Taffy Sinclair 001 - The Against Taffy Sinclair Club

by Betsy Haynes

  The minute I said that I wished I'd taken poison instead.

  "She's such a sweet girl. I don't understand why you don't like her," said Mom.

  "I just don't." I shrugged. For such a sharp person Mom sure had lousy taste when it came to kids sometimes. She even liked drippy Clarence Marshall. There are kids that grown-ups like and kids that other kids like, and Mom had never figured out the difference.

  "Has Taffy ever done anything to you?"

  I knew that my face must be about as red as fire, but I just couldn't tell her the truth. "No," I said. "But you should see how she acts in school."

  "Well, have you ever really talked to her and tried to make friends?" Mom's voice was getting stern now.

  "Who wants to!"

  "Honestly, Jana. You might find out she's not so bad if you'd only give her a chance. You know, being the prettiest girl in school can make you awfully lonely. Let's face it, every one of you girls is jealous of her whether you'll admit it or not. And if she happens to be shy, too . . . well, maybe that's why she acts the way she does. Maybe she's trying to cover up for not knowing how to make friends. I really think you're being unfair to her."

  That was the last straw. My own mother was taking sides with Taffy Sinclair against me and then saying that I was jealous of her. I felt tears squirting into my eyes, and I ran out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me. It didn't even matter if the telephone rang. I had to get out of there. Besides, deep down I knew that my father wasn't going to call.

  It was starting to get dark outside, and I sat down on the front steps for a few minutes trying to decide what to do. I could always go to one of my friend's houses, but I didn't want to do that. What I really wanted more than anything in the world was to get even with Taffy Sinclair.

  Then I got this great idea. I remembered how last spring Taffy had written on the blackboard, "Jana Morgan has B.O." Well, I would get her one better.

  Every tenant in our apartment building has a space in the basement to store things. I went down to our space and rummaged around until I found a can of red spray paint. Then, grinning all the way, I hurried to the school yard.

  Thank goodness no one was around. I went straight to the big slab of concrete that led to the front steps of the school. I knew that I would have to hurry because it was getting dark fast. I shook the can and then began to write.

  TAFFY SINCLAIR HAS HER PERIOD

  As soon as I wrote the D an awful feeling rushed over me. I started thinking. What if that were my name instead of hers? I'd be so embarrassed that I'd die.

  I stood there until it was too dark to see the words, only I could still see them inside my head. I would have given anything if I had written them with chalk instead of paint. Then I could have washed them off. But paint wouldn't wash off even if it were light enough outside to try. Now there was nothing I could do, and in the morning everyone—Taffy Sinclair, Mr. Neal, the whole school—would see what I had done.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I tossed and turned all night thinking about what I had written on the sidewalk. I sure was sorry that I had done that, even to Taffy Sinclair. I guess I'd never realized before just how bad I really was. I had always thought that I was at least a little bit good. But now I could see the truth. I hated myself, and I kept thinking that it was no wonder that Taffy Sinclair hated me, too.

  I thought about all the awful things I'd said in that letter to my father. Probably he had always known how bad I was, and that was why he had chickened out on taking me on a two-week vacation out west. He couldn't even stand to be around me. I couldn't say that I blamed him. I was probably the reason my parents got a divorce. Poor Mom. She's had to handle me alone all these years.

  I knew that I could never go back to school. Taffy Sinclair would know who had written that on the sidewalk, and she would probably tell Mr. Neal, who would probably tell Mrs. Winchell, the principal, who would probably call my mother. I could never go back there again, that was certain.

  Then I got this great idea. There was still some red paint left in the can. Even if I couldn't wash off what I had written, I could cover it up. If I sprayed it into a solid red streak, no one would ever see those words.

  I knew what I had to do. I got up as soon as it started to get light. Mom was still asleep. I got dressed and tiptoed into the kitchen. I couldn't take a chance on waking her. She'd ask a bunch of questions, and I didn't have time to think up any answers. I gulped down a glass of instant breakfast while I wrote her a note explaining that I had had to go to school extra early to catch up on some work. She probably wouldn't believe it, but I'd worry about that later.

  As soon as the door to the apartment closed behind me, I peeled off down the hall and headed for the basement. I found that spray can in just about half a second and tore off in the direction of the school. I had gone three blocks before I realized that I hadn't brought my lunch. There wasn't time to go back now. It didn't even matter if I starved to death as long as I covered up those awful words.

  When I got to within a block of school, I broke into a run. I couldn't get there fast enough. Then, at the school-yard gate, I stopped dead in my tracks and blinked my eyes. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There was the custodian on his hands and knees scrubbing like crazy on the sidewalk. He must have been using turpentine or something because I could see that part of what I had written was already gone.

  I jumped behind a tree before he saw me—me and my telltale can of red spray paint. He must have gotten there really early to open up the school, and when he saw what I had written he had probably decided to scrub it off before anyone else got there and saw it, too. I was so happy I thought I'd die. I loved that custodian. I'd lay down my life for him, if he wanted me to. I'd vote for him for President. I'd do anything!

