The Fantastic Library Rescue and Other Major Plot Twists

by Deborah Lytton

  But I love, love, love pickles. And I love, love, love cupcakes. So why not put them together?

  I tilt my head to the side, brushing my ponytail off my shoulder. And say, “Well, I think they’ll be a big hit. You’ll see.”

  Chapter 9

  Some Funny Things Aren’t Really Funny at All

  Weekends in the Starr family are busy. Here’s how everyone spends their time on Saturday:

  • Me: Practice piano. Watch two baking competitions with Sam. Read Starmist.

  • Sam: Soccer game. Basketball practice. Baseball practice. Watch baking show with Ruby.

  • Connor: Dissect an owl pellet. (An owl pellet is regurgitated, undigested food from the owl’s stomach. Can you say gross?) Read a science magazine. Practice piano.

  • Mom: Wash Abe. Read a book for book club. Try a new vegan recipe made with chickpeas.

  • Dad: Jog to the nearest coffee shop. Read the paper. Wash the car.

  • Abe: Sleep. Eat. Repeat.

  I’m lying on the sofa reading my book when Mom and Abe come into the room. Abe is still wet from his bath, and he shakes so that water droplets go flying around the room.

  “Abe! I have to return this book to my teacher,” I scold. I brush off the book on my sweatshirt. It’s actually a story told from the horse’s perspective like Black Beauty. I like it more than I thought I would.

  “Mom, can Charlotte come over on Wednesday to bake for the bake sale?”

  Mom is straightening up the room. Life with my brothers can get messy. “Wednesday is good. I can pick you up and bring you home to bake before my book club meeting. Charlotte can stay for pizza if you are still working in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I take a deep breath and tell her about the Poetry Unread. (This is what I am calling it now, but only to myself.)

  Mom sits down next me and brushes my curls back off my face. “It’s not like you to be late on an assignment.”

  I shrug. I don’t want to tell her that I was talking with my friends instead of working. Because then she will ask me what I was talking about that was so important. And I will have to tell her about Will P. I already know what she’ll say about that. Let’s just say that she will not agree with my friends.

  “I had writer’s block,” I begin. “And then it got worse. I couldn’t put one line of poetry together.”

  Mom doesn’t understand. She looks at me like she knows there is more to the story. But she is waiting for me to tell her. “You’ve written poems before.”

  “Not ones that I was going to read in front of the whole school. I wanted to write something special.” I don’t know what to say now. I know I should tell her the whole truth.

  Honesty is a big thing in our house. I know I should tell her. The words bubble up and try to come out. But I swallow them back when I imagine fake vomit on a cupcake tray.

  “The time got away from me” is the best I can do. It’s close enough to the real truth anyway.

  Mom still doesn’t look completely convinced. Do moms have some kind of lie detector built into their brains?

  “Well, your grandparents will be disappointed, but I will let them know not to come on Thursday. I hope your bake sale isn’t taking over your schoolwork.”

  And there it is.

  She’s closer to the truth than she knows. Actually, that is the truth. The thing is, if she already knows it without me saying it, why do I have to say it? That’s what I tell myself when I say softly, “It isn’t.” Even though we both know it is.

  • • •

  Sunday after church, we stop at Gram and Grandpa’s for lunch. Abe and George like to see each other for a play date at least once a week. I do wonder why Mom bothered to wash Abe before a day with George though. Because we have just climbed out of the car when George runs right through a muddy puddle and then jumps on his brother. The two dogs roll around on the grass, and then George pushes Abe into the puddle. They splash around and splatter mud all over the car, so now Dad’s time was wasted as well.

  Will these people ever learn?

  Grandpa is waiting at the door for us. He’s wearing his usual cardigan, and as always, his hair is a little messy on top like he forgot to brush it.

  “How’s my favorite girl?” he asks as he gives me a giant hug. “Reading anything good these days?”

  Grandpa is a book person too. And we always share a little about what we are reading. He’s a history professor so he reads a lot of books about American history.

