For Rosie
• Chapter 1 •
Fiona Finkelstein was flat-out tired. Talking to grown-ups always made her that way. Especially when their answer was NO SIRREE BOB, NO WAY JOSÉ, NOT ON YOUR LIFE YOUNG LADY. That was their answer a lot of the time lately.
It wasn’t the “no” by itself that was so bad. It was all of the other stuff that always and forever came along with it.
For example, just this morning, when Fiona asked her dad if they could get a real live monkey named Mr. Funbucket that she could keep in her room, Dad didn’t just say no. He went on and on forever and ever about how monkeys are not pets and how they belong in the jungle and how speaking of jungles, had she cleaned her mess of a room yet? But what she wanted to know was, why did everything have to do with her mess of a room?
Even when she pointed this out, Dad said, “Well, if you cleaned your room more often, maybe we wouldn’t have to talk about it all the time.”
“Then could I get a monkey?”
“Not a chance,” he said.
At school there were more nos.
“Can we take a field trip to California?” Fiona asked her teacher, Mr. Bland. They had just started talking about the California gold rush in social studies when Fiona brought it up.
“Sure,” said Mr. Bland. “We can leave tomorrow.” Only, he didn’t say it in a Fiona-you’re-a-genius-that’s-the-best-idea-I’ve-ever-heard kind of way.
“Oh, Boise Idaho!” said Harold Chutney, who apparently didn’t get that what Mr. Bland was really saying was N-O.
“He’s being sarcastic,” said Milo Bridgewater. “There’s no way they’d let us go to California for school.”
“Can we please get back to the gold rush?” said Mr. Bland. “If you don’t mind.”
Milo raised his hand and said, “How come we don’t ever get to go anywhere? In my old school in Minnesota, we used to go to the park and to the lake all the time.”
This isn’t Minnesota, Fiona wanted to say out loud. This is Ordinary, Maryland. And nothing much happens in Ordinary.
Mr. Bland puffed out his cheeks as the mean words started filling up his mouth. Here’s the thing about mean words: They want to get out. But Mr. Bland’s lips must have been pretty strong, because he kept those words inside until he was able to swallow them down. And when all the puffiness left his cheeks, he cleared his throat. Then he said, “As a matter of fact, we are going somewhere.”
The whole class shouted “Where?” at the same time. Fiona gripped the sides of her desk and waited.
Mr. Bland smiled and said real slow, on account of the fact that he liked kids to suffer, “To. The. Great. Ordinary. Fair.”
Fiona let go of her desk. She folded her arms across her chest. That wasn’t even close to California.
Everybody else must have noticed that too, because there was a lot of moaning and huffing from all sides. Mr. Bland said, “I guess nobody wants to hear about your part in this year’s fair.”
“I do,” said Milo.
Everybody quieted down after that, and Mr. Bland said, “Every year our school participates in the Great Ordinary Fair in some way or another. It’s a nice way to be a part of our community.”
“That might be fun,” said Milo, looking at Fiona for approval.
Fiona chewed on her Thinking Pencil. The fair might not be a trip to California, but it could still be okay, as long as they could be in charge of games or rides or even parking. Anything except . . .
“Maps,” said Mr. Bland. “Our class is in charge of handing out maps.”
Fiona moaned. “Not maps! Maps are just as bad as tearing tickets.” Which is what she’d had to do at last year’s fair. Oh boy, the paper cuts.
“I don’t want to hear any complaints,” said Mr. Bland.
“I like maps,” said Harold.
“Not these kind you don’t,” said Fiona. “These aren’t treasure maps, you know.”
Harold plugged his nose with his finger in a pout. “Oh.”
“What about parking attendants?” asked Fiona. “Could some of us maybe be parking attendants instead?”
“Mrs. Weintraub’s fifth grade has that covered,” he said.
“No fair.”
“Enough,” said Mr. Bland. “Now back to the gold rush.”
