The Naked Mole-Rat Letters

by Mary Amato

  Before the word had a chance to sink deeply into my brain, a flying object otherwise known as Nutter landed on me.

  Heart attack number one.

  “Ouch!” I yelled.

  Nutter screamed and jumped off me like I was a mummy rising from a grave. “I thought you were in the bathroom!” he said. “I thought the bed was empty and the covers were just bumpy. And what are those pink worms in your hair?”

  “They’re not worms.” I got out of bed. “They’re hair curlers.”

  “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” He held out his little hands to show me they were shaking.

  “Well, why were you jumping on my bed anyway?”

  “I like to.”

  “Jump on your own bed.”

  “Your bed’s better. Your blanket is ‘swimming pool blue.’ And what are those curler things for anyway?”

  “You roll your hair up in them and sleep on them, and in the morning you have curly hair. Mrs. Whitehead let me borrow them.”

  I looked at the clock and had the second heart attack of the day. 7:30! How could it be 7:30? My alarm clock was set for 6:45. Did I turn it off and go back to sleep?

  I had wanted to wake up early so that I would have plenty of time to check the e-mail situation and to fix my hair and get especially dressed up for the audition. Now I would barely have time to get out the door.

  Skip walked in. “Dad said I’m supposed to wake you up. Your head looks weird.”

  “Thanks a lot! Why didn’t he think of that an hour ago?”

  Nutter grinned at Skip. “I woked her up when I landed on her butt.”

  I shoved Skip and Nutter out the door.

  Nutter glued his hands and feet to my doorway. “Skip and me want to practice diving on your bed.”

  “Go dive on your head!” I peeled him off and slammed the door.

  The third heart attack came when I tried to take the curlers out of my hair. Mrs. Whitehead showed me how to do it, but I must have done it wrong. My hair was all twisted and tangled, and I couldn’t get the curlers out.

  I was not prepared for what I’d find in the kitchen. Dad should have been making Skip’s and Nutter’s lunches and listening to serious news on the radio. Instead he had the rock-and-roll station on and was singing. Skip and Nutter were sliding around in their stocking feet, playing air guitars.

  “Come on, Frankie, join in.” Dad handed me a box of foil like it was a microphone. Then he squinted at my hair. “Are those curlers in there?”

  “Yes! And I can’t get them out.”

  The three of them started laughing.

  I glared at Dad. “This is not funny. You have to get them out.”

  Dad tore out half my hair getting the curlers out, and when I looked in the mirror . . . well, that was the fourth heart attack. My hair looked exactly like a nest made by a blind squirrel on drugs.

  I had no choice but to stick my head under the faucet.

  At school I couldn’t concentrate. In first period math I had to solve a problem on the board; and while I was doing it, everybody was laughing. At first I thought it was because I was doing the math problem wrong. Then I heard Jerry Parks whisper to Johnny Nye, “What are those?” I felt the back of my head, and my heart absolutely stopped. Two curlers sticking out like Frankenstein bolts.

  I tried to pull them out. No such luck. So I calmly put the chalk down and walked over to Mr. Peter’s desk. “May I please go to the bathroom?”

  Last year, Ms. Young would have let me go right away. Ms. Young was the most wonderful sixth-grade teacher in the world. She should have asked to teach seventh grade so that I could have her again this year.

  I should have known that Mr. Peter wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom. Mr. Peter is not a living, breathing human being with a heart that has attacks. Mr. Peter is a battery-operated calculator in the shape of a human being. And his batteries aren’t showing any signs of wearing out. “You can go after the lesson,” he said, and wrote me a pass.

  For the remainder of the lesson, everyone stared at me while I sat at my desk and fumigated (fumed? emitted fumes?). Beth tried to catch my eye, but for her own good I wouldn’t look up. If I had looked at her, my angry gaze would have burned her eyeballs out. How could my best friend, who sits right next to me, have missed two curlers sticking out the back of my head? Are you blind, Beth?

  For that matter, how could Dad have missed them? Maybe if he hadn’t been dancing around and singing to the radio he would have done a better job. And why was he in such a good mood this morning anyway?

