1. Stomachache.
2. Not getting enough sleep. (You know that feeling when your eyes don’t want to open, and it’s like you’re ungluing them each time you try to blink? I really hate that. I know hate isn’t a nice word to say, but I think it’s OK when I am just talking about eyelids, and they happen to be my own.)
3. Itches. (Itches are just so itchy!)
I see myself hunched over with a stomachache and scrunching my face to try to unglue my eyelids. At the same time, I am scratching an itch on my ankle. No wait, on my elbow. Now on my back. Argggggggh! I limp forward, scratching and blinking right up the steps of school. Only I look like a prehistoric creature squelching out of a tar pit. Definitely not hero material! Can anyone say, “Run!”?
“Ruby?” Mom stops my hand from scratching the imaginary itch. (Or maybe it’s not imaginary because now it’s moved to the back of my knee. How do itches move around so fast?) “Maybe you’re hungry?” Mom tries to help. She brushes my curls away from my face. My hair is blond and curly. And when I wake up, the curls are wild and crazy. My bedhead makes me look like a lion in the morning. (Roar!)
“I don’t think so,” I say. This isn’t going the way I hoped. I wanted her to say I could stay home right away.
“This is book club day. You don’t want to miss that. And I made you a special lunch for talking about Black Beauty.” Mom picks up my clothes from the chair where I laid them out last night. She carries them to the bed. I sigh.
Mom’s emerald-green eyes meet mine. Our eyes are the exact same color. Sometimes looking into her eyes is like looking into a mirror.
“Ruby, is there something going on at school? Some reason you don’t want to go today?”
Three reasons:
1. Charlotte
2. The Fearsome Fivesome
3. Book Club. All of which are actually really the same reason: Charlotte.
I shrug. Nothing has happened. Nothing that I can explain anyway. It’s just a feeling. And having a feeling isn’t enough reason to stay home from school, at least not in my experience.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks. She sits down next to me on my bed and holds my hand.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing really. I don’t even know why my stomach hurts. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“Maybe you are,” Mom says. “Why don’t you get dressed and have some breakfast, and then we’ll see if you feel any better.”
“OK,” I agree. I hadn’t really expected to stay home, but it was worth a try. And I don’t know what I’m so afraid of anyway. It is my book club after all.
I see myself standing in front of school, wearing green armor and carrying a purple shield with a picture of a unicorn on it. I am armed not with a sword but with a book. I am a symbol of bravery and courage. I will fight for my beliefs. I will fight for books.
I put on plaid shorts and a white T-shirt. Then I slip on my green sneakers with the pink laces. After brushing my teeth and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I’m ready.
• • •
Breakfast in our family isn’t like in TV commercials where all the family sits down together and eats at the same time. There are five of us—my mom, my dad, two brothers, and me. I’m the youngest. My brother Connor is thirteen, and Sam is fifteen. They almost never sit down to eat, except for family dinners. Dad leaves early for work, so he’s usually waving good-bye right around the time I bite into my pancakes.
Today, it’s the usual. Everyone is going in different directions, kind of like my hair.
Mom hands me a plate with toast and eggs. I don’t feel up to this much food, but I take it to the table without a word.
“Grandma is picking you up today,” Mom tells me. “I have to stay a little late at work, so I won’t be home until dinnertime. You can fill me in on the book club then. How is your tummy feeling now?”
When my mom says tummy, it’s like she has forgotten that I am ten. It’s like she still thinks I am three years old and in love with Elmo. (Right now, if Elmo sang his happy song to me, I would probably throw some toast at him.)
I shrug. “Better, I guess.” It isn’t really better. It’s still churning around like I have just ridden an upside-down roller coaster after eating cotton candy and ice cream. But I know I’m not really sick, just nervous.
• • •
The nervous feeling stays all morning, and by lunch, I have decided that I will make the best of it. Everyone else seems to like Charlotte. And truthfully, I like her too. Maybe my stomachache was a real stomachache after all, and not a worrying stomachache.