• • •
In the cafeteria, Fiona’s mind was stuck in California. How she could get there. How she could see her mom again. Fiona’s mom was an actress in California, and lately Fiona saw her more on TV than she did in real life. And that wasn’t working out.
Without even thinking, Fiona bit into the corned beef sandwich that Mrs. Miltenberger packed. She even chewed and swallowed it.
The next thing she knew, her best friend was waving her hand in front of Fiona’s face. “Hello?” said Cleo Button.
“Huh?” Fiona’s brain snapped back to Ordinary. She swallowed. Why did she have that awful taste in her mouth?
“What’s the matter?” said Cleo.
Fiona pulled apart her sandwich and examined its insides. “Ugh. Corned beef.” She gulped her milk to wash away the taste.
Cleo cracked her knuckles. “Maybe your mom will come here.”
Milo and Harold shot Cleo a Doom Scowl loaded with extra Doom, because Fiona’s mom living in California had been a sore subject lately. Which apparently Cleo had forgotten.
“Sorry,” Cleo whispered.
Fiona passed her sandwich to Harold. “Maybe I’ll just go to California myself.”
Harold and Milo laughed. Cleo said, “Good one.”
Fiona felt her cheeks burn. “What’s so funny? I could go to California. I could.”
“Sure,” said Milo.
“I mean it,” said Fiona. “I could.”
Harold bit into Fiona’s sandwich and said, “Grandma says you can do anything that you set your mind to.”
Fiona nodded and smiled. “See?” And then she covered Harold’s mouth with her hand. “That’s gross, Harold.”
Harold swallowed and pushed her hand away. “But there’s no way she would approve of you going to California all by your lonesome.”
Fiona huffed. “Fine.”
Milo jumped in. “You haven’t ever been on an airplane before, have you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” said Fiona.
“It has to do with the fact that kids aren’t allowed to get on airplanes by themselves if they’ve never been on one before,” said Milo. “It’s a rule.”
“I never heard of that rule,” said Cleo.
“You’re making that up,” said Fiona.
“Am not,” he said. “My brother told me about it. And he’s in eleventh grade, so he knows.”
“Fiona has too been on a plane before,” said Harold. “Remember when we went to the airplane museum last year and we got to sit inside the cockpit?”
“You’re not helping, Harold,” said Fiona.
• Chapter 2 •
Not on your life,” said Dad when he handed her a bowl of Sugar-Os. “You’re only nine years old and you want me to let you get on an airplane all by yourself and fly all the way across the country, ALL BY YOURSELF?”
“I’m nine,” said Fiona. “Not only nine. And that’s old enough to do lots of things.”
“And I’m six!” announced Max, beside her. He shifted his swim goggles over his eyes, stuck his face into his cereal, and tried to scoop up his Os with his tongue.
One look at that and Fiona declared, “I don’t want Sugar-Os.” She handed the bowl right back to Dad.
“I’ll take them,” said Max. He lifted his face from the bowl, and milk dripped from his goggles.
Fiona stared at an orange Sugar-O clinging to his cheek. “I want to eat a more grown-up break
fast.”
Dad slid his cereal bowl across the table to her and said, “Okay. But you’re not going to like it.”
The flakes in Dad’s bowl looked like tree bark. “It’s brown.” In her experience, brown food was almost always bad.
“It’s bran,” said Dad.
Even the name sounded brown. She picked up one flake and turned it over. She sniffed it and then touched it against her tongue.
Dad shook his head. “Why don’t you just stick with yours?”
“No thanks,” Fiona said, dropping the flake and raising a spoonful of brown to her mouth. “This is what grown-ups eat, this is what I’m going to eat from now on.”
At first Fiona didn’t think it was going to be so bad. But the chewing went on for a lot longer than she expected. Fiona began to wonder if trying to act like a grown-up might be too gross for her to take.
The chewing soon got to be too much. When she couldn’t handle it any longer, she spit it all back into the bowl.
“Fiona!” said Dad.
“Whoa, cool,” said Max, and he spit out his cereal into his bowl.
Dad gripped the table. “Max!”
