Then I walked back into my room.
“I thought we discussed the issue of shoes,” Alexis said. No Hello, no How did you like the assembly?
“What?” I asked.
“Shoes. We take our shoes off when we come into the room,” Alexis said slowly, as if she were talking to a child. She pointed to a small doormat where she’d left her boots. “Keeps the room cleaner. I thought you agreed.”
“I don’t even remember —” I began. Then I closed my mouth and slipped off my shoes. Something told me there was no point in arguing with Alexis.
I felt great about Riverbend, and I wasn’t going to let Alexis ruin things for me. But how was I going to spend the next five months with her?
“Ready for your first day of classes?” Alexis asked me the next morning.
“Definitely,” I answered. She and I had woken early, with the sun streaming in through our windows. Alexis seemed to be in a much better mood. Maybe she’d just needed time to get used to the idea of having a new roomie.
“I bet you’re going to love it here. I may not adore everything about this school, but I have to admit that the teachers are excellent.” She hummed as she opened and closed her drawers, picking out an orange sweater and a pair of black jeans.
So that was it. She was in a good mood because she enjoyed going to class. That was interesting. Maybe we did have something in common after all. It felt great to be in a place where kids my age could feel so enthusiastic about learning, instead of making fun of people for being “brains.” Great — and a little scary. Would I be smart enough to keep up?
“Who’s your favorite teacher?” I asked.
“Ms. Orr,” she answered immediately. “Kerry. The French teacher. She is totally cool.”
I checked my schedule. “I have French at ten,” I said. “Am I in your class?”
She shook her head. “No, I have it in the afternoon.” She looked at my schedule. “But I’ll see you in global studies, and it looks as if I’m in your English class too.”
“Excellent,” I said. I meant it too. I was beginning to think we might actually be able to become friends.
“Hey, you know what you’d look great in?” Alexis was back at the bureau, rummaging through the drawers. She pulled out a lime-green turtleneck sweater and tossed it to me. “Try this on.”
“Um, actually, I already had an outfit picked out. Thanks, though,” I said.
“Whatever.” Alexis shrugged. “Just thought you might want to look a little more interesting.”
Translation: Alexis thought my navy blue sweater was boring.
After a quick breakfast in the meetinghouse, I met up with Smita and headed for math class. “I’m so glad you’re in my first class,” I told her. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Me too,” she admitted. “But I hear our teacher is really nice.”
Smita was right. Our math teacher was terrific. The class was unlike any I’d ever been in, but it didn’t take me long to adjust.
First of all, there were only six girls in the class. We sat in a semicircle in a peaceful, sunlit room while Amy — that was my teacher’s name, Amy Condon — explained what we’d be learning this semester. She seemed to love math so much that she made me excited about it too. We weren’t going to spend the whole time staring at a blackboard, according to Amy. She’d be introducing us to ways math could be used in everyday life, so we’d be doing things like baking muffins for the whole school, taking surveys and putting together the results, and visiting the bank in downtown Easton.
After she’d talked for a while, we went around the circle and introduced ourselves. We’d be working together throughout the semester, she explained, so we should start to become acquainted. I knew she did that for Smita’s and my benefit, since the others already knew one another, and I appreciated it.
I think it was the first time I’d sat through an entire math class without feeling lost, anxious, or bored.
I did feel lost in French, my next class, but somehow it didn’t matter. I guess sometimes it can be fun to be lost. French class was definitely going to be an adventure.
Why?
Because right off the bat we were speaking only in French. “Entering La Zone Française. No English allowed in this room,” the sign said on the door. I gulped and turned the knob. “Bonjour!” sang out the teacher. “Je suis Kerry. Bienvenu!”
Kerry was great. She made me feel comfortable right away, even though I didn’t know any of the other girls in the class.
Now, I’d taken only a little French until then. But guess what? By the end of that day’s class I was chatting away. I could even sing the words to La Marseillaise, which is the French national anthem. Trés bien, non?
Global studies was next. This was a bigger class — maybe fifteen girls, including Smita, Sarah, and Alexis. Alexis sat on one side of the room, but Smita, Sarah, and I sat together as our teachers, Eric and Kathryn, described what we’d be doing that semester.
Global studies is what’s known at Riverbend as an “interdisciplinary period,” or I.P. Each class lasts for an hour and a half instead of forty-five minutes. And each class combines subjects that are not normally taught together, in order to bring a fuller perspective to a larger topic. Understand? Not yet? I know, it’s confusing at first. But it’s really very simple. Basically, global studies will combine science, social studies, and English. We’ll study ecological systems, anthropology of other cultures, world literature, and current events.
Sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? That’s why we have two teachers and plenty of time.
“I’m starving!” said Sarah as soon as class was over. “Ready for lunch?” She hooked arms with me on one side and with Smita on the other. “Meetinghouse, ho!” she cried.
I glanced back at Alexis, wondering if she was planning to join us. She was talking to Kathryn. I figured that if she’d wanted to eat lunch with me she would have mentioned it that morning when she checked out my schedule.
