Beatrice
More
Moves In
Alison Hughes
illustrated by Helen Flook
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Text copyright © 2015 Alison Hughes
Illustrations copyright © 2015 Helen Flook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hughes, Alison, 1966 –, author
Beatrice More moves in / Alison Hughes ; illustrated by Helen Flook.
(Orca echoes)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0761-7 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0762-4 (pdf).—
ISBN 978-1-4598-0763-1 (epub)
I. Flook, Helen, illustrator II. Title. III. Series: Orca echoes
PS8615.U3165B43 2015 jC813'.6 C2015-901726-2
C2015-901727-0
First published in the United States, 2015
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935531
Summary: Beatrice struggles to manage her hopelessly disorganized family in an effort to make a professional start in her new neighborhood in this early chapter book.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover artwork and interior illustrations by Helen Flook
Author photo by Barbara Heintzman
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1
For my sisters,
Maureen and Jen
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
It wasn’t that Beatrice More didn’t like boxes. She did.
She especially liked boxes that were perfect squares. They stacked easily. They held things that would otherwise mess up the house. They were neat and tidy.
But today Beatrice was sick of boxes. Very, very sick of boxes. Looking around her new house, all she could see were stacks of them. On the floor. On the kitchen counters. On the furniture.
Boxes everywhere.
Beatrice had tried to tell the movers where to put the boxes. But they just carried them in and dumped them anywhere.
She tried to scrub off the smudgy, sticky handprints the movers left on the walls. But they kept making them faster than she could scrub them off.
She said, “Somebody’s walking through the house with their shoes on!” very loudly several times before her mother finally shushed her.
The moving guys were horrible listeners. They just smiled, carried in more boxes with their sticky hands and kept making a bigger and bigger mess.
But the movers were gone now. The big, noisy moving truck was just pulling away from the driveway.
“It’s about time,” grumbled Beatrice. She stood in the living room with her hands on her hips. As she looked around, her eyes narrowed.
“What a dump,” she said to herself, shaking her head slowly.
Her mother came into the room. She looked around happily.
“Well, this is exciting!” she said. “A new house, a new neighborhood, a new city! Are you excited, Bee?”
“Beatrice.” How many times had she told her family not to call her Bee? Nine thousand? Nineteen thousand? Ninety thousand? Bee was not a name at all. It was a letter. Or worse, an insect. An insect that buzzed annoyingly. An insect people ran away from, screaming.
Bee certainly wasn’t the name of a future Olympic gymnastics gold-medal winner.
Or a future prize-winning scientist. Or a famous artist or writer. And those were all on Beatrice’s list of Very Successful Careers to Consider.
“Have you looked at this place, Mom?” Beatrice said. “It’s a mess! There are way, way too many boxes!”
“Well, Bee,” said her mother, pushing her frizzy hair out of her eyes, “we only moved in this morning! We’re just getting started.”
Beatrice crossed her arms.
“I’ve already unpacked my room. Perfectly.”
It was the first room she had all to herself. The first room she didn’t have to share with her messy little sister, Sophie. Beatrice loved her new room. It was perfect.
“Wow. Really?” Her mother looked impressed. “Want to show me?”
On the door to Beatrice’s room there was a small, square sign with neat purple letters.
“Ah, here’s your room,” said her mother, smiling at the sign. She looked down at her grubby hands and rubbed them on her jeans.
“Now, if I let you in, you can’t touch anything,” warned Beatrice. “Nothing. You can’t wrinkle the bed or rumple the carpet or touch anything at all.”
“Got it. I won’t even breathe.”
Beatrice opened the door.
The purple quilt on the bed was perfectly smooth. Not one wrinkle or ripple. The pillow was perfectly plumped. A square purple-and-white rug sat exactly in the center of the room.
The small white desk was perfectly clean. All of Beatrice’s lists were stacked neatly in the top drawer. Each book in the bookcase had a special place—tallest to shortest. The stuffed animals on the bed were lined up alphabetically, from Annabelle (a duck) to Zeke (a horse).
“Well, you’re right, Bee,” sighed her mother. “It’s perfect. But don’t you want it to look a little lived-in? Maybe a little less perfect?”
Beatrice wasn’t listening.
“Check out my closet,” Beatrice said. She swung open the door. “Ta-daaaah!”
Beatrice’s closet was, if possible, even neater than the rest of the room.
“Note the matching purple hangers,” she said, “and the way I’ve hung all the clothes by color—blue, red, white, yellow and, of course, my favorite color, purple.”
Her mother leaned against the doorjamb.
“How on earth do you live in the rest of our house?” she asked softly, shaking her head.
Beatrice didn’t hear her. She was carefully shutting her closet door.
