Quinny & Hopper

by Adriana Brad Schanen

  Then a hand lifts the tablecloth.

  “Hopper, why don’t you come play in the sandbox,” says Mom.

  Because I’m eight years old, that’s why.

  “Hopper, why don’t you come hang out with Grandpa Gooley,” says Dad, right behind Mom. “He just got here.”

  I look over and see Grandpa Gooley giving piggyback rides to the little kids. After a while, he can’t stand up straight. So I sit with him in the shade.

  “Hopper, I know exactly how you feel,” he says with a sigh.

  I’m not sure exactly how I feel. I wonder how Grandpa Gooley could know. At least he doesn’t tell me to cheer up.

  I’m relieved when it’s time to leave Aunt LuAnne’s barbecue party.

  Back home, I climb the stairs, two at a time. I push open the door to my room.

  I pull the box out from underneath my bed and get back to work connecting foot bones. I connect the calcaneus to the talus. I connect the talus to the navicular. Everything clicks into place.

  My room is my favorite place in the world.

  In my room, I feel calm enough to juggle. I feel relaxed enough to draw. I can have my regular personality in here and nobody will say, “Cheer up, Hopper!” I can feed my fish and put together body-part models. I can look at my favorite science book, Atlas of Human Anatomy by Frank H. Netter. (Grandpa Gooley gave it to me for my eighth birthday. It’s the best and biggest picture book of body parts ever—real doctors even use it.)

  In my room, I can be quiet without people thinking that it means I’m sad.

  But today, just as I’m connecting the navicular to the cuneiforms, all my quiet stops.

  A squeaky noise replaces it. It’s coming from outside my window.

  I go over to the window and peek outside. My muscles freeze. My breath gets stuck in my throat. Because there’s someone out there, waving at me. Squeaking at me.

  It’s a girl.

  And boy, she’s got a lot of words in her mouth.

  Three

  I’m so busy pouting on my bed that I don’t even notice him at first. But then I look out my window and there he is, right past the trees, right inside the house next door.…

  A boy! And he’s kind of almost just about my size!

  But the boy doesn’t notice me back. So I open my window and holler, “Hey! Yoo-hoo! Over here! Hello? Hi there! How are you? I’m Quinny! Quinny Bumble! I just moved here from New York and I’m almost nine and my ceiling looks like coconut frosting! Who are you?”

  Four

  I was afraid this would happen.

  When Mr. McSoren moved out of the house next door, I knew somebody else would probably move in. That house is pretty big for just one person, so I figured it might be a group of people. A family.

  I wonder how many of them there are. I hope they’re not all as loud as this one.

  Five

  The boy stares back at me like he’s never seen a girl before.

  I’m about to keep talking to him, but then I hear Daddy’s knuckles knock on my door.

  “Daddy, come look! There’s a boy next door, a real, live boy!” I yank him over to my window, but that boy is gone. “He was there! He really was—honest!”

  “I believe you, Quinny,” says Daddy. “His name is Hopper.”

  “It is?”

  “His mother just came by to welcome us.”

  “She did?”

  “She was also wondering if you wanted to go over there and meet Hopper.”

  I jump up so fast that I almost fall down—the answer is YES!

  We hurry next door. Hopper’s house looks just like the gingerbread house I decorated in school last year. He’s lucky he gets to live in a tasty dessert house, not a stinky red barn-house.

  Hopper’s mom welcomes us in and starts talking to Daddy, and I wait for Hopper to start talking to me, too. But he just stands there, hiding behind his scruffy hair and peeking out at me with two big looking-looking eyes. His forehead is crinkled and his mouth is tiny, and I can tell he is trying to be brave. I can tell it is not working.

  I know with shy dogs you are supposed to move slowly and speak gently and let them sniff your hand first. Same with shy humans, except for the sniffing.

  “Hi, Hopper, remember me? I’m Quinny. We just met in our rooms, and I’m very, very, extra-very glad to meet you again, even though you’re shy. I’m not shy, but some people are, and that’s okay. I’m just excited you live next door and you’re not as old as Mrs. Porridge!”

