I held out the celery. “I’m full. You want this?”
She unwrapped a stalk, turned it over a couple of times, and bit into it. “Kind of weird, but pretty good,” she decided.
I didn’t see how celery with peanut butter was any weirder than the stuff Summer brought, but I didn’t say anything. I gave her half of the crackers, and we had just finished the last of my lunch when the bell rang for recess.
On our way out I tossed my bag into the trash, then stopped. “Ugh! I forgot about my fruit salad bowl.” I peered at the gray chop suey sauce and limp bean sprouts oozing down the sides of the garbage can.
Without hesitating even a second, Summer reached in and rescued my lunch bag. She picked out the plastic container and held it out to me, letting the paper bag fall back in the can.
“Even I don’t dive into the lunchroom garbage,” Owen chortled as he walked out the door. The two boys right behind him laughed, too.
Summer acted like nothing had happened. “You can have my bag to put it in if you want,” she said to me.
I didn’t have a better idea, so I said, “Thanks.”
I took the bag, and she dropped my container inside, smiling that wide-open smile of hers. Staying mad at Summer took a lot of work. I left the bag near the door and let the warm hallway sunshine sweep us outside and up the hill to the edge of the field.
Summer flopped on the grass, even though it was damp. She picked up an acorn cap and put it on her pointer finger. Then she put a second acorn cap on the other pointer. “Hello.” She made one finger nod to the other. “Hello.”
I laughed, then caught myself. Most of our classmates would make fun of playing with acorns like little kids. They’d probably make fun of Brambletown, too, I thought. But Summer didn’t care about what other kids said or did, as long as she was having fun. I thought about Nick being my friend and then not being my friend, and how everything had changed when we moved up into fourth grade. That definitely wasn’t fun. Then I remembered that Summer’s kind of fun also included pushing Owen until he went too far. It was all too confusing.
Summer crouched at the edge of the trees and moved some wet leaves around with her other hand, making a square. “This is a house for my acornheads,” she said. She marched her fingers through an imaginary doorway.
For right now, I decided not to care about anything. I helped Summer pile the brown leaves into different shapes, like lots of little houses. The sun warmed my back. “You should have seen the town we made in our cul-de-sac,” I said.
“I could come see it after school.”
I thought about the chalky blur that had once been Brambletown. “You could have, but it’s not—”
A shadow moved across our leaf piles. I stood up in a hurry. Gordon was standing there, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Mister-Allen-sent-me,” he said in his robot voice. “You- are-needed-for-the-Spark-layout.” He turned and marched stiffly toward the school building.
This was great news. They couldn’t even do one issue without me. Maybe Mr. Allen had really meant to replace me just for Monday and Tuesday—the days I’d owed Mrs. Wolfowitz. Would Nick be back, too? I wondered. I filled my chest with a big gulp of the damp, mossy air. The warm spring day made me believe good things were just waiting to happen.
“See you,” Summer said. She was pushing at a pile of leaves, her wheat-blonde hair hanging in front of her face. She tucked it behind her ears. Her fingers left a line of dirt on her forehead. She looked up and smiled. I smiled, too. Then I ran down the hill and followed Gordon back to class.
When I got to the classroom, Gordon and Jess were sitting with Mr. Allen at a computer. Nick wasn’t there. Maybe he’s on his way, I thought.
“Hello, Nadie,” Mr. Allen said. “I hoped that as the former art editor of the Spark you would be willing to share your layout expertise with the new editors.” He got up from his chair and motioned for me to sit down.
Gordon stared straight ahead at the computer screen. Jess was reading a submission.
“You mean you want me to show Gordon how I decide where to put the artwork?” I asked. I picked up one of the drawings on the desk and looked it over. “Well, first I—”
Mr. Allen didn’t wait for me to finish. “Why don’t you start by demonstrating to Gordon and Jess how to insert pictures into the publishing document?”
I slumped in my chair. So that’s it, I thought. I’m only here because Mr. Allen doesn’t know the first thing about computers. I wasn’t back on the Spark at all. I pushed the mouse around and around on its pad.