Lunch was fun. The dining hall was nowhere near as noisy as the SMS cafeteria, probably in part because there were no boys around. That meant nobody to start a wave of applause if you happened to trip and drop your tray, nobody to start food fights with the spaghetti and meatballs, nobody to blow straw wrappers at your head.
It was civilized, in other words.
When I thought about it, I realized that I didn’t really miss boys. Sure, it felt different to be in classes with girls only, but not different bad. Just different. And there were even some good things about it. For example, back at SMS there were some teachers who weren’t great at encouraging girls to talk in class. I’d had some problems with one teacher, Mr. Cobb, who was like that. No matter how long I held up my hand, he never called on me. But if boys yelled out the answer without even raising their hands, he listened to what they had to say. (He did apologize when I finally found the courage to point this out to him, and he made an effort to do better.) Plus, there’s this attitude that girls aren’t supposed to act smart, because boys might not like them.
Phooey to that.
Anyway, I hadn’t had any trouble speaking out in my classes so far. Even though I was “the new girl,” I felt comfortable and relaxed, and every single one of my teachers had been encouraging.
Over sandwiches and salad from the terrific salad bar, Smita, Sarah, and I discussed our morning’s classes.
“J’adore Mademoiselle Orr!” Sarah declaimed, waving a breadstick dramatically. “This semester the advanced class is going to be reading French poetry. Is that cool, or what?”
She’d had French first period. Like the rest of us, she was under Kerry’s spell.
“I think Kathryn’s an excellent teacher too,” Smita told us. “Plus, she and Eric have traveled to so many of the places we’ll study. That’s going to add a lot to the class.”
For a second, I thought back to the SMS cafeteria. If I were having lunch there, I’d be sitting at a table with Jessi and a bunch of other girls. The conversat
ion would probably be about what had been on TV last night, what weird outfit someone was wearing, boys, and whether the basketball team would win that night’s game. Nobody ever talked much about classes, and if they did it was usually to complain about too much homework or a boring teacher.
Once again, I reminded myself that I had probably made the right choice.
My afternoon classes were just as good as the morning ones, with the exception of gym. Yes, gym. I hated it at SMS, and I hate it at Riverbend, even though they call it physical recreation and even though they stress noncompetitive activities such as dance and yoga. Gym is gym, that’s what I say.
I felt a little lost at first in English, since it’s a two-semester class and everyone else already knew one another. But I think it will be a terrific class once I feel less shy. It’s called The Short Story, and all we’re going to do is read short stories and discuss them. I love to read, and I love to talk about what I’m reading. The teacher’s name is John. He’s a little stern, but he seems genuinely interested in what his students have to say.
Even computer lab was okay. I’ve never been great with computers, so I was nervous. But Hannah, the teacher, made it a priority to show the new students how to set up our own e-mail accounts and learn how to sign on and write letters. I wrote a quick note to Jessi, telling her how much I liked Riverbend so far, and I begged for news from home.
My favorite afternoon class was definitely the elective I’d signed up for. As soon as I’d heard about it I knew there was no way I was going to miss out. “Creative Writing for the Stage” is its name. Yesss!
“Has anyone here ever written a play?” asked Sandy, the teacher, once we were assembled.
I raised my hand and waved it around happily. So did four of the other seven girls in the class.
“Does rewriting dialogue count?” Sarah asked with a grin. She was sitting next to me. “As an actress, that’s what I usually do.”
Sandy laughed. “I don’t think many playwrights would be happy to hear that,” she said. “But it’s true that plays are not always performed exactly as written. That’s part of what makes them so wonderful; the different shadings that arise when something that’s written on a page comes to life in the theater.”
We were off and running. Sandy led us through a great discussion, which ended with a decision that our class project would be to write and produce a series of one-act plays to be staged during a parents’ weekend near the end of the semester.
I was flying high as I left the class and walked with Sarah back to Earhart. I wanted to write everything down in my journal before dinner, so I was glad to find that I had my room to myself. Alexis had told me that she often went running after classes were over.
I sat on my bed and wrote and wrote, filling page after page with descriptions of my teachers, my classes, and my new friends. I wrote down everything, even some doubts and fears I had about keeping up good grades at such a challenging school. I was happy at Riverbend so far, but would Riverbend be happy with me? Just as I was finishing, there was a knock at the door. It was Smita. “Come on down to the living room,” she said. “We’re hanging out until dinnertime.”
Downstairs, I sprawled on the thick carpet of the living room with Sarah and Smita as we talked about our day. Then, suddenly, I had the strangest feeling. I checked my watch. Sure enough, it was five-thirty. Back in Stoneybrook, Kristy was calling the BSC meeting to order. But I wasn’t there. Instead of lying next to Jessi on the floor of Claudia’s room, I was lying next to Smita and Sarah, here at Riverbend. It made me feel strange, and a little sad.
“Hey, Mallory, are you okay?”
Sarah must have noticed. I gave her a grateful look. “Just a little homesick, I guess.”
She smiled. “I know how that can be,” she said, giving me a hug.
Soon we headed for dinner. Afterward Sarah gave Smita and me a tour of the library. We stayed so long that we had to run back to Earhart to make it there by curfew, which is nine on weekdays.