We all gather at our usual table. Two on one side and three on the other. I’m on the two side, next to Jessica. I open my lunch bag and pull out my napkin. Mom always sends me a big cloth napkin on Tuesdays. I open it up and spread it on the table in between us.
“We share our lunches on Tuesdays,” I explain to Charlotte. “It makes it more book-clubbish that way.”
One by one, we all set our food out on the napkin. Mom has packed me special sandwiches with cream cheese and cucumber, cut into little hearts. I also have grapes and chocolate-chip cookies. Siri shares her mini taquitos and strawberries. Jessica adds a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and orange slices. Daisy has brought pizza bites with trail mix, and Charlotte has a turkey wrap, pretzels, and a giant brownie. There is a lot of excitement over the brownie. It annoys me that they like her brownie more than my cookies.
“We eat while we discuss the book,” Siri tells Charlotte as she grabs a pretzel.
“I didn’t get a chance to read it last night,” Charlotte admits.
“That’s all right,” Daisy tells her. “You can just listen this time.”
“Is anyone finished with the book?” I ask first. We always check to see if someone hasn’t finished because we don’t want to spoil the ending.
I glance around at my friends. They are all stuffing brownie into their mouths. Their teeth are turning brown like they’ve been brushed with mud instead of toothpaste. Kind of unappetizing if you ask me, but no one is asking me. Siri, Daisy, and Jessica shovel more brownie before shaking their heads, no.
No one has finished the book. No one, that is, except moi. (That’s French for me.) I don’t speak French, but I pick things up in books I read. Words in French like moi and arrivederci in Italian. (That’s good-bye. I think it sounds happier than the English way. Less like good-bye and more like see ya soon).
“I am,” I tell them. “But don’t worry.” I zip my lips closed, turn the key, and toss it over my shoulder.
“Do you think Black Beauty’s mother gives him good advice?” I ask, taking a bite of one of Mom’s cucumber sandwiches.
“She wanted him to be a good horse for his owners,” Siri says.
“I think she wanted to be proud of him,” Jessica adds.
“I think she would have been proud of him,” I say. “I think he was the most wonderful horse that ever lived.”
“He’s not real, you know,” Charlotte says with a roll of her eyes. “He’s just a character in a book.”
Confession time: I hate it when people remind me that characters in books aren’t real. They are real to the authors who write them. And they are real to the readers (like me) who love them. So telling me that they aren’t really real just makes me want to growl.
“I know that,” I tell her, with a big eye roll of my own. “But the author made him seem real—that’s what I meant.” I glance over at Siri. What do you think of your new girl now? I say with my eyes.
Siri shrugs. “I thought it was sad that he had to leave his mother and his meadow.”
“His life was good and then bad,” Daisy adds. “I liked his friend Merrylegs.”
“Ginger’s not so nice though,” I comment, with a look at Charlotte.
“But Black Beauty sees something in her, and
I think they become friends because no one else has given her a chance before.” Siri eats a little piece of cucumber sandwich.
I don’t think Siri is speaking about Black Beauty anymore. She’s speaking about Charlotte.
“At my old school, my friends and I played this really fun game.” Charlotte changes the subject suddenly. Talking about another subject at a meeting is a book club no-no. But Charlotte doesn’t know this. She pulls all the attention away from Black Beauty. Everyone looks at her.
“What was it?” Jessica asks.
“We made up our own plays,” she announces with a giant sparkly smile. “And then acted them out.”
“I want to do that!” Siri practically jumps out of her seat with excitement.
“Me too!” Daisy claps her hands together.
“We can make one up today,” Charlotte says.
“But we’re in the middle of book club,” I remind them. I look at Siri for help, but she is smiling her matching smile at Charlotte.
“Jessica?” I look at the only other person in the group who loves reading as much as I do.