“Nadie?” Mr. Allen said.
I made the arrow point at the little picture of an open newspaper on the desktop. “This is the Publish It Now program icon,” I droned, sounding a little like Gordon.
I went through the steps one at a time. I showed them how to start the program, scan pictures, and import text files. Mr. Allen jotted down lots of notes, but anyone could see he wasn’t getting it. After a while he stopped jotting. Then he went to his desk and graded papers. Gordon and Jess figured out how to work the program right away. Especially Gordon. When I showed him how I used different kinds of artwork in the layout, he got as excited as a robot boy could get, and he immediately started trying some new layout tricks of his own.
Nick was first in from recess, so he saw me there still working with Gordon and Jess. He tried to act like he didn’t care, but I could tell he did. I knew that Nick blamed me for getting us kicked off the magazine. Now it probably seemed to him like I was back on the Spark and he was left out. Of course none of that was true. He shouldn’t always be blaming me for everything, I thought, glowering inside. Other kids piled through the door.
“You guys can take it from here,” I told Gordon and Jess.
Summer came in holding up one hand with acorn-capped fingers and carrying the plastic bag in the other. “You left this in the hall. Want me to put it in your cubby?”
“I’ll take it,” I muttered. I was still seething about Nick and the Spark.
“Hey, Nadie!” Owen shouted from the doorway. “That’s not yours.” He dashed over and grabbed the bag from me. “It’s hers.” He swung the bag toward Summer.
“It’s her bag, but it’s my fruit salad container.” I said each word slowly to make sure Owen understood. The last thing I needed was some stupid trouble from him. I reached for the bag.
Owen jerked it away and the container fell out on the floor. The lid flew off. Inside was something mud-colored and dry. It was flat, like it had been run over by a steamroller. It had four legs splayed out at weird angles. A really long time ago it might have been a frog.
“What do you say to that?” Owen shouted at Summer. He was practically jumping up and down.
I looked at Summer and stepped back.
“You did it again.” She nodded to Owen. “Yup,” she said, pointing at the frog with one acorn-capped finger, “that’s definitely the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Owen stared at Summer. He picked up the frog and started to wave it toward her, but then he stopped and pulled it back. His face turned red. “Okay then,” he mumbled. He spun away and went to his seat. I’d never seen him stop in the middle of one of his crazy plans like that before, so it was really something.
The frog-in-the-box could have turned into a revolting disaster, but it hadn’t, even though that kind of disaster would have been Summer’s kind of fun. She’d kept her word to me about not starting up with Owen anymore, and that was really something, too.
14
A KID I USED
TO PLAY WITH
Sparrows jumped in and out of starry forsythia tangles at the edge of the sidewalk. Purple crocuses poked out of the dark earth next to mailboxes all along the way home from school. The whole world was wide awake for spring. When I neared the corner of Broom and Laurel, I closed my eyes and tipped my face to the sun. I guess part of me hoped to find Nick, but he wasn’t there. It felt long, walking home alone from the em
pty corner for the third day in a row.
As I headed up our driveway, I heard Dad’s favorite oldies station blasting through the open window. The kitchen smelled like warm, gooey chocolate. A red plastic kayak just big enough for Zack sat on the kitchen table.
“Colorful snack,” I yelled over the music to Dad. “Got any paddles to go with that?”
Dad turned down the radio. “Everybody’s a comedian,” he said. He glanced behind me. I knew he was looking for Nick, but he recovered quickly. “Keep up those oh-so-funny jokes and you just might miss the real snack.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
“What real snack?” I tried to dodge around him, but he kept stepping in my way and holding out his arms to fend me off. I ducked under one arm, and he caught me in a headlock. I found myself face to face with a plate of his chocolate fudge. “Dad, you’re the best!” I put my arms around his waist and squeezed.
“I don’t know what got into me,” he laughed. “Must be the weather.”
Somebody knocked on the door. Had Nick smelled the fudge from across the street?