  My heart was pounding in my ears as I leaned against the tree. There was just one thing left for me to do. Reform. I'd never be bad again. I'd be so good that everyone in the whole wide world would love me, even Taffy Sinclair and my father. I'd start today. But first I'd have to sneak back home and get my lunch.

  I pitched the can of red spray paint into a trash can on the sidewalk outside our apartment building and slipped inside, trying to be quiet as I could. When I got to our door, I put the key into the lock and turned it without a sound. So far so good. I opened the door a crack and listened. I couldn't believe my luck. Being good was already paying off. Mom was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, which meant she hadn't been to the kitchen yet or seen my note. All I had to do was get that note and sneak back to my room.

  It was easy, and a few minutes later I came sauntering out as if I'd been there all the time.

  The rest of the morning went pretty smoothly, and by the time the lunch bell rang I was almost starved. Katie, Beth, Christie, and Melanie and I grabbed a table in the corner of the cafeteria. There was room for eight, but we spread out our things so that no one else could sit there.

  "Okay, Miss Jana Morgan, President of the Against Taffy Sinclair Club," said Beth in a very official-sounding voice. "What fantastic new plan have you devised to get back your notebook?"

  For a second I thought about how I had felt when Taffy humiliated me in front of Mr. Neal, and I hated her all over again. Then I remembered what I had almost done to her. Nothing could be that bad, so I just shrugged and took a bite out of my cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich. Besides, how could I tell them that I had reformed?

  After school I hurried home where I could think. This being good was going to take planning. It wasn't something a person could just slip into like a pair of jeans, at least not someone with a record like mine.

  I pitched my books on my desk and spread myself out on my bed. I lay there for ages staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of what to do. I decided that the first thing would be to write my father again and show him in my letter what a much better person I'd become. I knew that the sooner I did this, the sooner I'd start to feel better.

  But what about Taffy Sinclai
r? I just couldn't make friends with her. That was really asking too much.

  As soon as I got my stationery out, the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Lawson, our landlady. I was really surprised to see her because she has knee trouble and hardly ever climbs the stairs. I was so surprised that I didn't notice for a minute that she was carrying a package.

  "Here," she said, handing it to me. "It's for you. The mailman brought it before you got home from school."

  It was for me all right. I took the package and looked at it, but I couldn't believe my eyes. I don't even know if I said thank you.

  "Is it your birthday?" asked Mrs. Lawson.

  "No," I said, feeling proud. "This is just a special present from my father."

  Mrs. Lawson smiled and said something that I didn't hear and then she left. I closed the door again and took the package over to the sofa. Well, it certainly wasn't a horse. And the box was too big for a diamond ring and too small for a mink coat. But I knew it must be something valuable. Maybe he doesn't hate me after all, I thought.

  My hands were shaking as I ripped the paper off. Inside was a piece of cardboard wrapped around a pink satin box. I lifted the lid and peeked inside. Chocolates. I just sat there for a while before I closed the lid. I looked for a letter, but there wasn't one. There was just a card stuck under the ribbon that said, "Love, Your Father." It wasn't even his handwriting. He must have told the candy-store people to write it for him.

  I put the candy on the coffee table and went back to my room. I didn't feel like writing letters anymore, so I sprawled across my bed and listened for Mom to come home.

  She couldn't believe her eyes when she saw the candy. She kept saying over and over again, "I wonder why he sent you a present. I wonder why he did this?"

  I wanted to tell her, but I couldn't. Besides, I hated to spoil it for her. She seemed so happy about it. So I pretended that I was surprised, too.

  The box of candy sat open but untouched on the coffee table for several days, which is strange because Mom and I are both great chocolate lovers. Finally the candy got dusty, and Mom threw it away. I was glad when it was gone. I had had a funny feeling while it was there, as if somebody had been watching me or something.

  The night she threw it away I had a hard time going to sleep. I kept thinking about that box of candy and about my father and wondering if there was any chance that he was thinking about me, too. Finally I got up and dug the box out of the garbage and got the card that said, "Love, Your Father," and put it in my boot box. After that, I went to sleep.

  When I called the next meeting of the Against Taffy Sinclair Club to order, I didn't ask for reports on Taffy Sinclair. I don't know why I didn't; I just didn't. Instead, I brought up something that had really been on my mind a lot the past few days: the Milo Venus Bust Developer.

  "We should be getting it any day now," I said. "We've got to figure out what we're going to do with it when it comes."

  "I think you should try it out first, Jana," said Melanie. "You're the president."

  "Besides, it's being mailed to you," said Christie. "It's logical that you should use it first."

  "Well, it was Beth's idea," I said hopefully. To be perfectly honest, I didn't really want to be the first one to try it out. After all, we didn't know that much about it. What if it was painful? Or dangerous? Maybe we would all get cancer and die. I was even sorry that Beth had sent for it in my name. What if it was six feet tall? I could never hide it from Mom then.

  "Let's take a vote," said Beth. From the way she said it, I could tell that she didn't want to be the first one either.

  I knew that I was doomed if we took a vote, but there was nothing else to do. I was right. I was elected four to one.