“We’ve already talked about Black Beauty,” Jessica tells me in a small voice.
“Not really,” I argue. “We’ve only talked about the beginning. What about his friendships?” And my friendships, I think.
Charlotte stands up. “Is there someplace we have more room?” she asks Siri.
“We have to wait for the aide to blow the whistle,” I remind them. I sound a little like Mrs. Sablinsky. And that’s not a good thing. Only just then the aide blows the whistle.
Siri looks at me quickly and then looks away. “We can go by the four square courts. I’ll show you.”
This can’t be happening. I must be in the middle of a nightmare. Because I can’t actually be sitting here, watching my friends leave a book club meeting before it’s finished. But it’s happening. My friends hurry to clean up their lunches, shoving half-eaten food into their lunch bags.
“You coming?” Jessica asks.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell her. But I’m not sure I will be there at all. I’m not sure I want to. This is Book Club Tuesday after all. Now I understand the feeling in my stomach. It was warning me that everything was going to change. I really wish I had stayed home in bed.
I see myself sitting underneath a shady tree in a meadow. Black Beauty grazes on the grass nearby. Ginger and Merrylegs munch on apples that have fallen off the tree. “I will never leave you, Beauty,” I promise. Black Beauty lies down next to me. Suddenly, an apple drops from the tree and hits me in the forehead.
“Ouch!” I rub my head. Only I’m not in the meadow, but at the lunch tables. I’m being pelted with pretzels. Tears fill my eyes, without my permission. Ruby Starr Rulebook: Do not cry at school. Ever. Not even if your best friends leave you alone at the lunch tables. Not even if you forget your homework and your teacher yells at you in front of the entire class. Not even if a ball hits you in the face during dodgeball.
So I rub the back of my fist over my eyes.
“Sorry, Ruby. We didn’t mean to hit you,” I look up and see Will P standing there. We have two Wills in our class. Will B drools and likes to pick his nose and eat it. (No comment.) And Will P wears supercool red glasses and sometimes makes me laugh with his funny jokes. He’s all right, I guess (for a boy anyway).
It’s Will P who is saying sorry to me.
“Where are your friends?” he asks me. “Isn’t today your book club meeting?”
I guess even boys know about our book club. I shrug, feeling my eyes getting watery on me again.
“Ruby!” I look up to see Siri calling to me from across the yard. She waves at me to come with her.
I stand up. Will’s hair has pretzels sticking out of it. I can’t help but smile. “We ended early today. We’re making up a play or something.”
“Too bad you only let girls read books with you. I like to read,” Will tells me.
“Maybe you should start your own book club,” I say. Then I glance back at the table of boys. The yard aide has stopped the food fight.
“Great. I told those guys we’d get in trouble.” Will P turns to go.
“You might want to start with the pretzels in your hair,” I offer.
Will’s mouth opens in surprise. Then his cheeks turn red. I point to the pretzels, and he feels around for them. He yanks them out and then holds them in the air for me to see. Will taps the pretzels together like drumsticks.
Will P is known for two things:
1. Everybody likes him—seriously, everybody. Even the mean substitute teachers smile at him.
2. His signature sock collection. Will P has all these different kinds of socks. I can’t even imagine where he gets them. He has socks with animals like zebras and sharks, socks with trash like crushed cans and fish bones, socks with soccer balls and basketballs, even socks with instruments. Today he is wearing socks with dogs all over them. There are poodles and collies, beagles and golden retrievers. I think I even spot a pug.
“I like your socks today,” I tell him.
“Thanks!” he calls back as he walks away.
I sit there alone. I hope the bell will ring and save me from joining Charlotte’s play. I count to 540, and still the bell doesn’t ring. So I take my lunch bag and drop it into my class basket. And then I take the smallest steps possible across the yard to the four square courts.
“You OK?” Siri asks me right away.
“I guess,” I tell her. How OK can I be when my Book Club Tuesday has just turned into Queen Charlotte’s Tuesday?
