“See?” he asked, through his smushed-up mouth. “I’m halfway through.”
I was just about to laugh at his joke about squashing himself into the wall when he pulled away and turned to face me. His face was glowing, and I realized something: he believed it. He really believed he was transmogrifying his Waylon-molecules through the cafeteria wall.
“Um,” I said. “But it has to be a project about testing factors, with control subjects…I think.”
“That’s where you come in,” Waylon said. “You could be the control subject. Like rats One through Ten. You’ll be the one who can’t transmogrify, who proves that I can.”
“Waylon, I don’t think this is going to work,” I said.
“Why not?” Waylon sat down again and squint-eyed me. “Can you transmogrify too? Maybe we should use one of my other powers.…”
Just then the meanest lunchroom lady, the one who always says no to more chocolate milk, came out and glared at my class, which meant they were making the really big mistake of laughing when they were supposed to be eating.
I suddenly worried about Eighteen. I hoped he wouldn’t wander into the lunchroom and think it was a good place to set up his new home. I never liked the story of the three blind mice, with all those carving knives.
When I turned back to Waylon, he was still going on about his superpowers, and that made me feel really lonely, the way I did when Margaret was blabbering about makeup. It felt like now Waylon was getting on an airplane, too, going somewhere I couldn’t go. I finished my lunch without talking anymore, and even the applesauce tasted sour.
Waylon followed me out at recess and started in again. Apparently, one of his superpowers wasn’t being able to figure out when people didn’t want to talk to him.
“Or maybe our project could be about my selective invisibility,” he said.
“Invisibility?” I asked, getting a little bit interested again.
“Uh-huh,” Waylon said. “That’s in development, too. Haven’t you ever noticed me getting invisible? Sometimes it happens in gym class. I don’t like gym class.”
“You get invisible in gym class?”
“Well, not yet,” Waylon said. “I get kind of cloudy. You never noticed that?”
“No, sorry. How about we do something about dinosaurs? You can’t get more science-y than dinosaurs.”
“No, my superpowers are better. I’ll show you my invisibility.” Waylon looked around to make sure nobody was watching us. Then he rolled up his coat sleeve and his shirtsleeve and stuck out his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook a little. “There,” he said. “See?”
“See what?”
“My arm! See how it’s a little bit invisible? How you can sort of see through it?”
“I see that you’re shivering,” I said. “It’s freezing out.”
“No, I’m getting invisible. Can’t you see that?”
I looked at Waylon’s face to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t kidding.
“I don’t know. Maybe a little. I have to go in now,” I said. Because suddenly I did.
I ran across the playground and barged into our classroom, even though the rule is no coming back inside unless it’s an emergency.
“It’s an emergency,” I said to Mr. D’Matz, who was correcting papers at his desk. “It’s unfair our rat got lost, and it’s unfair I have to do a whole new report, and it’s unfair I have to have Waylon for a partner.”
Mr. D’Matz leaned back in his chair. “I’m hearing the word unfair a lot, Clementine.”
“That’s because the whole thing is so unfair!” I said. “You might as well call it the Science Un-Fair project!”
“What exactly is so unfair?”
“Everything!”
“Everything?”
I nodded.
“Everything?”
“Well…”
“What is the biggest unfair thing about it?”
“That nobody asked us. They just decided.”
“We’ve talked about this. It’s the teacher’s job to teach and the students’ job to learn. Both of you have to decide about how best to do that.”
“But what if we don’t need another brother or sister? What if our family is perfect the way we are?”
I clapped my hands over my mouth when I realized what I had said. But Mr. D’Matz didn’t seem surprised that we weren’t talking about science fairs anymore. He just looked at me for a long while, and then he said, “Oh.”
“Right,” I said. “Oh. My parents should have asked my brother and me.”
“Well, I think that’s not how it usually goes. Parents decide these things.”
“But they didn’t tell us.”
Mr. D’Matz nodded. “Parents often don’t. Not for a while. They choose their timing.”
I suddenly felt like I was going to cry if I said one more word, so I made my mouth into a ruler line.
Mr. D’Matz tipped his head. He looked as if he was trying to decide something. “You know, Clementine,” he said after a while, “this is something we have in common.”
I was so surprised I forgot about not talking. “Really? Your parents are having another baby, too?”
He laughed. “No. Well, at least I don’t think so.… No, no, I’m sure they’re not. What I meant was that my wife and I are expecting a baby. In just a few months.”
“What?” Some of my Clementine sections were so excited! Mr. D’Matz was always bringing things in from home—his collection of Hawaiian shirts, his baseball cards. Zippy and Bump, the hamsters, were actually his. Maybe he’d bring his baby in, too, and pass it around.
But some of my sections were mad, too. “How come you didn’t tell us?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, when to tell and who to tell—it’s a private decision. For the parents.”
“But that’s not fair! You know stuff about us!”
My teacher pointed to a sign we’d put up at the beginning of school.
FAIR DOESN’T MEAN EVERYONE GETS THE SAME THING. FAIR MEANS EVERYONE GETS WHAT THEY NEED.
“Do you remember how that works?” he asked.
