Claudia Makes Up Her Mind

by Ann M. Martin

  At that moment, Kristy emerged from the crowd, waving to us.

  “Like it?” she shouted proudly.

  Figures.

  I don’t know how she got permission. I don’t know when she managed to put it up.

  But I was mad.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I said to her as I huffed into school.

  I’m not sure what happened during the first half of the day. I was thinking about fourth period. That was the official time for the entire school to report to the gym.

  I guess I should explain. Each day a different period had been designated for the festivities. This way, we’d only be giving up one class day in each subject. (On the last day — the big finale — Color War was to be held after school.)

  When the fourth-period bell finally rang, I flew.

  I sat with Mark in the bleachers. Jeannie, Shira, Joanna, and Josh sat behind us. “I am so-o-o-o-o excited!” I said, squeezing Mark’s arm.

  “WOOO! SEVENTH GRADE! YEAH!” he shouted.

  The teachers managed to herd everybody off the gym floor, where the events had been set up. Mr. Kingbridge gave a long, boring speech over the megaphone, then introduced the events coordinators.

  When he mentioned my name, the gym shook with the noise. Seriously. I guess it was because of my friends in all three grades.

  For a moment I felt weird, seeing Stacey and the others in a different section of the bleachers. I felt as if I should be sitting with the eighth grade.

  Then Kristy started leading a cheer of “BLUE RULES!”

  And the sixth grade began chanting “FIGHT FOR WHITE!”

  I knew just where I belonged at that moment.

  “ORANGE YOU GLAD YOU’RE IN SEVENTH?” I shouted.

  Everyone joined in, until Mr. Kingbridge quieted us down and announced, “Friday events, begin!”

  My event was the portrait booth. Alan and a sixth-grader named Nicole were the other teams’ artists. Bonnie Lasher was sitting for the portrait.

  “Give up now, Kishi,” Alan said in his goony voice.

  I grabbed a tan-colored Craypa. It stuck to my hand.

  Bubble gum.

  Alan was trying very hard not to giggle.

  “You rotten, stinking —” I stood up. Alan took off like a shot.

  Calmly I scrawled a message on his wooden stool in thick black Cray-Pas:

  And then I went to work.

  Alan managed to slither back. I made sure to keep eye contact while he sat down.

  I have to say, I did a fabulous likeness of Bonnie. She loved it. So did Mr. Kingbridge.

  “One point for Orange!” he shouted through the megaphone.

  “Lucky,” Alan said.

  What a sore loser.

  He became even sorer later on, when kids began kicking him for no reason. (Well, no reason he could figure out. Heh-heh.)

  The other events? Well, the sixth-graders narrowly won the bake-off. The highlight was Jessi’s chocolate mousse fudge cake surprise.

  The eighth-graders won the instant limerick contest. My favorite was written by Emily Bernstein, on the topic of “nightmares.”

  There once was a fellow named Ed,

  Who had a bad nightmare in bed.

  He twisted and wrangled;

  His pj’s got tangled,

  And he woke with his pants on his head.

  The period flew by. By the end, the score was White 8, Blue 8, and Orange 7.

  I admit, I was feeling down.

  But definitely not out.

  I looked around for Mark. I wanted to walk with him to lunch, but the crowd was pushing me out the gym door, shoulder-to-shoulder with Jeannie.

  We made our way down the corridor toward the cafeteria. Joanna was right behind us, with Shira and Josh.

  “Bad start,” Joanna grumbled.

  “We still have five days,” I said.

  “We’re underdogs,” Josh added. “The world loves an underdog.”

  “Oh? Then you should be King of the Seventh Grade,” Shira remarked.

  “You die, Epstein!”

  Josh took off after her. The two of them ran through the crowd, shouting and laughing.

  “They never stop, do they?” I asked.

  “They’ve been that way for years,” Jeannie replied.

  Just then something occurred to me. Something that seemed so obvious I should have thought of it long ago. “Do you think he … likes her?”

  Jeannie looked puzzled. “Who, Shira?”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe I never saw this. The other day Josh walked me home from school. I mean, he lives all the way on Centennial Avenue, right? So there had to be a reason. Anyway, he was acting kind of strange, telling me personal things….”