“Well, hello there,” Dad said. He pushed open the screen door.
It wasn’t Nick. I was half disappointed and half mystified when Summer walked in and stood in the middle of our kitchen. Her shoulders were scrunched up near her ears. She took in everything without moving her head. She looked the way I felt when I met all of her cats.
“You can come in, too,” Dad said. He was still holding the door open. The fat orange cat skittered past him and twined through Summer’s legs. I was glad to see Contact. I squatted next to Summer and scratched the cat between her silky ears. She purred.
“Dad, this is Summer,” I said. “Summer Crawford. She’s new in my class at school. And this”—I pointed to the cat— “is Contact.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dad said. “And you, too, Contact.” The big cat stretched and yawned like she’d been in our kitchen all of her life. Dad ran his hand along her back. “Well, I’d better go pick up Zack,” he said. “See you guys in a bit.”
Summer watched our car back down the driveway. She let out her held-in breath. “Who’s Zack?” she asked.
“My little brother,” I said, getting the plate of fudge. “He’s almost three.”
Summer eyed the plate suspiciously. “I thought your dad was some kind of health food nut,” she said. “So what’s that made out of, anyway?”
I grinned and handed her a piece. “Don’t ask, just eat,” I said. “Trust me.”
Summer took a piece and touched it with her tongue. Then she popped the whole thing in her mouth and chewed with her eyes closed. Contact leaped onto a chair and put her paws on the table. She leaned over and tested the red kayak in a few places with her nose. Then she climbed inside.
“Is this your brother’s?” Summer asked, pointing at the kayak.
“It’s probably a prop,” I told her. “My dad’s been shooting some photo layouts for Outdoor Fun magazine.”
“Your dad’s a photographer? Cool! Can I see some of his pictures?”
I took Summer on a photo tour. She laughed at the pictures of Mom’s soufflé disaster on the kitchen bulletin board. When she saw the framed picture of me holding Zack, she put her hand out as if to touch the tiny bundle in the picture that was my newborn brother. We moved on, and Contact padded after us into the living room. Summer stopped in front of a picture of my uncle standing in his apartment hallway. Francis the Evil peered around an open door in the background.
“Was this for a magazine, or do you actually know that cat?” Summer asked.
I looked at Francis, his eyes glowing in the photo like two pale lamps. “That’s Francis,” I said with a sigh. “He’s my uncle’s cat.”
“I’d watch out for Francis,” Summer said. “That cat’s up to no good. There’s something about him—the look in those eyes.” She shook her head in disgust. “He could give cats a bad reputation.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“I’m not kidding, Nadie.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” I assured her.
“Who are these of?” Summer asked, moving to the opposite side of the room. She stood in front of an entire wall covered with black-and-white photos of me when I was really little. I thought maybe she didn’t recognize me since my hair used to be a lot lighter, and curly like Mom’s. There was a picture of me in a plastic swimming pool, me on the swings, me up to my elbows in finger paints, me eating my first birthday cake. And with me in every single photo—in the pool, on the swings, and covered with paint and cake—was my best friend, Nick.
“Who’s this?” Summer asked again.
“Me,” I said.
“And your buddy?” Summer prompted.
I stared at the picture of us on the swings. I could never be sure if it was a real memory or a memory I’d made from stories, but I knew the moment by heart. Nick and I were three, and we were singing. Even in the photo’s gray tones the sun gleamed on his red-gold hair.
“That’s a kid I used to play with,” I told her.
Summer looked at those photos for a long time. “Your dad’s a pretty good photographer,” she said.
“Kitty!” my brother shouted. He ran across the room, heading for Contact.
“Zack!” I warned. “Be careful!”
“Don’t worry.” Summer smiled. She sat down and pulled her cat closer. “This is Contact, not Francis, remember?”
The big orange cat lay down on her side. Zack put his hand on her head.
“She doesn’t run away, Nadie,” Zack said.
He was right. Contact didn’t move. Zack put his head down on the floor and stared into the cat’s green eyes. “Good kitty,” he said, stroking her fur. Contact put a soft paw on his shoulder.