“I know,” I said. “It means I get to stand up and wiggle around if I need to. It means Kyla gets to drink some orange juice when it’s not even snack time.”
“That’s exactly right. And knowing what’s going on in your lives helps me teach you.”
“Well…don’t you think it would help us to learn if we knew what was going on in your life?”
Mr. D’Matz was quiet for a minute as he thought about it. “You know, Clementine,” he said at last, “you just might have a point. I’m going to have to think about it, though. For now, I’d appreciate it if you kept what I told you…” He made his fingers into the letter P, which is our secret signal.
“Got it,” I said. “Private. Me, too. I’d appreciate it if you kept what I told you about my family”—I made the secret signal, too—“private.”
Mr. D’Matz shook my hand, and then I went back out to recess. I was surprised I didn’t have to duck when I went through the door, because I was sure I had grown about three feet taller.
That afternoon, when the two-fifteen bell rang, I hurried to the science room again, because one good thing had happened during the day: I had remembered where my hat was. I had thought really hard about it, and suddenly I saw it like a picture in my brain, tossed on the bookshelf in the science room yesterday afternoon. This means I have developed a photographic memory, which is really good news if I ever get on a game show—I am going to win every prize they have.
“I have to pull out the bookshelf,” I told Mrs. Resnick as I skidded in. “I left my hat here yesterday, and it must have fallen down behind.”
Mrs. Resnick helped me slide the bookshelf away from the wall. No hat. Just an empty floor.
“But it was there! I know it was!” I said. But okay, fine, now maybe I wasn’t so sure.
“Well, hats don’t get up and walk away by themselves.…” Mrs. Resnick s
aid.
Which I knew. And which reminded me…
“He didn’t come back, did he?”
“Your rat?” said Mrs. Resnick. “No, sorry. I think we’re going to have to accept that he’s made an escape.”
I looked around the room. He could have gotten out under the door, or through the heating ducts, or even in someone’s backpack. “I guess you’re right,” I said. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Mrs. Resnick nodded as if she was sure of it. “Oh, yes. Rats are very smart. Very adaptable. He’s probably happily setting up a new home somewhere in the building.”
“What about our project?”
“I know you and Waylon put a lot of work into your training. And I remember you wrote an excellent report. But we’ll have to find something else for you to do now. I’ll think about it and have an answer for you on Friday.”
When I got home, I found my mother lying on the floor in the living room, with my brother lying next to her.
“I’m doing my pregnant-lady exercises,” she told me. “Your brother is keeping me company.”
I dropped my backpack onto a chair and got down beside them. “I remember this,” I said. “From when you were having Potato. I used to lie down with you and talk to him inside your stomach.”
I showed my brother what I meant, and he got the idea right away. He put his mouth on our mother’s shirt and yelled for the baby to come out and play.
My mother laughed. “It’s a little early for that,” she explained. Then she sat up. “Would you like to see a picture of what the baby looks like right now?”
I said nope, but she reached over to the coffee table and picked up a booklet anyway. She thumbed through a couple of pages and then held it out. “Your brother or sister is about five inches long,” she said.
My brother looked at the picture and then threw his head back and laughed as if she had just told him the funniest joke in the world.
I took the booklet for a closer look. It showed a little pink thing, part human, part fish, part… “It looks like Eighteen,” I said. “It looks like a little rat now. Except Eighteen is cute.”
I looked at the picture again. It wasn’t a rat. It was a real baby. And that gave me the most astoundishing idea I had ever had in my life. “Hey, Mom. This booklet sure is science-y, right?”
“Science-y? Well, I guess…”
“Mom, when can you have this baby? Like in two weeks? Then you could be my science project!”
My mom laughed really hard. “Oh, no, Clementine. Babies take a long time to grow, and they pick their timing. This baby will be here sometime in early July, but it will keep its birthday a big surprise.”
I sighed. What I had said yesterday was right. This baby sure wasn’t going to help with any of my problems.
On the bus Wednesday morning, Margaret said I looked even worse. “Completely washed out. Even your teeth have faded. I guess this means you couldn’t talk them out of it.”
Sometimes Margaret was N-O-T, not helpful.
“You can’t talk someone out of having a baby, Margaret,” I said. “They’ve already started. It’s already kicking my mom and stuff.”
“Well, then, what are they going to name it? A fruit, like you, or a vegetable, like your brother?”
I looked at Margaret. That was a really good question. “My brother has a regular name,” I reminded her. “I just call him vegetable names to make things fair. Still, I think the baby should have a food name.…”
“Maybe a soup name,” Margaret said. “Or a sandwich. Or a dessert.”
“Those are good ideas, Margaret,” I said. Then I rolled up my sleeve and wrote them down on my arm so I wouldn’t forget. Not dessert, though—I like dessert. “I know—we should name the baby Mushroom Soup.”
“You hate mushroom soup the worst,” Margaret said.
“Exactly right.”
In school, at Morning Circle Time, Mr. D’Matz said, “I would like to start by sharing something about myself.”
All the kids whipped to attention, surprised. Except me. I gave him a tiny secret smile.