“Well, kiddo, your room looks great. Perfect, in fact,” her mom said. “I guess I better start on the rest of this house. Why don’t you see how Sophie’s doing with her new room?”
“Good idea,” Beatrice said.
Her little sister should have unpacked at least some of her boxes by now. But Beatrice didn’t expect much. Sophie was only four years old, after all. Four years younger than Beatrice.
Beatrice looked over at Sophie’s room. There was a torn scrap of paper taped crookedly to the door.
Sophie had taped the paper to the door first, then written on it. The long tail of the y went down off the paper onto the white door.
Beatrice licked her finger and scrubbed at the smudge on the door. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. It didn’t come off.
“Permanent marker,” Beatrice said through gritted teeth. She made a mental note to include Sophie’s door on her list of Things That Are Annoyingly Hard to Clean.
She sighed and knocked at the door.
“Sophie? Are you in there? Are you all right?”
There was a muffled giggle and some shuffly sounds. Beatrice tried to open the door. It opened a
tiny bit, then stopped.
It was stuck.
Stuck, Beatrice thought grimly, in a huge pile of Sophie-mess.
Chapter Two
Beatrice pushed and pushed at the door. It opened just a little bit more. Enough for her to squeeze her arm through.
She waved her arm into the room.
“Sophie, SOPHIE! The door’s stuck!”
Beatrice heard a crash and more muffled giggling and shuffling.
Well, she’s alive, Beatrice thought. She’s hopelessly messy, but she’s alive.
Beatrice pushed at the door. She opened and closed it. She pushed some more. She backed up a few steps, then ran at the door. She thumped it hard with her shoulder.
More giggles from inside the room.
“I’m trying to rescue you, Sophie!” shouted Beatrice, rubbing her shoulder.
Inch by inch, Beatrice pushed the door. And inch by inch, the mess on the other side of the door moved back. Finally, there was just enough room, if Beatrice sucked in her breath very hard, for her to slide in sideways.
“This better not mess up my ponytail,” Beatrice said.
She kicked away the boxes that had fallen in front of the door, opened the door wide and looked around.
Her heart sank. The room was a complete disaster. There were mountains of toys. There were piles of clothes. There were heaps of stuffed animals. There were empty boxes littering the floor.
Beatrice crossed her arms.
Her left eye twitched.
This family is hopeless, she thought. We’ve only been in our new house for a few hours, and it’s already a dump.
“Sophie? Where are you?” called Beatrice sharply.
“Dat you, Bee? I’m unner here!” called Sophie.
Beatrice turned and tripped over a half-unrolled carpet. She got up and stubbed her toe hard against a plastic bin of toys.
“Ahhhhh!” she cried. She hopped on one foot and rubbed her toe.
“Here I am!” shrieked Sophie, throwing back the blanket on the bed. She sat up with a huge smile on her face. Some of her curly red hair stuck to her face. The rest of it stood straight up from her head in a bushy mess.
“Aha, there you are,” said Beatrice, trying to smooth and pat down Sophie’s hair. It wouldn’t go down. It never did. SOPHIE’S HAIR was in capital letters on Beatrice’s list of Things I Cannot Control (But Wish I Could). The list also included Time, The ocean and The smell in our car.
Beatrice slid a hand over her own brown hair, relieved to find her ponytail was as neat as ever. Her hair was much neater than Sophie’s, but there were waves in it, which annoyed her. She wanted perfectly straight hair. So Beatrice brushed her hair a lot, one hundred brush strokes every night.
“What have you been doing, Sophie?” Beatrice asked.
“Me an’ my toys been playing BIG FORT! Mrs. Cow don’t like it though.”
She held out a crabby-looking baby doll. Mrs. Cow was Sophie’s favorite toy.
“Doesn’t. Mrs. Cow doesn’t like it,” corrected Beatrice.
“Right. A ’cause of the darknest,” said Sophie in a dramatic whisper behind her hand.
“Because of the darkness,” said Beatrice. She looked at the scowling doll. “Why do you call her Mrs. Cow, Sophie? She’s not actually a cow.”
“A ’cause she’s married to Mr. Cow, a ’course!” Sophie laughed and pointed to a large, smiling, stuffed yellow rabbit. Mr. Cow did not seem to be aware of his cranky doll-wife.
Beatrice closed her eyes.
“Okay. Whatever. Sophie, why haven’t you put anything away? Your room’s a total mess,” she said. “Need some help?”
“It’s all done!” said Sophie happily.
Beatrice stared at Sophie. “You’re going to leave it this way?”
“Yup. I love it like this.”
“But all the boxes…” protested Beatrice.
“I play in ’em.”
“Your books…” Beatrice looked over to the corner where a box of books had been dumped on the floor in a fluttery heap, like an odd little book-bush.
“I can reach ’em all,” explained Sophie.