  “I had a social studies test on the colonies on Friday. Our essay question asked us to write a pretend letter to King George III.”

  Grandpa grins at me. He loves to talk history. “Tell me all about it,” he says as he puts his arm around my shoulders. Then he hugs my brothers and my mom and dad.

  I’m about to tell Grandpa more about my essay, but Gram runs in from the kitchen with her yellow-and-red apron tied around her waist. “Helpers! I need helpers. Pronto!” Mom and Sam and I hurry to the kitchen to help get lunch ready.

  While I peel carrots, Gram asks me about the bake sale. “Still set on those pickle cupcakes, are you?”

  “Absolutely!” I tell her. Peeling carrots is hard work.

  Gram takes something out of the cabinet. “I got this for you.” She sets a jar of pickles down in front of me. These are not the usual jarred pickles I slip into the shopping cart. These are the fancy deli kind of pickles so they are superspecial.

  “Thank you!” I wrap my arms around her middle and squeeze as tight as I can. That’s Gram. Even if she doesn’t agree with me (because I know she doesn’t think the pickle cupcakes will be very good), she still supports me.

  After that, my grandma and Sam talk about colleges he likes. He’s still a few years away from going to college, but Dad says it’s never too early to talk about it.

  We eat lunch in the dining room today. Salad and sandwiches and lots of laughter. That’s life with my family. I could really enjoy it if there wasn’t a little voice (OK, it might be a squeaky, nudging, not-so-little voice) telling me that I am keeping something from all of them. All of these people I love. I look around the table at my brothers, parents, and grandparents. And I know what I have to do.

  So I tell them. All of it.

  I begin with: “I have to tell you something that I know you won’t like, but I’m telling you anyway.”

  I end with: “I’m sorry.”

  And it’s not as bad as I think it’s going to be.

  Dad is the first one to speak. “It seems you learned a lesson about procrastinating. If you leave something until the last minute, sometimes you can’t finish it. I know you wanted to read your poem out loud for all of us to hear.”

  “I got a little off track,” I admit. But I still don’t think I was wrong about Will P.

  “I’m just curious. Isn’t Will P your friend?” Sam asks me. “I thought you were part of his book club too.”

  “He is my friend. Or he was. I just said that because I didn’t want to tell him the truth.” It seems like I’ve been having a little trouble with the truth these days.

  “Tell us the truth then,” Mom says. I can’t tell what she thinks because her voice is kind of flat. The way it is when she is disappointed. I know she remembers our talk yesterday and that now she knows that I wasn’t telling her the whole story.

  “They have food fights, first of all. Sometimes they even eat the food after it’s all mixed up.” Dad covers his mouth to keep from laughing. This is not a laughing matter. “Like tuna with grapes.” I scrunch my nose. “And bitten pieces of salami.” Now Grandpa is covering his mouth too.

  “They throw all that food on the table?” Mom is still completely serious.

  I nod. “And then they fake vomit,” I begin. Connor snorts out a laugh and then covers his mouth. “But they pretend it’s real.”
I notice Sam is shaking from keeping his laughter inside. “Right on the lunch table.”

  Now even Mom and Gram can’t hide the smiles.

  “That was very specific,” Mom comments.

  Then all at once, the entire room bursts out laughing. No one can stop. Grandpa is dabbing his eyes with his napkin. Gram is holding her stomach. And Connor is falling out of his chair.

  The only one not laughing—

  Is me.

  Because some funny things aren’t really funny at all.

  • • •

  Later, after we get home, my parents come to my room and I get a “talk.” I don’t really want to dwell on the details. Let’s just say they remind me that being a good friend means putting the other person first. And that excluding Will was wrong, especially since he was there for me when I really needed a friend. Apparently, loyalty means sticking by someone no matter what, even if his friends fake vomit on the table. The worst part is that my mom and dad are right.

