I checked the table. Everything looked OK — pretty good even, minus the Mac and Cheese, which looked super-strange, like astronaut food or something.
“Who made this?” asked Mom (minus any yummy noises).
“Crêpes Stevette,” said Joey, not taking any credit for the orange mess.
“Um . . . why are there socks on the table?” Alex asked.
“Because they’re orange,” said Joey. “It’s a theme!”
Everybody stared at their plates. I caught Joey doing the old napkin-under-the-table trick, feeding everything but the Jell-O to her napkin. Did she think I didn’t know? I invented that trick.
“C’mon, you guys. It’s not like it’s King Lear jellied eel and rotten oranges.” I tried to sound cheerful. But my own plate stared up at me, all orange and lumpy.
“BLUCK! What is this?” I asked, pulling a particularly disgusting lump from my Mac and Cheese. “Ooh! It’s an ear!” Gloppy cheese dropped from its lobe. “Jo-ey!” I couldn’t believe I’d been the victim of the Rubber Ear Trick — me, who invented that one, too!
Alex burst out laughing. “There’s an ear in your macaroni? Yee-uck. I hope there aren’t any elbows in mine.” She poked it with a fork. “Or eyeballs.”
Joey cracked up.
“Very funny, Duck,” I said. “See how hard I’m laughing? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” I said, holding the cheesy ear out to her.
“I can’t hear you,” Joey said.
“Pass the salt,” said Alex. “At least it’s not orange.”
“And it doesn’t have ears!” said Joey, cracking herself up all over again.
Dad was first to take a bite. Crunch!
Mom tried a mouthful. Crr-unch!
Alex swallowed. “Wa-ter,” she gasped, holding her throat.
“What’s wrong with everybody? This is supposed to be a Family Dinner,” I told them. “You know, where we all get to be together, have conversation? Not just eat cereal from a box and watch Mom on TV.”
“I think I broke a tooth!” shouted Alex.
Dad wiped his mouth about a hundred and one times with his napkin. Even Dad was using the old napkin trick!
“I’m not one to talk when it comes to cooking —” Mom started.
“I made it just like Dad does!” I protested.
“Stevie, honey, you did boil the macaroni first, didn’t you?” Dad asked. “Before you put it in the skillet?”
Joey looked at me and burst out laughing. I mean really lost it this time.
“Carrots, anyone?” I asked, not even cracking a smile.
Just when I thought Family Dinner couldn’t get any worse, Alex said, “Hey, what’s that sound?”
“It’s the fridge gurgling,” said Mom.
“Sometimes it does ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” said Dad.
Everybody was laughing except me. I wasn’t laughing, because I saw something. Something moving. Creeping out of the kitchen. Right toward me. Inching closer and closer.
Not a disgusting rat or giant termite or million-legged centipede or anything like that. It was a mountain of white, foamy, bubbly, frothy soapsuds, floating down the hall like a giant bubble bath coming at us.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and raced for the kitchen.
Then I screamed.
Alex and Joey came running, with Mom and Dad right behind.
Suds were pouring out of the sink, slithering across the counter, sliding down the cabinets and across the floor, and swimming down the hall like some cumulus cloud of foamy froth.
“Awesome!” Alex said, like she was admiring a work of art. “Which one of you hairy stinkpodes left the water on?”
“Don’t just stand there!” I told her, pawing my way through piles of suds, miles of suds. “TURN! OFF! THE! WATER!”
“This is cool. Like a car wash, without the car!” Alex said.
Joey yelled, “Giant bubbles! Whee!” She picked up a handful of suds and blew on it. Bubbles flew through the air and landed on Alex’s head.
“Not the hair!” Alex said. “OK, you’re in for it now, Little Sister!”
“Look out! Attack of Mr. Bubble!” I screamed in a food-fight voice, and pushed some suds toward Alex.
“Take that!” Alex flicked some back at me.
“Hey! You flicked me!” I yelled. “That does it.” I grabbed a clump of suds in each hand and flung them snowball-style at Alex.