  With horror I realized that he was acting like someone in love. Was he in a good mood because he assumed Ratlady was going to e-mail him back?

  Would Ratlady ignore my message and e-mail him anyway? Maybe she already did and he read it before I woke up. Maybe that’s why he was in such a good mood.

  The bell rang and Mr. Peters stopped droning and dismissed class. Now I wasn’t going to have enough time to get the curlers out and get to my next class on time.

  There was only one thing to do: ditch. I’d never committed a school-related crime before. I had to do it—for my hair and my family. I went to my locker, put on my coat, and started walking to the front door. I realized that my heart must have started up again because it was beating like crazy. No teachers in sight. Five more steps and I’d be at the door. Five, four, three, two—

  The Troll stepped in front of the door. Her name is Ms. Trolly, and she’s the new guidance counselor. She pronounces her name like “troll” with a “y,” and she looks like one, too, which is why everybody calls her The Troll.

  “Pass?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’d like to pass, thank you.”

  “That is not what I meant. I’m on hall duty. I need to see your pass.”

  “Pass?”

  “A note from the office that says you have permission to leave the building,” she explained.

  “Oh, a pass,” I said, and started fumbling around in my pockets as if I had one. “I just had it. . . .”

  “Your name is?”

  “Frankie Wallop.”

  “Wallop!” The Troll exclaimed. “I’ve heard about you.” From the way her face cracked into a smile, I knew that she had heard good things about me. Could I use my straight-A reputation to ditch school? What kind of person would that make me?

  “Your father owns Heartstrings, that music shop, doesn’t he?” She pressed her clipboard against her chest.

  “Yes. He directs the Presbyterian Church choir, too,” I added. “And I sing in it, of course. Every Sunday.” I smiled angelically. “I’m supposed to go to the dentist, and I’m really late.” From the depths of my pocket, my fingers grabbed a piece of paper, the bathroom pass from Mr. Peter. I pulled it out and waved it with straight-A confidence.

  “Fine,” she said, and opened the door.

  Before she could look at the paper more closely, I stuffed it into my pocket and hustled out. What an amazing discovery. Somebody like Johnny Nye would need a letter signed by God to get out of school in the middle of the day, whereas I could probably waltz out by flashing a gum wrapper.

  Still I wasn’t home free. I had to get home without being seen by anyone who would tell Dad. I tried to make myself invisible as I walked past the gas station and the post office by looking straight ahead and taking smooth, steady steps. My town, Pepper Blossom, seems like a particularly small and very highly populated town when you’re ditching school. I took the side road, avoiding Main Street where Dad would be working in the shop, and cut through the church lot. The minister’s car was the only thing there. I walked quickly, feeling as naked as that emperor who had no clothes. It felt like every window had a face in it, staring at me as I walked by. This must be how criminals like Johnny Nye feel all the time. I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it.

  The hardest part would be getting past our next-door neighbor’s house. Mrs. Holmes sees all and tells all. When I got to our street, I realized why I felt so naked. I
had left my backpack at school. With my house key. There was only one way to get in: Ask Mrs. Holmes for our spare key.

  As I walked up the path to her house, I reminded myself that the Frankie Wallop she knows would never lie, which meant that I could lie and she would believe me.

  Knock. Knock.

  The door opened and there she was, short and round and cheery as a pumpkin. “Hi, Sweetheart. Something wrong?”

  I smiled innocently. “Nothing’s wrong. I just forgot my key.”

  “But why aren’t you in school, Sweetheart?”

  “Well, Ms. Trolly let me come home because . . .”

  Why? Why? While I was thinking of a reason, something Ms. Young used to say kept running through my mind: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. It’s true. Once you get caught up in lying, it’s hard to pull yourself out. “Ms. Trolly let me come home because I forgot my notebook,” I finally said, “and although they usually don’t let kids come home in the middle of the day, she let me because . . . it’s my birthday.” Well that last part was stupid. But it was too late to take it back.

  “Glory be!” Mrs. Holmes clapped her chubby hands together. “Your birthday!”