Fiona wiped her tongue with her napkin and coughed. “Needs some sugar is all. Now, about California.”
“The answer is no, young lady,” said Dad.
“Can I go to California?” said Max.
Fiona and Dad said “no” at the same time.
“Why not?” said Max.
Fiona sighed. “Maybe when you’re older,” she said. “Right, Dad?”
Dad nodded and took a bite of his cereal. “And when you get a job and can pay for your own ticket.”
“How much does a ticket cost?” said Fiona.
“A lot.”
“I’ve got forty-eight dollars saved up,” she said. She had been saving her allowance for the last year.
“I’ve got more money than you,” said Max.
“Do not,” said Fiona.
“Do too.”
“How much can you have? You’re only six, and I’ve been getting an allowance for longer than you.”
“But you don’t have your own business,” Max said. “Like I do.”
“What business?”
“Stickers,” he said. “I make stickers. And sell them. Want to buy one?” He pulled out a sheet of yellow circles from his book bag. There were funny faces drawn on some of them and on others words like “Hi” and “Bye” and “I like TV.” He held one out that said YOU ARE NICE.
Fiona smiled and reached for the sticker.
“That will be twenty-five cents,” said Max.
Fiona rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No way.”
“Fine,” he said. Then he wrote something else on the sticker and handed it to her. “Here, you can have this one.” Fiona read it: YOU ARE NOT NICE.
• • •
Later that day, Fiona dialed her mom’s number. Her mom answered on the fifth ring. And right away, Fiona knew something was wrong.
“I’m having a day,” said her mom. “The soap is in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Money trouble,” she said. “The worst kind.”
Fiona understood. “I’m having money trouble too. On account of the fact that I want to come out to California to see you, but I don’t have enough money for an airplane ticket.”
“Oh, that’s sweet, Fiona honey. But I think we should all be saving our pennies. Besides, the last thing I need to worry about right now is my baby girl traveling across the country by herself.”
“I’m not a baby,” Fiona said.
“That’s not what I meant, sweetie,” said Mom. “I just meant that you’re a little young to do something like that. Wait until you’re older.”
“I’ll be older tomorrow.”
“Fiona.”
“But I will be!”
“You know I would love for you to come out here for a visit,” said Mom. “One day you will.”
An answer like that was a “no” in disguise. And if there was one thing that Fiona hated, it was an answer all dressed up like a Y-E-S but really when you got down to it was just a regular N-O. “When?” she pressed.
Mom said, “We’ll see each other soon enough, baby.”
But that wasn’t soon enough. Not for Fiona.
• Chapter 3 •
Can I help you with that?” Fiona asked Mrs. Miltenberger, who was carrying folded laundry into Max’s room.
Mrs. Miltenberger used her rump to open the door. “I’ve pretty much got it handled, thanks.”
“But I want to.” Fiona reached for the clothes but was only able to get hold of a pair of Max’s tube socks before Mrs. Miltenberger lifted her arms and swung the load away.
“Fiona, please,” she said. “I appreciate the thought, but it will go a lot faster if I—”
Fiona leapt at the pile of clothes and this time caught a handful. “I can help!” she said, sometime between the jump and the realization that the pile of folded clothes was headed for the floor.
“Fiona!” shouted Mrs. Miltenberger.
Fiona looked at the floor. It was amazing how quickly clothes could become unfolded. And unpiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
Mrs. Miltenberger sat down on the edge of Max’s bed and pointed to the laundry all over the floor. “What on earth is the matter with you?”
“I just wanted to help,” said Fiona.
“And a nice job you did of it, I’d say.” Mrs. Miltenberger shook her head and then bent over, stretching her arms toward the clothes. She let out a groan as she snatched up one of Max’s T-shirts. Then she pointed to the rest of the mess. “If you’re in such a helping mood, why don’t you give me a hand?”
“All right.” Fiona dove for the floor and scooped up the clothes. She held them tight to her chest. When one started to come undone near the top, she clamped her neck on it. “Look,” she said to Mrs. Miltenberger, careful not to lose her grip. “I’ve got them all.”