  If Will had done the same thing to me, I would have been really hurt. Sometimes it helps to imagine being the person on the other side. At least it does for me. Things look really different when you flip them around.

  Me: It’s just a Unicorn and Macaron thing. Will: [Silent walk away]

  Will: It’s just a Polar Bear thing. Me: [Silent walk away]

  Definitely different.

  • • •

  Monday morning comes faster than I would have liked. I’m not a Monday person anyway, but this Monday is trying my patience. I might have to remove Mondays from my week altogether.

  First, it’s clear when I say hello to Will P that he is giving me the Shun. Someone would only recognize the Shun for two reasons:

  You have received the Shun before.

  You have given someone the Shun. (And that’s even worse.)

  I’m sorry to say that I fit in the second category. It wasn’t my best moment. The Shun is when you pretend someone doesn’t exist. You act like they are totally invisible. That’s what Will does to me. Let me explain that receiving the Shun is as bad as it sounds.

  Next, Mrs. S has a printed list for the order in which our class will be reading their poems. Everyone but me and Daisy is reading. Even Will B is reading. For some reason, that makes me even more depressed.

  • • •

  At lunch, I barely taste my carrot muffin and celery sticks. Mom usually sends me the same lunches so when I get a different one, it’s like a silent message from her. It’s code for I love you and I’m thinking of you. Sometimes it really helps. Today, not so much. Even when you know why someone is giving you the Shun, and even when you know you sort of maybe deserve it a little, it still makes your stomach hurt.

  Then my friends want to practice their poems. One more reminder of the disaster I have made for myself. Daisy and I sit on the field and listen as each one reads her poem. I have to admit, they are impressive. I have some pretty creative friends. Siri has managed to find information about the Statue of Liberty without making the poem seem like a history lesson. Charlotte has written a poem all about reading and books. To someone like me who knows what Charlotte was like when she first came here, it’s an awesome moment.

  Jessica has written a haiku about horses. She has even written a second one about dogs. I like the horse one a little better (but don’t tell her ’cause I say I love them both). Daisy is happy to listen because she chose not to speak. I didn’t choose not to speak. I just messed up and lost my chance. So it’s different for me.

  I mope through the rest of the day trying not to notice that Will P talks to everyone else except me. By the time Mom picks me up, I am exhausted. All I can think about is climbing in bed with my stuffed white rabbit. (I’ve had him since I was two.) Mom and I had planned to run to the grocery store to get all the ingredients for when Charlotte comes over on Wednesday. Even though it should be fun to pick out frosting and sprinkles and cute cupcake wrappers, it’s kind of not fun. I pretend it is for Mom because she’s taking time to help me and buy all these groceries. But I’m like a doughnut.

  Chapter 10

  Sprinkles and a Shun Are a Recipe for Disaster (with a Capital D)

  Tuesday isn’t much better than Monday, even though it’s Book Club Tuesday. Except that we cancel the meeting because we have to make signs for the bake sale. So it’s not even like Book Club Tuesday at all.

  Making the signs seems like fun at first. We get to go into the auditorium and draw on poster boards. I have just finished drawing tiny books with wings and writing SAVE THE LIBRARY in giant bubble letters when Will P and the Polar Bears come into the room with Principal Snyder.

  I wish I could fly away with my own wings.

  I am sitting in the auditorium. Suddenly, Will P and the Polar Bears walk in. I unfurl my giant golden wings and take off into the sky. I fly in formation with the tiny books with wings from my poster. We travel over mountains, across valleys, and through jungles. We drop rolled pages of our stories like presents all over the world for people to read. We share the gift of words with everyone.

  Only I’m not flying over mountains. I am stuck here in school, and now I am trapped. Why would Will P be here? And with the principal. Am I in Trouble?

  Then this happens:

  “Girls, you have some helpers with your bake sale. Will and Bryden came to me and asked to help raise money with you. I think it’s wonderful to have so many students who want to give back. I have suggested they set up a separate table and manage their own baked goods. The more, the merrier.”

