I ran downstairs to find Susan wandering through the living room.
“Mrs. Felder?” I called. “Susan looks sort of antsy. Do you want me to take her outside?”
“That would be great,” replied her mother. “She’s been indoors all day.”
So I led Susan out the Felders’ front door, although that was clearly not something she wanted to do. She pulled at my hand and made a strange, whining noise.
But I was determined. “We’re going for a walk,” I told Susan resolutely. “Maybe we’ll see your friend James.”
It took a lot of pulling, but I managed to walk Susan around the corner to the Hobarts’. There we found James and Zach, Johnny — and Jamie Newton! So Johnny had made a friend, too.
“Hi!” I called.
“Hullo!” replied James, ever cheerful. “Hullo, Susan!”
Susan had picked up a leaf. She was twirling it in front of her face.
“That girl,” Zach began, eyeing Susan, “is the weirdest —”
He was stopped by a look from James.
And Susan chose that moment to wet her pants. Right there on the sidewalk in front of everyone.
I guess I should have taken her to the bathroom before we left the house.
“We have to go home,” I said lamely.
I led Susan back around the corner, feeling ashamed. I felt ashamed for both of us — ashamed for Susan because she didn’t know enough to feel ashamed for herself, and ashamed for me because … because … I wasn’t sure why.
My feelings were all mixed up.
It was a Friday afternoon.
It was also Susan Felder’s last day at home.
My sitting job was over. Nevertheless, Charlie dropped me off at the Felders’ after school as usual. The Felders were leaving at four or four-thirty and I planned to be there to see Susan off.
When I rang the Felders’ bell, Mr. Felder answered the door. It was the first time I’d met him. He’d been out of town the two times I’d sat for Susan in the evening. I don’t know why, but I’d been expecting a serious, morose little man. What I found was a big bear of a man with a beard, a ready grin, and lots of curly hair, who greeted me with a hug.
“You must be Kristy,” he said. “My wife has told me all about you. I hope you know how much you’ve meant to us — Susan, too — this past month.”
“Thank you,” I said, taken aback. (How could silent Susan have been the daughter of this easygoing, effusive man?)
“Susan!” called Mr. Felder. “Look who’s here!”
He held the door open for me, and I entered the Felders’ house.
Susan didn’t appear, of course. She never comes the first time you call her. So Mr. Felder ushered me into the living room, where Susan was sitting tensely on the couch, flapping and clicking. She looked as if she knew something unusual was going to happen.
“Susan? Honey?” said Mr. Felder. He sat next to Susan and took one of her hands in his, but she yanked it back. “Look who’s here, honey,” Mr. Felder went on, undaunted. “It’s Kristy. She came over just to say good-bye to you.”
Flap. Click. Susan stared at something off to the left of me. She stared so intently that I turned around to see if Mrs. Felder had entered the room. But nothing was behind me except an armchair.
Susan wasn’t staring. She was lost. Her mind was … where?
“Mrs. Felder is upstairs,” Susan’s father told me. “Last-minute stuff. It’s hard to — I mean, we keeping thinking of things the people at the new school should know. About Susan. So Mrs. Felder began a letter and it’s getting longer and longer.”
I smiled. “I think I understand what you mean. You should have seen my mom when my brother and stepsister and I went to camp for the first time. She actually wrote a note to Karen’s counselor saying that Karen doesn’t like turnips. As if Karen wouldn’t say that herself. She’s such a chatterbo —”
I stopped abruptly, realizing what I’d almost said.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Felder replied. “It’s hard for a parent to send any child away.”
“I know.” I remembered what Mrs. Felder had said while we’d been packing Susan’s trunk.
And suddenly, even though I’d only known Susan’s father for a few moments, I felt that I could talk to him. “When I first came here,” I told him, “when I first met Susan, I hoped I could change her. I hoped I could make a difference this month so that she wouldn’t have to go away to school. I really thought Susan would be better off at home. I thought she could go to the class for handicapped kids at the elementary school.”