“Except for the pair of underwear by your feet.” Mrs. Miltenberger patted the spot on the bed beside her. “Put them here, please.”
Fiona looked at her feet and saw Max’s underwear. “Is that the only one?”
“The only one what?”
She turned her face away and felt the clothes shift in her arms. “The only pair of underwear.”
Mrs. Miltenberger folded Max’s T-shirt and laid it on the bed beside her. “Of course not. There’s a week’s worth in there. Hurry up and bring them here, please. You’re about to drop everything.”
But it was too late. Fiona did drop everything. “Ewwww!” she shouted, jumping up and down, while brushing off the gazillions of underwear germs that had infected her. “Gross!”
“For mercy’s sake!” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “It’s clean laundry. It’s all been cleaned.”
This made absolutely no difference to Fiona. Clean or not, she was not going to touch anything. NO SIRREE BOB. She surveyed the items on the floor. “How about if I just pick up the T-shirts and pants?”
“Fine,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
Fiona picked up Max’s T-shirts and pants. “Do I have to fold them, too?”
Mrs. Miltenberger said, “Oh, blessed, just leave them!”
“Thanks,” said Fiona. She looked around Max’s room. “When I’m done helping you with this, what’s next?”
“When you’re done helping me?” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “That’s what you said?”
“Yep,” said Fiona.
“Huh.” Mrs. Miltenberger raised her eyebrows. “Thought so. Just checking.”
“So what are you going to do next?” said Fiona.
Mrs. Miltenberger took in a breath and then blew it out with enough force to make her lips sputter. “Dishes, I suppose.”
“I’m on it,” said Fiona.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Mrs. Miltenberger, holding up her hand.
“Well, there must be something else I ca
n help with,” said Fiona.
Mrs. Miltenberger stuffed the last of Max’s clothes into a drawer and then headed downstairs. Fiona trailed behind. “More laundry?” Fiona asked, pointing to a basket of folded clothes by the couch.
“Always,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
“I can put it away,” said Fiona as she got closer to the basket. Then she stopped, not too close, and eyed it from a safe distance. It looked like mostly her dad’s clothes. “Wait. Is there more underwear in there?”
“Tell you what,” said Mrs. Miltenberger as she pushed open the door to the kitchen. She picked up the metal watering can from on top of the refrigerator. “Here.” She tossed the can to Fiona. “The plants are thirsty.”
Fiona was not very good at catching things, so she got out of the way and let the watering can hit the end of the couch. It bounced underneath the coffee table.
“You could’ve had that one,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
“You threw it too hard,” Fiona complained. She scooped up the can by the handle and followed Mrs. Miltenberger into the kitchen. As she filled the watering can at the sink, she practiced her pirouettes. “Are you sure there isn’t something else I can do? Something bigger? I mean something that would show you how grown up and responsible I am?”
“Grown up and responsible?” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
“Yep.”
“Huh. I thought that was what you said.” Mrs. Miltenberger scratched her head. “Just checking.”
Mrs. Miltenberger warned her to be careful, not to fill it too full, not to spill it on anything, and not to do something else that Fiona didn’t really pay any attention to. “Don’t worry,” said Fiona, shutting off the faucet. “I think I can water some plants.”
“Famous last words,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.
Fiona didn’t know what that meant. But she was about to be the best waterer that Mrs. Miltenberger ever laid eyes on. She visited the plants on the shelf in the living room first, a fern and a spider plant whose thin green and white leaves hung low. She carefully tilted the watering can over each one and let them have a drink. “Easy peasy,” said Fiona.
She hauled the watering can over to the lemon tree on a stand by the front window. Her dad had always said it was a lemon tree, but Fiona never saw lemons on it, not even one. It was a lemon of a lemon tree if you asked her. She emptied the watering can into the pot and watched the water disappear into the dirt. “Still thirsty?”
Don't Chicken Out Page 1