“I’m going to be a father soon,” he said. “My wife and I are expecting a baby.”
Everyone went crazy then, talking at once and making noises like this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the history of the world.
Finally Mr. D’Matz held up his hand to calm things down. “I’m wondering how many of you have had new babies come into your families.”
About half the kids’ hands shot up. I raised my hand, too, but I looked at Mr. D’Matz hard, to remind him about our privacy agreement. He gave me the slightest nod.
“Would anyone like to share what it was like to have a new brother or sister?” he asked the class.
One after the other, kids raised their hands and talked about how great it was to have a new baby come into the family. How cute the babies were, how much fun.
I said my times tables really loud in my head.
“Is there anyone else here who’d like to share something?” Mr. D’Matz looked around the circle. His eyes stopped at me for just a second, and he raised his eyebrows.
“Nope,” I said. “Nobody else has anything to share.”
The rest of the day didn’t get any better. I went to the Lost and Found, and there were eleven winter hats there. None of them was mine. On the way back, I stopped Mr. Riley, the custodian, and asked him to keep an eye out for Eighteen. But he said a sixth grader had knocked a water fountain off the wall, and it would be a miracle if he could keep the whole second floor from flooding. And at lunch, Waylon told me his new plan of using his X-ray vision as a science project, but when he tried to guess what was in my lunch bag, he couldn’t even see the juice box poking out of the top.
Back in the classroom, I started worrying about Eighteen again. Danger was everywhere: what if he crawled into a pencil sharpener? I scratched at my elbows. What if he got trapped in a locker? I scraped my itchy shoulders up and down the back of my chair. What if he wandered into the boys’ room and got flushed down the drain? My scratchy skin wanted to peel itself off my bones.
Finally I excused myself and left to see Principal Rice.
Okay, fine, I didn’t actually excuse myself and leave. My teacher sent me. But I would have excused myself and left if I’d had to sit still in my worried skin for one second more.
“It’s been a while, Clementine,” Mrs. Rice said. “What are we here for today?”
“I’m worried about Eighteen,” I said, handing her the note from Mr. D’Matz. “It’s making me itchy.”
“That’s odd,” Mrs. Rice said, reading the note. “According to this, we’re here to talk about your not distracting the other students.”
“You probably just read the note too fast,” I said. I added an understanding smile, because I read things too fast sometimes also. “It probably says the other students were distracting me. From worrying about Eighteen.”
Mrs. Rice read the note again, shook her head, then put it down. “Well, anyway,” she said. “You’re worried about a number?”
“Oh, no. Eighteen’s his name. Our rat. Waylon and I—”
“Oh, right,” Mrs. Rice interrupted me. “The one who made the breakout from the science room over the weekend.”
“That’s him,” I said. “This is a really dan-gerous place if you’re a rat. We have to shut down the school and search… Wait! You already knew about Eighteen?”
Mrs. Rice nodded. “Mrs. Resnick told me yesterday. I sent a memo to the custodians and the lunchroom staff.”
“You already did? Well, good,” I said. But somehow I didn’t feel good. Finally it hit me. “You mean the custodians knew? Even Mr. Riley?”
Mrs. Rice nodded again. “So everyone’s on the lookout. I hope that’s going to cut down on the distractions in your classroom, whoever is distracting whom.”
I sat there, thinking about all the things that grown-ups knew and hadn’t told kids. And trying to think of a s
ingle thing that kids knew and hadn’t told grown-ups.
Finally I came up with one. “My teacher is getting a baby. He told us today.”
“Yes, I know. It’s exciting news, isn’t it?”
“You knew that, too?”
“I knew that, too,” Mrs. Rice said.
“Can I be all done being here?” I asked.
“That depends,” Mrs. Rice said. “Are you still feeling itchy?”
I said no, which was true—now I was feeling too mad to be itchy—and I went back to my classroom.
I was still mad when I got home from school. I announced my bad mood when I opened the door.
“It’s just me, Sport,” my dad called, coming into the hall. “Your mom’s at the library with your brother. What’s the problem?”
“Everything,” I growled.
My dad pulled his apartment manager keys out of his pocket. “Do you need to take a few rides?”
Usually when I’m upset, riding the service elevator calms me down. Not today.
I shook my head. “What I need is to find my last year’s winter hat.” I opened the hall closet and dragged out everything that was in the way of the stroller. I climbed up on it to take a look around.
“Careful, there,” my dad said. “We’re going to need that.”
“No we don’t,” I said. “String Bean walks great now.”
“He’s still a little guy,” my dad pointed out. “His legs still get tired.”
I climbed down. “What about my tired legs?” I asked. “I have tired legs all the time. How come nobody cares about them? If I have to walk, he should have to walk.”
My dad just looked at me, which made me know I was being too crabby. Still.
“Besides, pretty soon we’ll need it for the new baby. Hey, is this what you’re looking for?” He handed me my last-year’s hat.
It had only three colors. There were no yarn tails sticking out. It looked tight and itchy. I threw it into the back of the closet.
“Want to tell me what else is wrong?” my dad asked.
Clementine and the Family Meeting Page 3