“Oh, we looked into that,” Mr. Felder assured me, as I sat down in the armchair, “but we felt the program wasn’t individualized enough for Susan, and the teachers felt that Susan functioned at too low a level for the program. That was when Susan was five. And at about the same time, we found the school she’s been attending for the last three years. Believe me, it wasn’t easy sending her away at that age — it was like sending a baby away, and she was our only child — but we knew we had to do it.
“Now,” he continued, “she’s back again … and about to be sent away again.” Mr. Felder looked at his daughter and for just a second, his twinkly eyes became the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. “But we’ve looked and looked,” he said. “We’ve researched schools from here to California, and we really think the one we’ve found will do wonders for Susan. We’re lucky it’s so close by. We especially like the music program. Music is the only way we’ve been able to reach Susan. And if the special training can improve her music technique, too, well, who knows? Maybe one day we’ll have a prima donna pianist on our hands: Susan Felder, IN CONCERT! Wouldn’t that be something?”
“It sure would,” I agreed, and for the first time, I began to see just how much hope parents pin on their children. I wondered what Mom had pinned on my brothers and Emily and me. Would she be disappointed if I became one thing and she’d secretly been hoping for something else all my life? Was she proud of me? Did my father — wherever he was — even have any hopes for me?
Then I thought of the Felders, the hopes they’d had for Susan when she was an advanced baby, and even the thin thread of a hope that Mr. Felder still clung to: Susan Felder, IN CONCERT! I was beginning to feel dangerously sad when Mr. Felder spoke up.
“I don’t suppose Mrs. Felder has told you our good news,” he said.
Their good news? Had they found out something about Susan’s prognosis?
“No,” I replied. “She hasn’t.”
Mr. Felder grinned. “Susan is going to become a big sister. Mrs. Felder and I are expecting a baby.”
“You are?” I shouted. I couldn’t help it — I jumped up. “Oh, that’s fantastic! It’s wonderful! Susan, Susan, you’re going to have a baby brother or sister!” I tried to give her a hug.
“She’s going to have a sister,” said Mr. Felder. “We’re having lots of tests done. We know we can’t detect autism before the baby is born, but a lot of other problems can be detected (so can the sex of the baby), and Mrs. Felder and I aren’t taking any chances. Besides, we’re getting older by the minute.” (I grinned.) “Anyway, so far, so good. The baby seems perfectly healthy. Her name,” he added, “will be Hope.”
“Oh, I just know Hope will be wonderful,” I said. “I can feel it. She’ll go to Stoneybrook Elementary. Hey, she can be friends with Laura Perkins — the baby who lives in my old house. They’ll be just about the same age. And maybe one day you’ll let me sit for Hopie. That’s what I’ll call her. Hopie.”
“Hi, Kristy!” called a voice that sounded forcefully cheerful, if you know what I mean. Like the person would be cheerful if it killed her.
It was Mrs. Felder. She was heading downstairs, a fat envelope in her hand and Susan’s pillow under one arm.
“Hi!” I cried. “Congratulations! I just heard your news. About Hope. I’m so excited. That’s great!”
Mrs. Felder smiled a genuinely cheerful smile. “Thank you,” she said, pattin
g her stomach. “Do I look any fatter to you?”
I peered at her. I never notice when people gain or lose weight, unless it’s, like, a hundred pounds. “You know, I think you do,” I said, because that was the answer she wanted to hear. “Yup. Just a little.”
Mrs. Felder’s smile became a grin.
Then Mr. Felder looked at his watch. “We better get going,” he said. “The school wants us there by dinnertime. The way they introduce students to school life is to thrust them right into it. Susan’s room became ready for her this afternoon, and she’s expected to eat supper in the dining room with the other students at six-thirty tonight.”
I nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Could you give me a hand with the trunk?” asked Mr. Felder. “It’s heavy. I don’t want my wife trying to lift it.”