  Hopper stares at me. His mom pushes him forward a little. “I’m Hopper,” he says, barely.

  Then he stares at something on my head that isn’t my eyes. “Is that your real hair?”

  “It is,” I tell him. “My mom thinks it’s beautiful.”

  Hopper doesn’t say if he agrees with Mom or not. A lump bumps up in my throat.

  “You do have fabulous hair, Quinny,” says Hopper’s mom. “Hopper, would you like to show Quinny your room?”

  Hopper doesn’t answer, but his mom pushes him along. I follow him upstairs and almost crash into him as he stops suddenly by a closed door. He blocks that door with his whole body.

  Then he stares at my head again. “What are those holes in your cheeks?” he asks.

  Another lump bumps up in my throat. “What holes?” I ask.

  But Hopper doesn’t explain. The next thing he says is, “How many teeth do you have?”

  I don’t know. But that’s a good question. So I open my mouth and we count them.

  Number of teeth in my mouth = 22.

  Then we count Hopper’s teeth.

  Number of teeth in Hopper’s mouth = 22, too!

  “Oh, wow, Hopper, we have the exact same number of teeth! How cool is that! Do you have any loose ones? I still have two wiggly ones that are almost about to fall out—”

  “Please don’t shout so loud up my nose,” Hopper says.

  “Sorry.” I step back an inch. “Is that better?”

  Hopper doesn’t answer this question. So I ask another one.

  “What’s behind that door you’re blocking?”

  “Body parts!” answers somebody else.

  It’s a big boy talking now—a bulky, bully-faced boy holding a soccer ball as he stomps down the hall toward us. He bounces that ball off Hopper’s forehead. Ouch. Then a second bully boy, with the exact same face as the first one, shows up and shoves Hopper’s shoulder. “Dead, rotting body parts.” He snorts, sneering at me. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

  “Well, you’re not me,” I say. “Now, could you please stop bothering my friend?”

  “Your what?” Both bully boys laugh. They bounce that ball off Hopper’s head again.

  “My friend,” I repeat. “And how would you like it if someone threw a ball at your face?”

  “Hopper has a girlfriend! Hopper has a girlfriend!”

  Those bullies make kissy-poo noises and mean laughing snorts. Then they grab Hopper and flip him upside down and swing him around. He doesn’t look too happy about it.

  “Leave him alone!” I pound a big bully arm and push a big bully stomach, but this two-headed bully monster swats me away like I am just some pesky little girl.

  Well, I am not just some pesky little girl. Those bullyheads don’t realize it, but I am a tae kwon do green belt. They have no idea what I had to do to earn that green belt. (Believe me, it was not pretty.) If they knew, they would be afraid. Very, very, extra-very afraid.

  I get into my fighting stance. I pretend I am back at my dojang in New York City.

  I front-kick a strong, fast foot, and I scream my spirit scream, “KEEEE-YAAAP!”

  And thwwwack!

  I kick that soccer ball right out of bullyhead #1’s arms, and it flies high through the air.…

  And down the hall.

  And down the stairs.

  Then I hear the crash and smash of something hard breaking into a million pieces.

  Uh-oh. The louder something sounds when it breaks,
the more expensive it usually is.

  That two-headed bully monster lets go of Hopper and glares down at me with fireballs of meanness shooting out of its four eyeballs.

  “You’re gonna get it!” growls bullyhead #1.

  “You’re dead meat!” snarls bullyhead #2.

  “Wrong! I’ll scream like a scared little baby, and you’ll be the ones in trouble!”

  “Quinny, what’s going on here?”

  I turn around. It’s Daddy. He looks at me, half confused and half suspicious.

  Hopper’s mom rushes up the stairs behind Daddy, and she cries, “Trevor? Ty? Your grandmother’s vase is broken! How many times have I told you: no playing ball in the house!”

  “We didn’t!” roars bullyhead #1.

  “That girl broke it!” roars bullyhead #2. “She kicked the ball right out of my arms!”