I dashed up the stairs and, a little breathless, burst into my room. This time, Alexis was there. In fact, she was sitting on my bed.
Reading my journal.
Kristy’s e-mail was a long one. I was laughing out loud as I read it during computer lab.
She and Stacey had arrived early for an evening job at my house. My parents were going to a PTO meeting, and all the kids were home.
“You may have to do a little refereeing tonight,” my dad warned Kristy and Stacey. He looked tired.
“The room issue is on everybody’s minds,” my mom explained, shaking her head. “We’ve told them that Mal’s only been gone for a couple of days and we don’t want to rush into any decisions, but that doesn’t stop them from arguing about it.”
“Endlessly,” my dad added wearily. He led my mom out the door.
Kristy and Stacey looked at each other.
“Uh-oh,” Stacey said.
“We can handle it,” Kristy assured her.
Just then, they heard a loud banging noise coming from upstairs.
And some shrieking.
And a crash.
“Here we go!” Kristy dashed up the stairs with Stacey right behind her.
The crashes had come from Vanessa’s and my room. The banging was from the room the triplets share with Nicky. The shrieking came from Margo and Claire’s room.
“I’ll check on the girls,” Kristy told Stacey. “See what’s up with the boys.”
Stacey ran into the boys’ room, ready for anything. She wasn’t sure whether she’d be needing her first-aid training, her refereeing skills, or just good old BSC common sense.
The answer?
None of the above.
What she needed was handyman experience — at least according to Adam.
“How do you undo these bolts?” he asked Stacey as soon as she walked into the room. He sat on the floor next to one of the bunk beds, clearly frustrated. He was holding a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other.
“Not by banging on them,” Stacey answered. “I know that much. You’d need a wrench or something.” She squatted down next to him. “By the way, hello, Adam.”
“Hi, Stacey.”
“Hi, Stacey,” Jordan and Byron chimed in.
“Hi,” Nicky called from the other side of the room. He was lying on the bottom bunk of the other set of beds.
“Want to fill me in on what’s going on here?” Stacey asked.
“We’re trying to take apart the beds,” Jordan explained.
“I can see that. But why?”
“Because we want to move out of this room,” Adam told her. “The three of us, that is.”
Stacey turned to look at Nicky. He seemed very unhappy. “Wait a minute.” She frowned. “Where are you moving to? And why can’t Nicky come?”
“We’re moving into Mal’s room,” Adam told her, as if it were obvious. “And Nicky can’t come because we’re tired of living with him.”
“Adam!” cried Stacey. “That’s no way to talk about your brother.”
“But it’s true!” Jordan insisted. “He’s a pest. How would you like to share your room with an eight-year-old?” He said those last words as if they were poison.
Stacey heard a sniff from the other side of the room. “What about Nicky?” she asked.
“I’m not moving anywhere,” Nicky said, wiping his eyes. His voice was surprisingly steady. “And neither is this bed.”
“What do you mean?” Stacey asked.
“He chained himself to the bed,” said Adam in a disgusted voice. “With a bicycle lock. And he chained the bed to the bookshelf.”
Stacey smiled to herself. So Nicky wasn’t going to let this happen without a fight. Good for him. “What about you, Byron? What do you think about all this?” Byron was sitting on the floor near the bookcase, leafing through a comic book.
He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I guess it doesn’t matter much to me.”
“Co
me on, bro!” Jordan exclaimed. “All for one and one for all, remember?”
“Whatever.” Byron sighed and returned to his comic.
“So will you help us?” Adam asked Stacey, gesturing toward the bolts on the bed.
Stacey shook her head. “Nope. First of all, I don’t like the way you’re treating Nicky. Second, I have no idea how to take the bed apart. And finally, nothing has been decided yet. So you guys are just going to have to cool your jets.”
Adam and Jordan groaned.
Just then, Kristy poked her head in the room. “Everything okay in here?” she asked.
Stacey nodded. “Just fine.” She left the boys’ room to join Kristy in the hall. “Except that we’re going to have to unlock Nicky. What’s up with Claire and Margo?”
“Unlock Nicky?” Kristy repeated, bewildered.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Okay. Meanwhile, the screaming was Claire, throwing one of her tantrums.”
“I bet I can guess what it was about,” Stacey said.
Kristy nodded. “Margo’s upset too. She keeps saying ‘Why not me? Why can’t I have my own room?’ It’s that middle-child thing. She feels overlooked.”
“What about the crash from Vanessa’s room?” Stacey asked.
“I’m on my way there now,” Kristy admitted. “It took awhile to convince Claire not to hold her breath until she turned blue.”
Stacey and Kristy headed down the hall and knocked on Vanessa’s door.
“Just a sec!” she called out.
They heard more crashes and the scraping sound of furniture being moved.
Then Vanessa opened the door a crack. She was flushed, and there was a smear of dust on her nose. “Hi!” she said brightly without opening the door any farther.
“What’s going on in there, Vanessa?” Kristy asked.
“Nothing.” Vanessa’s flush deepened. “Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been hearing some strange noises,” said Stacey.
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that,” Kristy said.
“I’m just — rearranging things a little.”
“Really? Let’s see.” Kristy wasn’t going to let her off the hook.