She grabbed two handfuls of suds and flung them back at me, underhand. Before I knew it, I was smack-dab in the middle of a giant bubble bath with my sisters!
“Ooh, I feel some sliding down my back,” said Alex.
“So? I got some up my nose. See?” said Joey.
Mom jumped in, pretending she was on one of her TV shows. “This is Fondue Sue, reporting to you live from the home of the Reel Sisters, where they’ve just made the world’s largest cappuccino, as you can see from the cloud of foam I’m standing in. . . .”
Dad couldn’t stand to just watch. He made himself a bubble beard à la Abe Lincoln and started reciting the Gettysburg Address. “Fourscore and seven years ago . . .”
While Dad was imitating our forefather, Mom was making a soapsuds statue.
“Is it a snowman?” Alex asked.
“Is it a poodle?” I asked.
“It’s Mickey Mouse,” said Joey.
Mom started to laugh. And laugh. Then we all couldn’t help laughing, too.
“Mom, what is it?” I asked, flinging a handful of suds back into the sink.
“I just couldn’t help thinking,” Mom said in between laugh gasps, “our kitchen hasn’t been this clean since Hepzibiah McNutty herself lived here!”
I was more than ready to get back to school on Monday. After the Macaroni Disaster, even cafeteria food was starting to look good to me.
Only one problem. I had nothing to wear.
“Nothing to wear,” I said out loud to my closet.
I was standing flamingo-style (on one foot) in my blue jeans and favorite flannel pajama top (covered with cupcakes), staring at a bunch of hangers.
Joey wrinkled her nose at me. “You’re starting to sound like A-L-E-X.”
“And you’re starting to sound like M-O-M.”
I stared at the hangers some more. “You just don’t understand, Little Sister.” Joey wrinkled her nose again.
“Stop wrinkling,” I told her. “You look like a rhinoceros.”
I went down the hall to Alex’s room. I could hear her downstairs banging away on the piano. Only Alex would play Mozart at seven o’clock in the morning.
“You better not go in there without asking!” Joey warned. “Alex said!”
I went in anyway.
Joey stood with her toes just outside the doorway, so technically she did not step into Alex’s room. “It’s your life!” she told me.
I had another idea, a much better idea, and one that did not involve trespassing. I headed straight for the laundry room, where I could hear the whump, whump of the dryer.
I quietly click-opened the dryer and took out Alex’s soft, fuzzy red chenille sweater with the big pink star — her favorite. I used to have the same sweater in green, but I washed it with the red one and it came out looking like spaghetti in a blender.
A part of me knew Alex was drying the sweater so she could wear it today. But I told myself she had a million other sweaters. I told myself I was sick of being invisible. I told myself the lump of guilt in the pit of my stomach was just the protein bar I’d eaten for breakfast.
I yanked the sweater from the dryer. Perfect! All cozy-warm and soft as kitten fur, with an apple-clean smell. I shrugged it on. The pink star grinned up at me.
For once, I would be the star, not Alex. I hurried and covered it up with my coat before anybody could see. I grabbed my backpack and ran down the street to my friend Olivia’s house, hoping to catch a ride.
I tried not to think about Alex or what would happen after school when I got home. Nothing mattered except for that m
oment. What a great morning. And it was going to be a great day.
I, middle sister Stevie, had the power of the sweater.
During Language Arts, Ms. Carter-Dunne gave us ten minutes to pick a famous poem in our book. “I want everyone to choose a poem you like, then use it as a model to write one of your own. Look at the poem’s style. Think about how it’s written. Let the poem inspire you.”
I flipped back and forth through the pages as fast as I could.
“This is an in-class assignment, people. I’ll give you time to write, then we’ll read some of them out loud.”
Out loud! A.k.a. in front of the whole class! I broke out in a sweat just thinking about it.
I flipped some more. First I saw a Russian poem, but it had the word breast. No way was I going to say “breast” in front of a bunch of fifth-grade boys (half the class!). I almost picked a haiku about trees, but nobody gets a good grade for a haiku. It’s only three lines.