  “What does this have to do with Shira?”

  “He seemed to want to say something, but he kind of clammed up. You know Josh. If it’s not a joke, his tongue goes into knots. Maybe he wanted advice. Love advice.”

  Jeannie was giving me an odd look. “Maybe. But I don’t think this is about Shira.”

  “No?”

  “Claudia, don’t you …? Oh, never mind.”

  “What? Don’t I what?” I gave Jeannie a Look. “Uh-oh. Something’s up. Gossip meter, gossip meter!”

  “Nothing …”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re committed now. You have to tell me.”

  Jeannie exhaled deeply. “Well … it’s you, Claudia.”

  “What’s me?”

  “Who Josh needs the advice about. Josh likes you.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny. I know he likes me. I mean, as a friend.”

  Jeannie rolled her eyes. “Claudia, duh, when are you going to figure this out? He only drops what he’s doing every time you’re near. He follows you around school all the time. His main goal in life is to make you laugh.”

  “But that’s his personality, Jeannie!” I could not believe I was having this conversation. I laughed aloud. “You are dreaming. Look, I can tell when boys like me, and Josh doesn’t like me that way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Well, what makes you so sure? Has he talked to you about this?”

  “He doesn’t need to. Don’t you see his face whenever Mark is near? It crumbles up like a leaf. Can’t you hear how he quiets down and kind of shrinks away?”

  “No!”

  “That’s because you’re busy looking at Mark. Ask anyone, Claudia. You’re the only one who doesn’t know.”

  I turned toward Joanna. “Are you hearing this?”

  Joanna nodded. “It’s true, Claudia.”

  Oh, please.

  This was not happening.

  For a moment I allowed myself to imagine this being true. I tried to take the theory seriously.

  I couldn’t. It cracked me up.

  No. Absolutely not.

  “You’re both crazy,” I said as we turned into the cafeteria.

  “Listen up, warriors!” Kristy announced to the crowd of kids on Brenner Field. “Mary Anne will take the Leaf-Raking Contest. Mallory will do Speed Checkers. Home Run Derby contestants, follow me!”

  “YAAAAAAAY!”

  By Saturday, the Kids’ Color War had been completely Kristyfied. The kids were evenly divided into three teams — red, green, and black — each calculated to have the same average age. All the events had been planned in advance.

  A few parents were on hand to help, including a doctor (Charlotte Johanssen’s mom).

  As the Home Run Derby contestants followed Kristy, she pointed to the outfield. On it, she’d used chalk powder to make long, thick lines in semicircles at different distances from the plate. “Those are the home run lines,” Kristy explained. “The closest for the youngest kids, the farthest for the oldest. Now, this is not a softball game. No baserunning. No outs. Each person gets three chances to hit a home run. The team with the most home runs wins.”

  She took a scorecard out of her pocket and read off names. In minutes, half the kids were lined up to bat and ha
lf were in the outfield (to retrieve batted balls).

  “Ba-a-a-a-atter up!” Kristy shouted.

  Adam Pike, a red-team member, stepped up to home plate. He swung his bat fiercely (he is very competitive).

  Jackie Rodowsky, who was on the black team, pounded his mitt in short center field. “Bat ’em, Adam!” he shouted.

  “Ha-ha, so funny I forgot to laugh,” Adam said.

  Kristy wound up for the pitch.

  “Madam, there’s Adam, he’s going to bat ’em,” Jackie recited. “So don’t pat ’im.”

  Jackie began giggling hysterically at his own joke. He twisted and fell to the ground on all fours.

  SMMMMACK! went Adam’s bat as he made contact with the ball.

  Have I mentioned that Jackie’s nickname is the Walking Disaster?

  Thump.

  Kristy actually heard the ball thud against Jackie’s rear end.

  “Interference!” cried Adam.

  “YEEEEOOOOOWWW!” cried Jackie.

  “That would have been a home run if he hadn’t stuck himself in the way!” Adam insisted.

  Dr. Johanssen raced over to Jackie. So did most of the other players (the ones who weren’t laughing like crazy).

  PHWEEEEEET! went Kristy’s referee’s whistle. “Give the patient some air!”

