by Judy Blume
I laughed, knowing that I was Mohammed and that Grandma was the mountain. There was a man standing next to Grandma. Grandma turned to him. “Morris,” she said. “This is my Margaret.”
Then Grandma closed the front door and told me, “Margaret darling, this is Mr. Morris Binamin.”
“Rhymes with cinnamon,” he said to me.
I smiled.
Grandma looked marvelous—very tan and pale blonde. Mr. Binamin had a lot of silver hair, a moustache to match, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. He was tan too. He held Grandma’s arm.
“Where are they?” Grandma asked.
“Mom and Dad are in the den,” I said.
“With your other grandparents?”
“No … they’re gone.”
“Gone!” Grandma cried. “But I thought they were staying all week.”
“We thought so too,” I said.
“But Morris and I came especially to see them.”
“You did!” I said. “How come?”
Grandma and Mr. Binamin gave each other a secret look. “Well … we thought you might need our support.”
“Oh Grandma! I can manage just fine by myself.”
“I know you can. You’re my Margaret, aren’t you? Tell me—did they try anything?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“You know,” Grandma said. “Church business.”
“Well … kind of,” I admitted.
“I knew it!” Grandma cried. “Didn’t I tell you?” she asked Mr. Binamin.
Mr. Binamin shook his head. “You had them pegged right all the time, Sylvia,” he said.
“Just remember, Margaret … no matter what they said … you’re a Jewish girl.”
“No I’m not!” I argued. “I’m nothing, and you know it! I don’t even believe in God!”
“Margaret!” Grandma said, “Don’t ever talk like that about God.”
“Why not?” I asked. “It’s true!” I wanted to ask God did he hear that! But I wasn’t speaking to him and I guess he knew it!
By that time my mother and father were in the living room and Grandma was making the introductions. My parents gave Mr. Binamin the once-over and he was pretty busy sizing them up too.
Then my mother made coffee and served warm Danish. She offered me some milk and ginger snaps but I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to get out of there so I yawned very loud without covering my mouth.
“Margaret dear, if you’re so tired, why don’t you go up to bed,” Grandma said.
“I think I will. Goodnight, everybody.”
Sometimes Grandma is almost as bad as everybody else. As long as she loves me and I love her, what difference does religion make?
24
Mr. Benedict announced that our individual reports on our year-long project would be due next Friday. They wouldn’t be graded so we were to be completely honest and not worry about pleasing him. He hoped we had each learned something of value. On Thursday night I wrote a letter.
May 25
Dear Mr. Benedict,
I have conducted a year-long experiment in religion. I have not come to any conclusions about what religion I want to be when I grow up—if I want to be any special religion at all.
I have read three books on this subject. They are: Modern Judaism, A History of Christianity, and Catholicism—Past and Present. I went to church services at the First Presbyterian Church of Farbrook. I went to the United Methodist Church of Farbrook on Christmas Eve. I attended Temple Israel of New York City on Rosh Hashanah, which is a Jewish holiday. I went to Confession at Saint Bartholomew Church, but I had to leave the Confessional because I didn’t know what to say. I have not tried being a Buddhist or a Moslem because I don’t know any people of these religions.
I have not really enjoyed my religious experiments very much and I don’t think I’ll make up my mind one way or the other for a long time. I don’t think a person can decide to be a certain religion just like that. It’s like having to choose your own name. You think about it a long time and then you keep changing your mind. If I should ever have children I will tell them what religion they are so they can start learning about it at an early age. Twelve is very late to learn.
Sincerely,
Margaret Ann Simon
On Friday everybody handed in a thick booklet with a decorated cover. All I had was the letter. I couldn’t put that in with the pile of booklets. I was too embarrassed. It looked like I hadn’t done any work at all.
When the bell rang I sat at my desk while everyone else filed out of the room.
When Mr. Benedict looked up he said, “Yes, Margaret?”
I walked to his desk with my letter.
“I didn’t hand in a booklet,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I, uh … I wrote you a letter instead.” I handed it to him, then stood there while he read it.
“I really tried, Mr. Benedict. I’m—I’m sorry. I wanted to do better.” I knew I was going to cry. I couldn’t say anything else. So I ran out of the classroom.
I got to the Girls’ Room before the tears came. I could still hear Mr. Benedict calling, “Margaret—Margaret—” I didn’t pay any attention. I splashed cold water on my face. Then I walked home slowly by myself.
What was wrong with me anyway? When I was eleven I hardly ever cried. Now anything and everything could start me bawling. I wanted to talk it over with God. But I wasn’t about to let him know that, even though I missed him.
25
On June seventeenth the PTA gave us a farewell party in the gym and none of the sixth-grade girls wore socks. I wore my first pair of sheer stockings and got my first run in them one hour later. All I could think of was I’d be in seventh grade in September and I was growing up. My mind knew it—even if my body didn’t.
The party in the gym was a lot like the Thanksgiving square dance. Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Fishbein were chaperones but this time they were dressed in regular clothes.
Our class presented Mr. Benedict with a pair of silver cufflinks that Gretchen’s mother had gotten wholesale. He seemed very pleased, because he cleared his throat a lot and sounded like he didn’t know what to say except thank you—and that although we hadn’t started out to be the greatest sixth grade in the world, we’d come a long way. And thanks to us, next year, he’d be an experienced teacher—very experienced! Then we all laughed and some of the girls cried but I didn’t.
Nancy, Gretchen, Janie and I had lunch downtown by ourselves and talked about how it would feel to go to Junior High. Janie was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find her way around and she’d get lost. Gretchen said probably the teachers would all be mean and Nancy said suppose we weren’t in any classes together and then we all went home and cried.