So I helped Mr. Felder load Susan’s trunk into the back of the car. Then Mrs. Felder led Susan outside. She was just about to settle her in the backseat with her pillow when we heard, “Hullo!”
Who else but James?
The Felders and I turned to see James Hobart running across the lawn toward the car.
“I came to say good-bye!” he called. “Susan’s leaving, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I replied. Then I added, “Mr. Felder, have you met James Hobart? He and his family moved into Mary Anne Spier’s old house.”
James and Mr. Felder shook hands. Then the Felders and I kind of stood back while James approached Susan. “So long,” he said. “I’m glad you were my mate.”
No response from Susan.
“Susan?” said James. “Susan?”
Nothing.
James extended his hand as if he were going to take Susan’s, then thought better of it, and pulled his away. “Well, good-bye,” he said. “I’ll miss you. I hope you come back soon.”
Mrs. Felder started to cry, and James looked at me as if he might cry, too, so I put my arm around him. Then the Felders buckled Susan into the car, climbed into the front seat, and rolled down their windows.
“Good-bye!” they called as they backed into the street. “Thank you, Kristy! ‘Bye, James!”
“ ’Bye!” we called back.
“I wish Susan would say ‘good-bye,’” said James, as we watched the car disappear down the street.
“Me, too,” I replied. “Maybe she’ll be able to after she’s been at the school for awhile. Who knows what she’ll learn there.”
“Yeah, who knows,” echoed James, sounding as if he didn’t believe she’d learn a thing. Then he added, “My mum says it isn’t nice to pity people, but I do feel sorry for the Felders. I can’t help it. Susan is their only kid and she won’t talk or anything. I know how that feels, because for awhile she was my only friend, and I wanted a friend who could talk. I wanted that really badly.”
“Don’t feel too sorry,” I told James. “You’ve got Zach now, and guess what. I don’t think this is a secret or anything so I’ll just go ahead and tell you: Mrs. Felder is expecting another baby.”
James’ eyes lit up. “She is?! That is rad — I mean great. It’s great!”
“I think so, too,” I said.
I hung around the Hobarts’ house until five o’clock, almost time for our Friday BSC meeting.
I went to Claudia’s early. I knew she wasn’t baby-sitting that afternoon, and it’s nice to have a chance to spend time with my old friends. Before Mary Anne and I moved, I could pop next door to visit her, or pop across the street to visit Claudia any time I wanted. So I took advantage of being back in the neighborhood without a sitting job and went to Claudia’s house early.
When I reached the top of the Kishis’ stairs, I could see Claudia at the end of the hallway, bent over her doorknob.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Trying to pick the lock,” she replied. “You’re here early.”
“I know. I wanted to visit. But Claud, your door’s open,” I pointed out. “I thought you only needed to pick a lock if you were locked out — or needed to break into something.”
Claudia held up a bobby pin and grinned at me. “I just want to find out if it really is possible to pick a lock with one of these.”
“Why?” I asked as I slithered by her and entered the room.
“Because,” she said, “you never know when you might need this skill. Besides, I want to pretend I’m Nancy Drew, cracking an important case.”
“Does it work?” I asked. “I mean, does the bobby pin work?”
“No, darn it.” Claudia flung the bobby pin to the floor in frustration. Then she picked it up, smiled, and said, “Oh, well. If this won’t work, something else probably will. I’ll just have to think creatively — like Nancy Drew.” Claudia put the bobby pin in a dresser drawer, then exclaimed, “Oh, here they are!”
“What?” I asked.
“My Mentos. I’ve been looking for them everywhere. I could have sworn I put them in that secret drawer in my jewelry box.” Claudia opened up the package and offered me the top Mento on the roll, which I thought was very generous of her. “Mento?” she said.
“Certainly,” I replied. “Thank you.” I settled into the director’s chair.
Claudia took a Mento for herself, then said suddenly, “Didn’t Susan leave today? Didn’t she go off to her new school?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” said Claud. “I know you wanted her to stay here.”
“Well, it’s funny. I did want her to stay, but now I think the new school is the best place for her.”