  Dr. Johanssen knelt over Jackie. “Where were you hit? Will you show me?”

  Jackie turned beet-red. Now everyone was cracking up. Even Kristy.

  Across the field, Mary Anne’s teams were busy raking. Mary Anne had divided a leaf-covered patch of grass into three long lanes. The object: to be the fastest to leave your lane of grass totally leafless. Six kids were involved, two on a team.

  Vanessa Pike and Madeleine DeWitt were green-team partners. Vanessa’s nine, but Madeleine is only four. She didn’t quite understand the process. She was raking leaves into the lane.

  “Mary A-a-a-anne!” Vanessa shouted. “Madeleine’s just making it worse! I call a time-out!”

  “No fair!” cried Carolyn Arnold from the red team’s lane. “No time-outs allowed!”

  “We’re winning!” shouted a gleeful Patsy Kuhn from the black lane.

  Mary Anne absolutely hates confrontations. “Well, um —”

  “Sto-o-op!” shouted Patsy’s sister (and black-team partner), Laurel. “Charlotte’s sabotouching my rake!”

  Charlotte, who was the other red-team member, had gotten her metal rake tangled up in Laurel’s. The two girls were yanking and yanking, but it only seemed to make things worse.

  Mary Anne took a deep breath and shouted, “TIME-OUT!”

  As Charlotte and Laurel straightened things out, Mary Anne gave Madeleine a raking lesson.

  Linny was watching them from the edge of right field. (He, of course, was in the Home Run Derby.) “That is the dumbest competition,” he commented.

  Vanessa stuck her tongue out at him. “You just missed a fly ball.”

  It was true. Linny looked up helplessly at a softball sailing over his head.

  A softball hit by Jackie Rodowsky.

  Now, even I know that Jackie is a terrible softball player. The bruise must have given him special athletic abilities. “I did it! I did it!” he shrieked happily.

  In a fit of glee, he threw his bat in the air. It sailed toward the Speed Checkers players.

  “Jackie, no-o-o-o-o-o!” shouted Kristy and Mary Anne at the same time.

  “Duck!” warned Mallory.

  Players dived out of the way. The bat crashed down on a game of checkers. Pieces scattered over the grass. Mrs. Pike, who was helping out, almost had a heart attack.

  Kristy and Mary Anne both ran to the scene.

  Hannie burst into tears.

  “Are you all right?” Mary Anne asked. “Did the bat hit you?”

  “No!” she wailed. “But look at the game! I was winning!”

  “He almost killed me!” screamed Margo Pike.

  “Jackie, you should know better,” Kristy scolded. “That violated Krushers rule number one.”

  “Sorry,” Jackie said sheepishly.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll start the game over,” Mallory reassured Hannie.

  “But that’s not fair!” Hannie said. “It should count as an automatic win!”

  “YEAH! NO FAIR!” bellowed Linny, who was storming in to defend his sister. “And she never wins because she’s such a stinky player, so this means a lot.”

  “I am not stinky!” Hannie retorted.

  “Guys …” Kristy said.

  From the Leaf-Raking Contest, Laurel’s voice rang out. “Your team did not win, Vanessa! Mary Anne wasn’t here, so it’s a do-over!”

  “Do-over? Who’s going to put the leaves back?” Vanessa shouted.

  “Be right there!” Mary Anne called out.

  “Come on, pitcher, my turn to bat!” yelled Byron Pike.

  “I’m bored!” announced Jake Kuhn from the outfield.

  “I quit!” declared Hannie.

  “Is there a bathroom nearby?” Marilyn Arnold asked.

  PHWEEEEEEET!

  Kristy’s whistle pierced the air. “All teams report to me! Time for a pep talk!”

  “Pep talk?” Byron groaned. “That’ll ruin my rhythm!”

  Sniffling, moaning, complaining, the kids all slumped toward Kristy.

  With a sigh, Kristy gave Mary Anne a weary Look. “Whose idea was this anyway?” she muttered.

  “Yours, I think,” Mary Anne said gently.

  Two hands closed over my eyes. “Do no-o-ot even attempt to mo-o-o-ve!” rasped a deep voice behind me.