“What about your toys?” said Beatrice. She waved her hand at the mountains of toys around the room. Dolls and stuffed animals and blocks and puzzle pieces were all heaped in piles. “At least let me help you organize those.”
“No! Don’t touch ’em!” shrieked Sophie.
She slid off the bed in a crashing heap and stumbled over to her toys. “I like ’em all over the place ’cause I can roll in ’em!”
She and grumpy Mrs. Cow began rolling in the toys.
Beatrice shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She remembered her list of Things To Do When I Feel Like Exploding. She had written it yesterday.
This was the list:
1. Don’t say anything
(note: things said before
exploding can be mean and
unprofessional)
2. Count to ten (note: I do
not find this very effective.
Add to list of Things Supposed
to Work Which Do Not)
3. Imagine a peaceful, lovely,
perfectly organized something
(like my room or my lists or
making lists in my room)
4. Imagine actually
exploding (very messy)
5. Growl to myself
6. Add to my Things That
Are Frustrating list
7. Take Edison for a walk
(fresh air + exercise = calm)
“Rrrrrrrr…” growled Beatrice quietly, trying out number five. It helped a little.
She walked quickly out of Sophie’s room, shut the door on the mess and went across to her own room. She sat at her desk and opened a drawer. She got out her list of Things That Are Frustrating.
She found the end of the list.
216. Messy movers
Then she wrote:
217. Sophie’s hopelessly
messy new room
She thought a bit more, then wrote:
218. Sophie’s hair (but she
can’t help it)
She flipped back through many pages to the beginning of the list.
“This is becoming my longest list ever,” she said to her perfect room.
Chapter Three
Beatrice went to find Edison.
She had named their dog after Thomas Edison, the great inventor. He was on Beatrice’s list of Highly Successful, Very Professional People Who Have Done Great Things.
Her family also had a goldfish. Sophie had named him Super-Pig. Beatrice liked to think Sophie named him Super-Pig because he ate a lot, but she wasn’t sure.
“Edison!” she called. “Time for walkies!”
Beatrice walked Edison three times a day. She had read every puppy book in the library. They all said responsible dog owners should walk their dogs at least twice a day. So Beatrice figured that three walks a day would make her the best pet owner she could be.
Beatrice looked for Edison in the downstairs mess.
“Edison!” she called louder. “Walk!”
Edison was a big, lazy, shaggy brown dog. He had sleepy eyes and a very big, very drooly mouth. He dearly loved sleeping, especially in sunbeams. Napping, resting and bedtime were three of his favorite activities. He dreaded walks.
“Edison!” yelled Beatrice.
There was no answer. No sound of heavy paws padding down the hall.
“Probably hiding again,” she said. Edison usually “hid” by shoving his head under a bed or a sofa.
“Mom, have you seen Edison? I can’t find him in all this mess.”
Her mother was lying on the couch. She looked up from the book she was reading.
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere,” she said. “Eddie! Ed!”
When he heard the voice of his friend who gave him treats, Edison came lurching up the stairs.
He stopped when he saw Beatrice with the leash in her hand.
He turned and tried to bolt back downstairs, but she caught him around his middle and hauled him back. She wrestled him over to the door.
“You silly dog!” Beatrice said cheerfully. She clipped the leash to Edison’s collar. “You always pretend you don’t want to go.”
Beatrice gave a brisk tug on the leash. Edison sat down heavily, looking back with pleading eyes toward his treat-giving friend. Beatrice went behind him and pushed him. She pushed and pulled him out the door.
“We’ll be back soon, Mom,” Beatrice panted. “And then I’ll help you get this house organized!”
“Mm hmm,” said her mom, flipping a page in her book. “Take your time, Bee.”
Chapter Four
Beatrice dragged Edison a few steps down the sidewalk. Then he lurched onto the grass and lay on his side.
“Every time, Edison. You do this every single time,” said Beatrice. She finally reached into her pocket. “Will a treat help?”
Edison’s eyes brightened. His ears snapped up. He sat clumsily and waved a big paw. He wolfed the treat down. Then he shook himself, gobs of drool flying from his mouth.
“I love you, Edison,” said Beatrice as they started to walk, “but you are one slobbery dog.”
Beatrice looked back at their new house. It was a pretty white house with a blue front door. Through the big living room windows, all she could see were stacks and stacks of boxes. She sighed.
“Just a short walk, Edison,” she said. “There’s lots to do.”
They came to the school at the end of the street.
“This will be my school in one month, Edison,” Beatrice said. “A brand-new school! I hope grade three is very, very successful.”
She felt excited. And nervous.
Beatrice started thinking of a list of Things to Do to Be Successful in Grade Three. She had reached number six (Print business cards) when she heard a shout behind her. She swung around.
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