“Really?”
“It took me a long time to realize it,” I said, “but Susan needs help she can’t get here. She’s very handicapped. She needs more than her parents can give her, more than I can give her, more than the teachers in the public schools can give her.”
“More than the special teachers?” Claud wanted to know.
“Yes.”
“But what about those kids we sat behind during that assembly?”
“They’re all more advanced than Susan.”
“Even the autistic boy you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“Even the kids with Down’s?”
“Especially the kids with Down’s syndrome. They can learn. They want to learn. They talk. They just go at a slower pace than the rest of us. And they’re not all locked up inside themselves.
“I thought,” I went on, “that if I could just introduce Susan to what a ‘normal’ life is — you know, living at home, playing in the neighborhood, making friends with other kids, learning games — that she would change. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She needs extra-extra-extra-extra-special help.”
I got up and looked out Claud’s window. There were James and Zach, whizzing down the street on their skateboards.
“The Hobarts ended up fitting in,” I said to Claud. “Susan didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” Claudia was busy changing her cactus earrings for her spider earrings.
“I mean, let’s see…. Okay, the Hobarts moved here about the same time Susan came home from school. At first, they were all outcasts, like Jessi said. The kids around here didn’t accept any of them because they were different. But it turned out that the Hobarts weren’t so different after all. They stood up for themselves and fit in. But Susan was too different. Unless she changes a lot, she’ll never fit in here … with ‘regular’ kids. You were the one who pointed that out to me.”
I looked at Claud’s digital clock, the BSC official timepiece. It read 5:20. “The others should start arriving soon,” I said, and at that moment we heard someone absolutely thunder up the stairs.
“You guys! You guys!” called Mallory’s voice. She barreled into the room and stood in the middle of it, her hands on her hips. “Oh, I’m glad someone’s here,” she said. “I would have been pretty embarrassed if I’d done all that yelling and no one was here yet.”
“Well, we’re here,” said Claud. “What’s up? Mento?” She
held out the roll.
“What’s up? Boy, everything,” replied Mal, taking a Mento and settling herself on the floor. (Jessi and Mal always sit on the floor, even when they get here early and there’s plenty of space available on the bed.) “First of all,” began Mal, “Jamie Newton invited Johnny Hobart over to his house to play.”
“Great!” said Claud and I.
“Second, Zach invited James to his birthday party. James is beside himself. It’s his first American party and he can’t decide what to give Zach, but he’s really, really excited.”
“Fantastic,” I said.
“Fantabulous,” said Claud.
“Third, the kids in Mathew’s first-grade class voted that he should have the lead in a play they’re putting on.”
“Wow,” said Claud and I. That really was impressive.
“How do you know all this?” I asked. “I was just over at the Hobarts’ and they didn’t say anything to me.”
“I guess they’re a little shy sometimes. Ben told me all the news. And speaking of Ben, I haven’t told you the best news yet. But maybe I’ll wait until everyone else gets here.”
“Boy, it really must be good news,” I said.
“The best. It’s the pièce de résistance.”
Claud looked blank.
I said, “The piece of resistance?”
“No!” cried Mal, grinning. “That’s French for ‘the best part.’”
“Oh,” said Claud and I.
The next club member to arrive was Stacey. No thundering up the stairs for her, though. She trudged up, made her way down the hall, and flopped on the bed.
“I get the bed this time,” she said wearily. “Dawn will have to sit at the desk. I’m exhausted.”
“You look horrible,” I said. I couldn’t help it. Things like that just fall out of my mouth sometimes.
“Kristy!” exclaimed Claudia.
“No, it’s okay,” said Stacey. “Since I feel horrible I’m not surprised that I look horrible, too.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Claud. “If you have the flu or something you should probably go home.”
“I don’t think it’s the flu,” Stacey replied. “I’m just tired. Maybe I’ve been doing too much lately. Going back and forth between here and New York and stuff. I’ve lost some weight, too. But I don’t have a fever or anything.”