  “Hi, Mark,” I said. “Can you give me a neck rub?”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  I smiled and looked over my shoulder. “You’re wearing the Escape cologne I bought you for your birthday.”

  Mark was standing one step above me in the bleachers. It was Monday, and we were about to begin Day Two of the SMS Color War.

  I was happy to see him. Despite the tough weekend.

  What had I done since Friday? Think, argue, and cry.

  I thought a lot about my Big Decision. And about why Mark was acting so weird. And about why Jeannie was so convinced Josh liked me.

  I argued with my mom and dad when they bugged me about my choice for the hundredth time (after insisting they would “give me space”).

  I cried after Mark called to cancel our Saturday night date. (No, he didn’t cancel because of Frank this time. His dad needed help buying an outboard motor or something.)

  Boy, was I angry. I actually said to him, “It’s me or the boat, take your choice!”

  He went with his dad. But he did call later on, and he came over to my house on Sunday. And he actually rescheduled our date — for Monday after school. Plus, he put up with my crabby mood. So I forgave him.

  Now, on Monday, I was feeling exhausted. I still hadn’t made my decision. I’d been up practically all night again. In the morning I woke up in a daze. I couldn’t even dress myself properly. Without thinking, I slipped on a pair of orange-striped harem pants and a dark blue blouse.

  Half blue. Half orange. It made sense, in a way. It described my state of mind.

  Don’t worry, I changed blouses. Now I was all orange.

  And for the first time, I was beginning to feel human — thanks to Mark’s neck massage.

  “Whoa, this is like a rock,” Mark said. “Tense, huh?”

  “Yeah. But that feels good.”

  “Still worried about what grade to go into?”

  “Yup.”

  “You take a long time to make decisions. Me? I just go with the first thing that pops into my mind. I figure, hey, just do it.”

  “It’s not that simple! This isn’t like trying to decide whether to watch basketball or football on TV!”

  “I didn’t say that —”

  “Well, what are you saying, Mark?”

  Mark’s hands let go of my neck. “Look, Claudia, I was just talking, that’s all. I mean, if
you want me to shut up, I will.”

  Easy, Claudia, I told myself. He’s concerned. He’s giving you a neck rub. What more do you want?

  I turned around. “I’m sorry. I — I hardly slept last night.”

  “That’s okay,” Mark said. “Oh. I almost forgot. Listen, could you —?”

  “Will today’s three-legged-race contestants please take your places?” Mr. Kingbridge’s voice blared over the speakers.

  Oops. That included me.

  “Hold that thought! See you later!” I stood up and ran onto the floor.

  My partner was Josh. Josh, the boy I supposedly didn’t really know. My mystery lover.

  Puh-leeze.

  I was not, not going to lose this race to a fit of giggles.

  Josh was waiting behind the starting line, pulling something from his pocket.

  With a flourish, he unfolded a large silk handkerchief. Printed on it was a famous abstract painting by the artist Joan Miró.

  “Like it?” Josh asked.

  “It’s upside down,” I said.

  “Oh. Sure. I knew that. I was just testing you.” He grinned. His face flushed and he averted his eyes. “I knew Miró was one of your favorites….”

  Hmmm.

  Okay. Okay. I had to think about this.

  How did Josh know I liked Miró? Even Stacey didn’t know that.

  Had I told him? I must have.

  But he actually remembered? That was the kind of thing that would pass through Mark’s head like wind through a picket fence.

  And where on earth did he find the scarf? Guys don’t have things like that. Did he buy it? Smuggle it from his mom’s collection?

  Just because of me?

  Was it possible?

  Josh … me?

  Josh was twisting the scarf into a tight cord. “Uh, Earth to Claudia? Our race?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Okay. Calm down. Be real.

  He was Josh. The scarf was just typical … Joshness. This was a race. We were partners. No more. No less. No problem.

  I was overthinking. I was stressed.

  “So,” Josh said, “uh, should we, you know … tie this?”

  He was sweating. His face was pink and his hands were shaky. He’d put his leg next to mine — about an inch away, though. As if he were afraid to touch.

  He’s a boy. Boys are like that.

  “Sure, Josh.”