“Ruby, we already picked parts. Siri is going to be the princess. I’m her mother, the queen. Daisy is our horse trainer, and Jessica is our fairy godmother. Do you want to be Siri’s sister?” Charlotte is quite the director. She has it all figured out already.
“Sure.” I don’t really care which part I play.
“Siri and you both want to go to the ball. But only one of you can go. So I have to choose one of you. You have to dance your best dance for me to choose.”
Here are the things I like to do: I read, I write, I play piano. I can even ride a horse. Here are the things I cannot, will not do: I. Do. Not. Dance.
“Um, not sure about the dancing thing,” I start to say. But Charlotte isn’t paying attention to me anymore. She is demonstrating a dance move. Spinning. Charlotte spins around and around and around. She spins so many times I think she might take off into the air. My friends start clapping. They actually stand in a line watching Charlotte show off. And they clap for her.
Before anyone can notice my bad attitude, the bell rings. I am saved. Or so I think.
Because I think my day can’t possibly get any worse. But I am wrong—so very, very wrong.
Chapter 3
Not Thinking Pink
“Quiet down, Room 15,” Mrs. Sablinsky tells us as soon as we take our seats. “I have some exciting news. Today, we are starting a new project—and it’s my favorite one of the year. You will be creating a drawing of the Statue of Liberty, with a factual paragraph below. Do your research, and tell me something I don’t know about Lady Liberty.”
Mrs. Sablinsky begins handing out the assignment sheets. She continues talking. “We’ll be working on this for the next week or two, so you will have plenty of time to make your projects extra special.”
I love working on projects like this. I’m not a super-great artist or anything, but I can use my imagination. And any schoolwork that involves imagination doesn’t feel like work at all.
“You will work in pairs. So go ahead and choose a partner now.”
I look across the room at Siri. We always pair up on class projects. But she is looking in the other direction. So I hurry over to her.
“Hey, partner,” I say to the back of her head. Just then I see Charlotte. She is already
sitting beside Siri. It can’t be. Siri would never do that to me. Would she?
Siri turns then and looks at me. Her brown eyes are wide underneath her long bangs. “Sorry, Ruby. Charlotte asked me first. And since she’s new…” She trails off. I don’t know what the end of the sentence is. And since she’s new, I thought I would be nice and partner with her. Or, And since she’s new and interesting, I wanted to partner with her instead of boring old you. I’m thinking it’s the second one. But it doesn’t really matter, because Siri isn’t going to be my partner for the first time since kindergarten. Maybe that isn’t a big deal to Siri, but it’s a really, really big deal to me.
“OK,” I mumble. Not, OK like “I’m OK with it.” But OK like “What else can I do?”
I look around the room. Jessica and Daisy are already paired up. There are a few other girls in class I wouldn’t mind working with—like Hazel and Molly, but they seem to be paired up too. While I have been wasting time talking to Siri, I have missed my chance to get a good partner.
Mrs. Sablinsky notices me standing there. Partnerless. (For those who have never experienced this horrific state, let me explain what it’s like. It’s like standing in the middle of class in your underwear with everyone staring.)
“Ruby, do you need a partner?”
It’s pretty obvious. Why do teachers have to ask obvious questions when they already know the answers? Is it so they can make us think they need our help when we really don’t?
“Yes, Mrs. Sablinsky,” I say. For the first time, the answer is yes.
“Will doesn’t have a partner either. You can work with him,” she tells me as she hands me a poster-size piece of paper.
“Thank you,” I say as I look around for Will. It’s not so bad to work with him. He’s probably the top student in class, and he does make me laugh. It’s not the same as working with my BFF though.
I spot Will on the other side of the room and hurry toward him. My paper flaps back and forth in my hands like it wants to fly in the air. I can’t wait to get started. I have so many ideas.
Ruby Starr Series, Book 1 Page 2