  Everyone looks at me. I try to smile, all sweet and innocent. Just a harmless little girl.

  But there’s one problem: Pee-U Piper.

  I have no idea how she even got here, but my four-year-old twit-ster is suddenly sitting on the stairs, and she squawks, “It’s true! Quinny hitted those boys and kicked their ball!”

  That sneaky little thing was spying on me this whole time.

  “Hitted is not a word,” I point out.

  “I sawed the whole thing,” she says.

  “Sawed isn’t a word, either. Learn to speak English!”

  “Quinny, please,” says Daddy. “Is it true? Did you kick that ball down the stairs?”

  “No! And even if I did, it was only because those big bullies made kissy-poo noises and tried to scare me with dead, rotting body parts, and then they turned Hopper upside down and—”

  Daddy tries to interrupt me, but my engine is running too fast to stop.

  “And they wouldn’t cut it out, so I had no choice, because the sabom at my dojang always says we need to build a better, more peaceful world, which means you shouldn’t hold people upside down by their ankles and spin them around without their permission, right?”

  Hopper’s mom looks totally confused now. So I fill her in.

  “I happen to be a tae kwon do green belt, which is the belt right after yellow with a green stripe, and right before green with a blue stripe. For my belt test I broke a giant, thick piece of wood in two with just my bare foot.”

  I show Hopper’s mom a strong, elegant side kick. She moves out of my foot’s way.

  “That’s…well, that’s very interesting, Quinny,” she says. “Thank you for sharing.”

  “I’m sorry about your vase,” I also share.

  Daddy tells Hopper’s mom that we will pay for the vase. I don’t know why, because none of this was my fault in the first place.

  Hopper’s mom says that is “out of the question,” and then she turns to her own kids and says, “Boys, I’m disappointed in you. All three of you. This isn’t how we behave with guests. You’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in your rooms, thinking about how to use better manners.”

  “What?” wails bullyhead #1.

  “No fair!” howls bullyhead #2.

  Hopper’s the only one who doesn’t look upset to be stuck in his room for the rest of the day. I don’t understand that boy.

  “To your rooms—now!” Hopper’s mom says. “And no video games, either.”

  The bully twins glare at me with tiny-meany eyes. One of them growls and the other whisper-shouts, “Dead meat!”

  I stick close to Daddy, who’s a lot bigger than they are. He picks up Piper and pulls me toward the stairs by my shirtsleeve. “Let’s go, girls.” His voice sounds like it has a headache.

  “Bye, Hopper.” I wave back at him with a smile. “See you soon!”

  But Hopper doesn’t wave or smile or say anything. He scowls at me like I’ve got cooties. Then he scurries into his room and slams the door.

  I guess he hates me now, for some reason. I guess I didn’t make a new friend after all. As we walk away from Hopper’s house, Piper makes that smirky-sneaky smile that she always makes when I’m in trouble.

  “Tattletale for sale!” I call out. “Tattletale for sale!”

  “Quinny, please,” Daddy sighs. “I can’t believe what happened back there.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “You’ll help to pay for that broken vase out of your allowance.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault! I was just standing there, doing my own life, when those bullies started bugging Hopper, so I tried to help him because I thought he was my friend. But I was wrong—he’s not my friend. That boy hates me, which is fine because it’s a free country, so let’s just move on, shall we?”

  There’s a sniffle in my nose, but I’m not letting it out for some boy who hates me.

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  Six

  I watch Quinny walk away from my house. The back of her head, I notice, is much quieter than the front.

  I watch the back of her head until she’s gone. Then I pull down my window shade and get back to work on my foot model. I finish connecting the five metatarsals to the fourteen phalanges, which are the toe bones. These are tiny. These are tricky. (And they’re more important than they look. Without all your toes, you would lose your balance when you walked.)

  After a while, I go back to my window. I move the shade an inch and peek out.

  Quinny’s still gone. I’m glad about that. But I’m also sad she’s not here anymore.

  “Hopper?”

  It’s Mom. She touches my shoulder.

  “You hungry?”

