumpkin likes me best,” she confided in a very soft voice, especially for her. “But she’s not my kitten. She belongs to all of us.”

  “If Pumpkin likes you best,” David Michael said practically, “then that makes you Pumpkin’s person. It’s just the same as Pumpkin being your kitten.”

  We reached
the family room and Karen cooed, “Pumpkin, purr, kitty.”

  Immediately, a half-grown midnight-black kitten levitated up to the back of the sofa, arched her spine, tiptoed cat-style to the end of the sofa back, and then said, “Mrrrow?”

  She looked at Karen as she did so. She had amazing eyes.

  “Mrrroooow.” This time, it was clearly a statement and not a question.

  “She’s saying, ‘Pick me up and pet me. Now,’ ” Karen interpreted, then did just that.

  The moment Karen lifted Pumpkin to her shoulder, Pumpkin began to purr.

  David Michael stroked the soft fur, and so did Mary Anne.

  “Isn’t she soft?” David Michael said.

  “Mrr, mrrow,” said Pumpkin.

  “She talks a lot,” Karen said. “Maybe she has some Siamese in her. Siamese cats talk lots.”

  “Woof!” That was Shannon. David Michael immediately dropped to his knees. “You’re soft too, Shanny,” he crooned. “Good girl. You’re the best.”

  By this time, Mary Anne had realized that Andrew was not participating in the pet love fest. In fact, he wasn’t even in the room.

  “Andrew? Andrew!”

  Andrew came into the family room and held out his hand. “I brought treats for Pumpkin,” he explained. “She likes these a lot.”

  “Thanks, Andrew,” said Karen. Andrew held up a treat, and Pumpkin put out her paw to touch his hand as she gobbled up the treat.

  Then Andrew turned. “Scout likes treats too, don’t you, Scout?”

  “Andrew, wait!” said David Michael.

  But Andrew had already tossed a cat treat into the air. “Catch!” he said.

  The treat bounced off Scout’s head. Shannon scooped it up while Scout was still looking around to see what had hit her.

  “Andrew, NO!” Karen shouted in her outdoor voice.

  Mary Anne didn’t bother to remind Karen to use her indoor voice. Karen was right. Scout wasn’t supposed to be trained to expect treats tossed to her or be rewarded for good behavior with food.

  If she was, she might never become a guide dog, because a dog that is governed by its nose and stomach wouldn’t make a very reliable guide dog, for obvious reasons.

  Andrew said, “It’s not fair. Shannon gets treats. Pumpkin gets treats.”