  It worked. When I got home, the first thing I did was untangle the curlers from my hair and stick my head under the faucet again. Then I checked e-mail. Last night, I had sent a series of highly effective e-mails to Ratlady and deleted all the evidence. Did my lies convince her to back off, or did she sneak a reply to my father’s ludicrous letter?

  Nothing. No mail from Ratlady. And no more letters from Dad to her. Hurray. Hurrah. Hurroo.

  Dad will assume that she doesn’t want to return his e-mail. His feelings might be hurt, but he’ll get over it and forget her soon enough. Now things can get back to normal. I can get back to normal. I’m not the type of person to lie and ditch school. I’m the type of person to succeed in everything I do, which is why it’s dangerous for me to start breaking laws. I could become a highly successful criminal if I wanted to. But I don’t want to be a criminal. I want to be a miracle worker like Annie Sullivan. I want to be famous for doing good things for those less fortunate than myself.

  Whew! I have to stop writing now. The bell is about to ring. The good news is that I’m feeling better. Writing helps. Thank you, dear Diary.

  Now I must get psyched up for the audition. On my way to the drama room, I shall pretend to be a teacher walking to my first day on the job. I will be nervous, yet confident. Spunky, yet mature. Very Annie Sullivan. Wish me luck.

  Still Friday, 9:00 P.M.

  At last a chance to write!

  The audition was terrifying—all the eighth-graders looked down their noses at us seventh-graders. It wasn’t anything like Ms. Young’s auditions back in elementary school. Mr. Haxer is the director. His first name is Justin, and he looks like a movie star. Beth and I agreed to always refer to him as Justin Haxer when we talk about him. He wears this black leather jacket all the time, and I noticed that he smiled more at me than anybody else, which probably made Beth jealous. Beth has a problem with jealousy. At the end of the audition he told us not to get our hopes up and reminded us that it was unusual for seventh-graders to get a lead or to even make the play; however a “star can rise up from any grade.” He looked right at me when he said that. I think he was preparing the eighth-graders for the fact that he is going to give the part of Annie Sullivan to me, a seventh-grader. He’s going to post the cast list on Monday after school. Today is Friday. I’m going to fall into a comma (coma?) over the weekend.

  I wanted to sit down right away and write about the audition, but I didn’t have time. I had to hurry over to Mrs. Whitehead’s house to pick up Nutter. Beth tagged along. Nutter is supposed to go to Mrs. Whitehead’s whenever I have something after school—such as a highly important audition. The poor kid hates it. I don’t blame him. Skip is now old enough to walk home and stay home by himself. So he was already here when we arrived. He jumped on me before I could get through the door.

  “Listen. . . .” He dragged me over to the answering machine and pushed the button.

  “Mr. Wallop, this is Ms. Trolly, the new counselor at the junior high school. I’m calling to let you know your daughter, Francine, missed second period today. She said that she had a dentist’s appointment. However the main office has no record of permission. I’m sure this is a mistake on our part, but please call me on Monday to confirm. My number is . . .”

  “You’re in big trouble.” Skip was drooling, he was so excited. Skip’s main idea of fun is seeing other people get into trouble.

  Beth was so shocked that she couldn’t even talk.

  “I had to get the curlers out of my hair,” I whispered to her. “And check e-mail, if you know what I mean.”

  Nutter didn’t get it. He just looked at me and asked, “Do you have cavities?”

  “Yes,” I said to Nutter. “Seventeen cavities. But I went to the dentist. And I’m not going to get into trouble.” I glared at Skip.

  “How are you going to get out of this?” he asked.

  How indeed? I pressed the DELETE button on the machine.

  Beep. No more trouble.

  “What if I tell?” Skip asked.

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ll give you a dollar if you don’t. And if you do, I’ll take it back.” The one thing Skip likes more than seeing people get into trouble is making money.

  I gave him a dollar.

  “My lips are sealed,” Skip said. “But the school will just keep calling.”

  I got out a piece of paper, surprised at how natural all these criminal activities felt to me.