Olivia picked “We Real Cool” right off the bat.
“No fair!” I told her. “What if I want that one?”
“Pick this one.” She opened to a page and pointed.
“No way. The guy says he feels like an eggplant.” That’s when I saw the plums. Plums beat eggplants any day! (Just ask Joey.) So I picked a poem by a plum eater, a Mr. William Carlos Williams.
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I don’t know what it is with me and poetry — why it was freaking me out. It looks simple enough, but I had to read it over and over about a bazillion times. Then it hit me. Like Mr. William Famous Williams himself was talking to me, Stevie Reel. It’s weird, I know, because he was talking about plums, but somehow he knew just how I felt — about the sweater.
I’m Sorry
I have taken
your sweater
that was in
the dryer
and which
you were probably
going to wear
today
Forgive me
I spilled chocolate on it
It wasn’t fair
I used to have the same one
But I still enjoyed
how everyone said
I looked better in it than you
After we had quiet time to write our poems (with Ms. Carter-Dunne looking over our shoulders half the time), she asked me to read my poem aloud in front of the whole class.
My poem.
Why did she have to pick me? I tried to tell her it was private. I tried to tell her it really wasn’t meant to be read aloud (to a bunch of immature fifth-graders!).
I tried to tell her, but she said, “Nonsense, Stevie. Your poem is a perfect example for the rest of the class. It’s just what I’m looking for. It’s inspiring. No need to be shy.”
Easy for her to say. Why do teachers think that telling you not to be shy will make you not feel shy? Guess what, Ms. Carter-Dunne, Queen of Reading-Aloud-in-Front-of-the-Whole-World? It just makes it worse!
So I, Stevie Reel, who hates acting (despite being a direct descendant of Hepzibiah McNutty), who hates standing up in front of people, had to stand in front of the whole class with sweat circles under my arms (in Alex’s sweater!) and read my poem to twenty-nine pairs of squinty eyes (that’s fifty-eight eyes, guys) while trying not to spit or spray or choke on the last line. Or turn ten shades of red. Or pass out from embarrassment.
At least I didn’t have to say “breast”!
ZITS
Starring Alex
Me: I had my audition today, Sock Monkey. For the best part ever. Beauty, in Beauty and the Beast.
Sock Monkey: Well, I didn’t think you were the Beast!
Me: Thank you! That’s why I love you so much. Mww! Mww! (Kissing sounds.)
Sock Monkey: Then what’s wrong?
Me: I so did not get the part.
Sock Monkey: What do you mean?
Me: First of all, I didn’t have my lucky sweater.
Sock Monkey: How come?
Me: Because my evil, wicked un-stepsister Stevie stole it from the dryer.
Sock Monkey: That’s evil! Wicked! Very stepsister-y of her.
Me: I know. But that’s not even the worst part.
Sock Monkey: Oh, no. What’s the worst part?
Me: I messed up my lines.
Sock Monkey: Everybody makes mistakes.
Me: Not like this!
Sock Monkey: It can’t be all that bad.
Me: It is. Or as Beauty would say, “’Tis a sorrow. ’Tis a tragedy.”
Sock Monkey: What happened?
Me: OK, see, there’s this guy I like. . . . His name is Scott Howell. He’s in Drama Club, and he’s really good at acting, and I know he’s going to get the part of Beast.
Sock Monkey: So you want to star in the play with him, right?
Me: More than anything. Maybe he would like me if we got to practice together and everything.
Sock Monkey: You can do it!
Me: But wait. I haven’t told you the bad part.
Sock Monkey: Go on.
Me: We were practicing reading our parts, and I kept noticing this zit he had on his face.
Sock Monkey: Gross!
Me: I tried not to look at it. . . .
Sock Monkey: Maybe he didn’t see you see it.
Me: I wish! That’s not it. We were saying our lines back and forth for the audition, and I was going along fine. It’s the part where Beauty is trapped at her father’s house, and she has a dream that Beast is dying. She wakes up and has a revelation.