  It might be OK if I hadn’t said what I said to Will. It also might be OK if he wasn’t still giving me the Shun. But he is. I can tell from the way he says hello to all the other girls but not me. Then he asks Siri to pass him a poster board even though the pile is closest to me.

  That’s when I get mad. Not steam-coming-out-of-my-ears mad like a cartoon character. Just pinching my mouth into a straight line and scrunching my eyes mad. If he thinks his gross cupcakes will make more money than our delicious ones, then he isn’t as smart as I thought he was.

  I’d like to say the worst part of the day is over. But I can’t. Because after lunch is the poetry rehearsal. And I have to sit in a chair and watch every single fifth grader read a poem. Correction: every single fifth grader except for me and Daisy. Even Jason is up there on stage completely awake. And guess what? His haiku about the sky is one of the best poems.

  • • •

  Wednesday isn’t much better. It’s dress rehearsal day. Did I mention that special clothes are required for this event? Everyone is asked to wear black pants or skirts and white tops. The teachers want it to be really formal. Did I mention I messed up and I’m not participating?

  I droop through lunch and count the minutes until the day will be over. When Mom picks me and Charlotte up after school, I am so happy I could sing a little song about pickle cupcakes.

  Mom has apples and peanut butter already waiting on two plates in the kitchen. After we eat, we are ready to get to work.

  “I’ve cleared the afternoon so I can help you girls bake. Gram is picking up Sam and Connor, and I am all yours,” Mom tells us with a big smile. She is wearing her stay-at-home clothes—a flowy white shirt and cuffed jeans.

  Maybe it’s the Poetry Unread. Maybe it’s something else. But I am a little prickly. I’m a bear that missed its hibernation day. So this is what I say to my mom:

  “Actually, we want to do this on our own.”

  I try not to notice the look on Mom’s face at that moment. It makes something in my heart twinge, almost like it has skipped a beat. But she doesn’t argue. She just pastes a smile on her face that I know isn’t her real smile and sets out the bowls and baking trays. Then she leaves us alone. I flip on the old radio and play some oldies. I’m determined to make this special.

  “Let’s make the same batter for both c
upcakes. Then we can separate it, and I will add my pickles.”

  “I’ve never baked from scratch before,” Charlotte tells me. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and washes her hands at the sink. “I’m ready!”

  I take out Mom’s cookbook, and we follow along with the recipe. Except that baking is easier with Mom and Sam. Because Charlotte and I make a little teeny bit of a mess.

  “We need two cups of flour,” I say as I open the bag of flour and try to pour it into the measuring cup. Somehow, more flour lands on the counter than in the cup. I use a butter knife to level off the top of the measuring cup.

  “Looks good,” Charlotte says as she dumps the flour into a bowl. She checks the recipe. “Next, one half teaspoon of salt.”

  The salt container is way bigger than the little teeny one half teaspoon. So when she pours out the salt, it spills over the sides and onto the floor. Now Charlotte and I are slip-sliding around the kitchen.

  “My brother showed me how to crack an egg into a bowl with only one hand,” I share. “He says it’s all in the flick of the wrist.” It’s true that Sam can crack an egg with one hand just like the chefs on television. I’ve never tried it though. Until now.

  I hold an egg against the side of the mixing bowl. Tap. Tap.

  Nothing happens. I barely see a little scratch in the surface of the shell. I’m not sure how to break an egg and flick my wrist at the same time.

  “Maybe you need to hit it harder,” Charlotte suggests.

  So I tap a bit harder. Now there is a small crack on the side of the shell. But it’s not cracked enough to split in half.

  “Go ahead,” she encourages.

  So I do. I smash the egg against the edge of the bowl and twist my hand around at the same time. Only instead of splitting the shell neatly into two sides so that the egg drops into the bowl, I end up crunching the shell into tiny pieces and exploding the insides of the egg all over my hand and even dripping some down my arm.