  October 17

  Dear Ms. Trolly:

  Thank you for the phone call. Sorry, I forgot to send a note in with Frankie. Please excuse her. She had to go to the dentist.

  Sincerely,

  Robert Wallop

  “Frankie, what are you doing?” Beth looked at me like I was robbing a bank. “You can’t do this!”

  “I’ll turn it in on Monday, and everything will be fine.”

  “What does the note say?” Nutter asked.

  The front door opened. “Hey, kids!” Dad called out.

  I handed Nutter a dollar and whispered, “It says, Don’t say anything about this to Dad.”

  Nutter grinned. Then he turned around and ran into Dad’s arms. “Look what Frankie just gave me!”

  Dad picked him up. “A whole dollar. How come?”

  “Because she’s got seventeen cavities.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “But she doesn’t want you to know.”

  Beth looked at me, panicking. She is definitely not a good person to have around at times like this. If Dad took one look at her face, he’d know everything.

  Luckily Dad wasn’t paying attention to Beth. He was busy having a little guilt trip of his own. “Oh, when was the last time I brought you guys to the dentist?” He set Nutter down. “Frankie, if you have a cavity, we’d better get you an appointment.”

  “She already went to the dentist,” Nutter said.

  I laughed. “Ha-ha. Just kidding, Dad. I don’t have any cavities.”

  “Let me see. Open up.”

  He came toward me. I was trying to figure out a way to stuff the note into my pocket without seeming too obvious when the doorbell rang.

  Dad opened the door.

  “Surprise!” In walked Next-Door Nosy, Mrs. Holmes, with a fluffy, white angel food cake dripping with gooey pink frosting and dotted with sugary gumdrops.

  We were all speechless.

  “Now I’m sure you already got a cake, Robert. But I couldn’t resist.” She handed me the cake.

  I turned as pink as the frosting. I should have said thank you, but I was too busy thinking, Please don’t tell him that I lied to you about my birthday when I should have been in class!

  “Well, that looks delicious, Evelyn,” Dad said. “What a special treat. We didn
’t have anything planned for dessert tonight. Thank you!”

  “Nothing planned for dessert?” She looked at us a little sadly and headed out the door. “Well I couldn’t let the day go by—” Stopping halfway out, she turned and delivered her usual by-the-way question: “By the way, Robert, anyone special on the horizon?”

  That’s one thing about Mrs. Holmes that I can’t stand. She asks Dad this every time she sees him, as if he doesn’t already have us. Dad, by the way, always has the same, joking response: “There’s so many, I can’t keep up with them!”

  But this time he paused and rubbed his beard and said, “One of these days, Evelyn, I’ll surprise you and say yes.”

  Mrs. Holmes thought this was hilarious and laughed all the way home.

  I was trying to decide what he meant by this, but I couldn’t concentrate. Nutter was jumping up and down. “Cake! Cake!”

  “After dinner,” Dad said.

  Beth left, and we sat down to dinner.

  Although I felt a little guilty that Mrs. Holmes went to all that trouble when it wasn’t my birthday, it didn’t stop me from having a fat piece. Deeeeeelicious.

  After dinner I checked e-mail again. No sign of Ratlady.

  The need to lie is coming to a close. The e-mails took care of Ratlady. The note will take care of The Troll. No harm done in letting Mrs. Holmes think it’s my birthday. All’s well that ends well.

  Methinks I shall go now to bed and dream of working with Justin Haxer . . . good night!

  Still Friday, 10:30 P.M.

  You will not believe what just happened.

  I was half asleep and half practicing my Annie Sullivan lines when I noticed a soft hum coming from downstairs. It was Dad talking on the phone, which was odd. Dad’s not a talker. Could it possibly be The Troll calling this late at night? I wondered. Could my little plan to send in the forged note be ruined before Monday rolled around?

  Quietly I crept into the upstairs hallway and picked up the other phone.

  “I thought you’d enjoy eating with your hands,” a woman was saying, and I had my final heart attack of the day. The caller was Ratlady! I could tell right away because her voice had a little accent; she didn’t sound like anybody I’d ever met before. The Rat had phoned because she knew I’d delete her e-mails!