The line goes, “I am indeed quite wicked to cause so much grief to Beast, who has shown me nothing but kindness. Is it his fault that he is so ugly and has so few wits?”
Sock Monkey: What’s wrong with that?
Me: I messed up! Now I’ll never get the part, and Scott Howell will hate me forever. Here’s what I said. No lie. I said, “Is it his fault that he is so ugly and has so few zits?”
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! (Laughter from evil un-stepsisters offstage.)
Alex flung open the door. She glared at us with mice eyes, all puffy like she had been crying. She started swearing at us in Shakespeare. “You gore-bellied, hasty-witted harpies!” she yelled.
“Don’t you mean hasty-zitted harpies?” I said, cracking up even more.
“How long have you been out there? You guys heard every word I said, didn’t you?”
“Scott Towel has zits!” said Joey. She lost it, giggling like it was the funniest thing ever.
Joey’s giggling egged me on. “Oh, Sock Monkey. I adore you. I love you,” I said, imitating Alex. “You’re just an old sock, but you look just like my boyfriend, Scott Towel! Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
“Howell! It’s Scott Howell! If you’re going to eavesdrop, get it right.” Alex narrowed her mean eyes at us. “I wish I never had a sister. That goes for BOTH of you.”
For once, we knew to keep quiet.
“And don’t think I forgot you stole my sweater, Stevie. My lucky sweater! Where is it? I mean it. You better give it back this minute. And Joey, don’t think I forgot you. You’re a dankish elf-skinned clodpole! No better than Stevie. If Mom was here, I’d —”
“I am not an elf or whatever!” said Joey.
“I hope you both turn to stone. Just like Beauty’s evil sisters in the fairy tale. I’d like you much better as statues — that’s for sure!”
Joey looked at me like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Out, vile jelly!” Alex shouted. “A pox of wrinkles on thee!”
She slammed the door in our faces without waiting to get her sweater back. Thonk! The door slamming knocked a picture off the wall in the hallwa
y. A picture of Alex when she was a mushroom in Mushroom in the Rain, her kindergarten play. I wonder if she heard the thud from inside her room.
“You’re still a mushroom!” I shouted, only because it sounded good. Silence. Was she still listening?
“Nothing short of a miracle will turn a wicked and envious heart!” she shouted through the door, quoting her beloved Beauty.
“You’re the big meanie,” Joey said. “Puke-face dung heap,” she yelled, trying to swear in Shakespeare.
“Rrrrr! Sisters make me crazy,” yelled Alex.
“Ditto!” I yelled back.
“Double ditto!” yelled Joey, even though she doesn’t know what it means.
We both sat on Joey’s bed (after moving about a hundred stuffed animals), staring at the mess that used to be Alex’s sweater.
“Stevie?” Joey asked.
“Not now, Duck. I have to think.”
“About what?”
“What to do about Alex, the sweater — everything.”
“She was calling us evil Jell-O and stuff!”
“That was just Shakespeare. She always spits out Shakespeare when she’s mad.”
“She doesn’t even know you wrecked the sweater yet. She just thinks you stole it.”
“Don’t tell, Duck! She’s going to kill me when she finds out,” I said. “Or at the very least, turn me into a zitty-faced stinkard!”
“She’ll see.” Joey pointed to the mess of yarn on my bed that used to be Alex’s sweater. “It looks like a bird’s nest. What happened?”
“I told you. The tag was itching me. So I cut it off. I do it all the time on my own stuff. All I did was pull this one thread, and next thing I knew the whole thing came undone,” I said.
“Maybe we could sew it,” Joey suggested. “Mom could help us.”
“How? She’s not even here.”
“Maybe we could make it into something else.”
“What? Like a Sweater Monkey?”
“Like a scarf, or a pillow for her room.”
“Hey, that’s a great idea, Duck. I think I can make a pillow with the star on the front. At least she’d have something.”
The Sisters Club Page 3