  I shake my head.

  “Trevor and Ty are playing downstairs.”

  That’s a hint that the punishment is over and I’m allowed to leave my room, too. But I can hear what my brothers are doing downstairs. They are playing that video game where you explode the bad guy’s head into drippy brain soup. This does not put them in a calm mood.

  “I think I should stay in here and keep thinking about how to use better manners.”

  Mom doesn’t fall for this.

  She sits with me. “How are you doing on that foot?”

  I show her what I’ve done so far. She tries to seem interested.

  Then I say, “Quinny had big feet.”

  “Did she?”

  She did. And big eyes. Big hair. And that big mouth, full of words.

  Suddenly, I feel strange.

  “Hopper, what’s wrong?” Mom asks.

  Something. But I don’t know how to say it in sentences.

  “Well, guess what, sweetie? Grandpa Gooley called to say he’s going for a late swim tonight. Why don’t you join him?”

  Grandpa Gooley comes over, and we ride our bikes to the town pool. Just the two of us.

  The only other person in the pool is my neighbor Mrs. Porridge. She’s got on a swim cap that looks like bright parrot feathers, and she’s doing the sidestroke. I wave. She waves back. The good thing about Mrs. Porridge is, she doesn’t expect me to act louder than I really am.

  I like the pool at night, when it’s not crowded. I like swimming long and fast, which is called “swimming laps.” Tonight I can swim laps without Trevor pulling my foot or Ty kicking my head.

  I dive in. I hold my breath and swim underwater almost the whole way to the other end of the pool. Underwater is my second-favorite place in the world. When I’m swimming, I forget about stuff that’s bugging me.

  But when I’m done swimming, I remember it again.

  “Hopper, is everything okay?” asks Grandpa Gooley as we dry ourselves off.

  I don’t know. So I don’t answer. I’m glad it’s getting dark out so he can’t see my face, which feels hot all of a sudden.

  “You’re all tuckered out, aren’t you?” he says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Grandpa Gooley and I ride our bikes home. As we pull into my driveway, I look over at Mr. McSoren’s old house, which is now Quinny’s new house. Some of the lights are on. Some of the windows are open. People are talking and laughing i
n there. Someone’s playing the accordion.

  I look the other way. I try to listen the other way, too.

  At bedtime, I brush my teeth. I floss my teeth. I think about Quinny’s teeth. They were the happiest teeth I’ve ever seen.

  But I wish she didn’t have so many words in her mouth.

  I wish she didn’t shout all those words right up my nose.

  I wish I had another chance to be her friend.

  Seven

  Pizza, if you’re lucky enough to get some, is usually the best part of the day. But when Daddy opens up the box he just brought home from Whisper Valley Pizzeria, I gasp in disgust.

  “Oh no! Can’t this town do anything right?”

  “Quinny, what’s wrong? You love pizza.”

  “Not when it’s cut up into a tic-tac-toe grid.”

  Square pizza = school cafeteria pizza. Real pizza comes in triangles. At least it did in New York City, where I wish we still lived.

  I make a ferocious face at that yucky square pizza.

  “Quinny, calm your engine down and eat your dinner,” says Mom.

  Instead, I rev my engine up and zoom away from the table and upstairs to my new room. Everything here is different. Everything here is awful. I hate Mom’s new job for making us move to Whisper Valley. I hate this too-big house in this too-small town. I hate the clean sidewalks and the empty playground and the square pizza. I hate that two-headed bully monster Trevor/Ty and un-fun, un-friendly Hopper, who was rude to my interesting hair and wouldn’t even let me in his room.

  I just…hate.

  Daddy comes upstairs. “I’m not hungry, so don’t bother trying to feed me!” I inform him.

  “Got it,” he says. “Boy, it’s been a crazy day, hasn’t it?”

  Daddy unpacks my suitcase and finds my pj’s and sheets. We make up my bed together.

  “I’ll never find a friend here,” I tell him.

  “Never is a long time, Quinny.”

  “Exactly! That’s why I’m sad. Why did we have to move here in the first place?”