  Then I got this great idea. I would double my bust-developing exercises. I would triple them. I would do them every time I had a spare minute when no one was around. Surely then they would start to work, and I could say that it was all on account of the bust developer. No one would have to know that I hadn't really used it.

  Deep down I knew that it wasn't going to work. Every day I did my exercises until I thought my arms would drop off, and every day my measurements stayed the same. I knew my time was running out.

  I was right. Exactly three weeks from the day we ordered the Milo Venus Bust Developer, I found a note from Mrs. Lawson in the mailbox when I got home from school. She said she had another package for me. I guess she left the note so that she wouldn't have to climb the stairs again.

  She must have known that it was me because she was holding the package in her hand when she opened the door. At least it wasn't six feet tall.

  "My goodness, you're a popular girl these days," she said. She had a great big grin, and I tried to smile back, but my mouth was stuck.

  I thanked her and took the package upstairs to our apartment. It was the bust developer, all right. The name on the return address was Milo Venus Corporation, Inc.

  I took it into my room and closed the door. I threw it onto the bed as if it were a snake. Then I just stood there for a while and looked at it. I thought about putting it in the garbage and then telling my friends that it had never come. The more I thought about that idea, the better I liked it, even though it bothered me a little bit to waste the $19.95.

  It was almost time for Mom to come home, but I decided that before I threw the bust developer away I had to see at least what it looked like. I tore the paper off and opened the box.

  There was a tube of cream and a book of instructions, but most of the box was taken up by a funny cone-shaped thing. I was glad that I had decided to throw it away, because I didn't like the looks of that crazy contraption.

  Just then I heard Mom come into the apartment. "Jana," she shouted. "Are you home?"

  "Yeah, Mom," I said. "I'll be out in a minute."

  I was really glad that I'd closed my door, but I was still going to have to find someplace to stash the Milo Venus Bust Developer before Mom had a chance to see it. Just then I remembered my boot box. It was plenty big and almost empty, and what was best of all, Mom didn't even know it existed. I was pretty proud of myself for being so clever.

  After supper I was sitting in the living room plotting how I was going to dispose of the bust developer when the doorbell rang. Mom was on the phone talking to Pink, so I got up and opened the door.

  I nearly went into cardiac arrest. I couldn't have been more shocked if Frankenstein had been standing in the hall. I almost wished that it had been Frankenstein. But it wasn't. It was Mrs. Sinclair, Taffy's mother, and Taffy was standing beside her with red, puffy eyes. That would have been bad enough all by itself, but worst of all, Mrs. Sinclair was breathing fire and smoke and clutching my Against Taffy Sinclair Club notebook.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dragging Taffy by the arm, Mrs. Sinclair barged into the room like a storm trooper. Even the fire department wouldn't have come in like that if the room had been in flames and Mom and I had been lying on the floor overcome by smoke. She was huffing and puffing, and she swept right past me and pitched my notebook onto the sofa next to Mom, who by now had hung up the phone.

  "This is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen!" cried Mrs. Sinclair. "And I demand an instant apology from your daughter!"

  Taffy threw me a terrified look, and I have to admit that for an instant I felt sorrier for her than I did for myself. It must be really terrible to have a gorilla for a mother.

  "Won't you please sit down, Mrs. Sinclair," said Mom. She picked up the notebook and glanced at the first couple of pages. When she looked back at Mrs. Sinclair, who was still standing, she had the expression on her face that meant she was going to talk slowly because she would be thinking about every word before she said it.

  "I will not sit down," Mrs. Sinclair bellowed. "And furthermore, I intend to take the matter up with the principal of the school. The idea of a club designed to torment one innocent child is something that should not be unnoticed."

  I stood in the middle of the floor cringi
ng. I was cringing so hard it felt as if I were shrinking. Five more minutes of this and I'd probably be only about two inches tall. To make matters worse, while I was cringing, my whole life was passing before me. It was all over. I knew it. My life was over, and I wouldn't even be eleven for two more months.

  "Of course your daughter deserves an apology," said Mom. I couldn't believe how calm she was. "I also think that this is a good time for all of us to sit down and talk to each other and try to get to the root of the girls' problems."

  I gasped out loud, and everybody looked at me. I looked at the floor. I couldn't believe that Mom would say a thing like that. How could she expect me to talk to a gorilla?

  "There's nothing to talk about. Your daughter is a character assassin." Mrs. Sinclair glared at me when she said this, and I shrank another inch or two. "Someone like that on the loose can do permanent damage to shy, sensitive children like my Taffy."

  Just as a picture flashed into my mind of myself locked away somewhere in a dungeon, Mom sprang to her feet.

  "Just one moment, Mrs. Sinclair," she said. She had that deadly serious tone in her voice that I knew so well, and I was glad that she was talking to Mrs. Sinclair instead of me. A person is powerless to resist Mom when she gets that tone of voice. "I think you and I should go into the kitchen and discuss this over a cup of coffee like two mature adults," she said.

  Mrs. Sinclair glared at me again, but then she followed Mom into the kitchen just the way I knew she would. I would have been relieved except that on the way to the kitchen Mom gave me a look that said, "You'd better apologize, and you'd better make it good."