Later that day my mother started packing my camp trunk. I watched her put the stacks of shorts and polos into it. Then I heard the lawn mower. Moose was back. First I got excited about seeing him and then I got mad, thinking about Laura and those stories he helped spread around.
I ran downstairs and outside and yelled, “Hey Moose!” He didn’t hear me because the mower made too much noise. So I ran over to where he was cutting and I stood right in his way so he’d have to notice me and I shouted again. “Hey Moose!”
He shut off the mower. “You’re in my way,” he said.
“I want to tell you something,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You know what Moose! You’re a liar! I don’t believe you ever took Laura Danker behind the A&P.”
“Who said I did?”
“What do you mean who said it!”
“Well, who?”
“Nancy told me that Evan told her that you and Evan———” I stopped. I sounded like an idiot.
Moose shook his head at me. “You always believe everything you hear about other people?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say.
Moose kept talking. “Well, next time, don’t believe it unless you see it! Now if you’ll
move out of my way, I’ve got things to do!”
I didn’t move. “You know what Moose?” I asked.
“What now?”
“I’m sorry I thought you were a liar.”
“You know what Margaret?” Moose asked me.
“No, what?”
“You’re still in my way!”
I jumped away and Moose turned the mower on again. I heard him singing his favorite song—about the Erie Canal.
I went back into the house. I had to go to the bathroom. I was thinking about Moose and about how I liked to stand close to him. I was thinking that I was glad he wasn’t a liar and I was happy that he cut our grass. Then I looked down at my underpants and I couldn’t believe it. There was blood on them. Not a lot—but enough. I really hollered, “Mom—hey Mom—come quick!”
When my mother got to the bathroom she said, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“I got it,” I told her.
“Got what?”
I started to laugh and cry at the same time. “My period. I’ve got my period!” My nose started running and I reached for a tissue.
“Are you sure, Margaret?” my mother asked.
“Look—look at this,” I said, showing her my underpants.
“My God! You’ve really got it. My little girl!” Then her eyes filled up and she started sniffling too. “Wait a minute—I’ve got the equipment in the other room. I was going to put it in your camp trunk, just in case.”
“You were?”
“Yes. Just in case.” She left the bathroom.
When she came back I asked her, “Is it that Private Lady stuff?”
“No, I got you Teenage Softies.”
“Good,” I said.
“Now look, Margaret—here’s how you do it. The pad fits inside your panties and—”
“Mom,” I said. “I’ve been practicing in my room for two months!”
Then my mother and I laughed together and she said, “In that case, I guess I’ll wait in the other room.”
I locked the bathroom door and peeled the paper off the bottom of the pad. I pressed the sticky strip against my underpants. Then I got dressed and looked at myself in the mirror. Would anyone know my secret? Would it show? Would Moose, for instance, know if I went back outside to talk to him? Would my father know it right away when he came home for dinner? I had to call Nancy and Gretchen and Janie right away. Poor Janie! She’d be the last of the PTS’s to get it. And I’d been so sure it would be me! How about that! Now I am growing for sure. Now I am almost a woman!
Are you still there God? It’s me, Margaret. I know you’re there God. I know you wouldn’t have missed this for anything! Thank you God. Thanks an awful lot.…
Starring Sally J.
Freedman as
Herself
Print ISBN: 978-0-440-48253-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-307-81770-9
When Sally’s family moves to Miami Beach for the winter of 1947, she’s excited and nervous at the same time. What will school be like in Florida? Will she make any friends? Will she fit in so far away from home?
But none of this stops Sally from having the most amazing adventures. One minute she’s a famous movie star or a brilliant detective; the next she’s found the Latin lover of her dreams—her classmate Peter Hornstein. And what about the Freedmans’ neighbor, old Mr. Zavodsky, who looks suspiciously like Hitler in disguise?
Sally’s life is a movie played inside her head, and Miami Beach is her best setting yet. If only she didn’t have so much to worry about …
Blubber
Print ISBN: 978-0-440-40707-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-307-81766-2
Blubber is a good name for her, the note from Wendy says about Linda. Jill crumples it up and leaves it on the corner of her desk. She doesn’t want to think about Linda or her dumb report on whales just now. Jill wants to think about Halloween.
But then Robby grabs the note, and before Linda is done talking it has gone halfway around the room.
That’s where it all starts. There’s something about Linda that makes a lot of kids in her fifth-grade class want to see how far they can go—but nobody, least of all Jill, expects the fun to end where it does.
Iggie’s House
Print ISBN: 978-0-440-44062-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-307-81768-6
Iggie is gone. She’s moved to Tokyo. And now Winnie, her best friend, is alone on Grove Street, cracking her gum and wondering how she’s going to make it through the rest of summer vacation.
Then the Garbers move into Iggie’s house and Winnie is thrilled. They have three kids. Winnie can’t wait to show them what a good neighbor she is. But the Garbers are black and Grove Street is white and always has been. And not everyone is as welcoming as Winnie.
Besides, the Garbers don’t want a “good neighbor.” They want a friend.
IT’S NOT THE END
OF THE WORLD
ISBN 978-0-385-73983-2 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-0-307-81769-3 (ebook)
Karen Newman is never getting married. Why should she? Just look at her parents. All they do is fight. Now her dad has moved out of the house, and he and her mom are talking about divorce. Divorce! But not if Karen can help it. She has a different plan.
HERE’S TO YOU,
RACHEL ROBINSON
ISBN 978-0-385-73987-0 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-0-307-81776-1 (ebook)
Rachel seemingly has the perfect life—she’s a straight-A student, a gifted musician, and a good friend. But she feels like her older brother is determined to ruin everything. Her two best friends think he’s funny and they urge Rachel to lighten up, but it’s not so easy. Not even when the coolest boy in ninth grade notices her. Is it possible that the key to a perfect life is something other than perfection?