Dad snapped a picture from the doorway. “That’s a keeper,” he said. “Hey, Zack? I’ve got to shoot some pictures of this kayak. Want to take a walk to the stream?”
“With the kitty?” Zack asked. He snuggled closer to Contact.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “What do you say, Summer? Would you and Contact like to come with us?”
Summer nodded her head, a blush spreading across her pale skin. It dawned on me that Summer wasn’t used to being around my dad. Or any dad, maybe. Dad slung the strap of his tripod over his shoulder, then handed Summer a small bag full of lenses and supplies. “Oops—forgot one thing. Be right back,” he said. He pounded down the stairs to his studio.
We walked outside with Zack and Contact. Summer’s bicycle was parked at the side of our driveway.
“I came over to see that skating town you made,” Summer said. “Where is it?”
I couldn’t help glancing over at Nick’s house. I thought I saw a curtain move, but I couldn’t be sure. I pointed to the cul-de-sac. “It was over there,” I said. “But it washed away in the rain.” I sighed. Brambletown was gone, all right.
“And we’re off!” Dad came out, and the door slammed behind him. He led the way into the woods. When we got to the spot Dad wanted to use for his photos, he gave me the job of getting Zack into the kayak. Contact was my assistant. She sat patiently with Zack until we had to put the kayak into the cold, shallow stream. Then she hopped out and stalked off into the woods nearby.
Summer was Dad’s assistant. He asked her to hand him lenses and film while he worked. I noticed that at first she didn’t get very close to him. After a while, though, she was checking out the camera and looking through the viewfinder. She even snapped some pictures.
Zack climbed in and out of the kayak, splashing me every time. Pretty soon we were soaked. When Dad was done, I sat my brother on a boulder to dry out. The smooth rock felt warm from the sun, and Zack tapped his red sneakers together happily. Contact leaped up next to him.
“Don’t worry, Nadie,” my brother told me. “Contact is not Francis.”
“What does the kitty say?” I asked him.
“She says prrrrrr.” Zack blew air through his lips, making a
slow-sounding raspberry.
I laughed. Summer was looking at us through the camera. Dad leaned in and looked over her shoulder. Contact put her front paws on Zack’s legs and touched her pink nose to his. I heard the camera click.
“That’s going to be the shot of the day, Summer,” Dad said.
Summer pushed her hair behind her ears and grinned.
“Time to pack it in, you soggy kids,” Dad told us. “Let’s make sure we have everything.”
“I have a hurt,” Zack said proudly. He pointed to a faint red scratch on his arm.
Summer produced a plastic bandage from her pocket. “I’ll fix you up, Zack,” she said. He slid down off the rock and hurried over to her. Contact followed.
Dad and I carried the gear through the woods, and Summer gave Zack a piggyback ride. Contact trotted along behind us. When we reached the cul-de-sac, it wasn’t empty anymore.
The streets of Brambletown had reappeared.
15
DIFFERENT SPECIES
Nick worked pretty hard out there, didn’t he?” Dad was gazing out the kitchen window, a dish towel in his hand. I had just come downstairs from reading Zack his four—no, five—bedtime stories. It was only a little after seven o’clock, but it was too dark to see Brambletown anymore.
Summer had promised to come back to help work on the streets and buildings, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it all again. It would just wash away in the next rain.
I stood next to Dad and looked out toward the dark, empty end of our street. Nick must have run outside with his chalk the minute we’d stepped into the woods. He had to have drawn like mad right up until he’d heard us tromping back. He was gone by the time we got to the street. A long sigh leaked out of me. Dad put his arm around my shoulders. I turned and buried my face in his sweater that smelled like leaves and fudge.
A little later, I went down to do some drawing on Dad’s computer. I signed on to the Internet like I always did and clicked on my buddy list. Engineermom showed up. That didn’t mean Mom was at her desk, but I instant-messaged her just in case.
The Trouble with Rules Page 8
