Clementine

by Sara Pennypacker

  I was smiling about all this while I strapped the stilts onto my legs. But when I tried to stand up, I fell right over. I tried again, and I fell right over again.

  Twenty-nine times. Which was plenty, believe me, so I was all done being there.

  On the way down, the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. I got a little bit excited when Margaret got in and smiled at me, but then one second later that Amanda-Lee got in too.

  “Hi, Clementine. We’re going to the mall,” Margaret said.

  I turned around and pretended to be very busy pushing all the buttons until they got off. Then I went to my room and drew a picture of me at the mall with a lot of new best friends.

  Finally it was time to go to the copy shop, and I ran all the way, even though I probably had two broken legs from all that falling.

  When the clerk brought out the picture of Polka Dottie, my heart hurt so much I couldn’t breathe for a minute. She looked so beautiful that big, and I missed her so much. I quick sucked in some air so I wouldn’t faint and then I said, “Thank you,” and took Polka home, being careful not to fold her, because she would have hated that.

  When I got to my building, I looked up through all the pigeons. At the very top of the building was old Mrs. Jacobi’s apartment. I tucked the big picture of Polka under my arm, took the elevator to the eighth floor, and knocked on Mrs. Jacobi’s door.

  “Can I put this in your window?” I asked. “The one in the middle of your living room?”

  Mrs. Jacobi said, “Why, certainly, dearie!” without even asking why, and suddenly she didn’t look so old or so boring.

  I went to the window and opened it. When I looked down, I could see the backs of a million cooing pigeons. They covered every windowsill, every balcony, every ledge, every brick that stuck out even an inch. In between, I could see the sidewalk in front of the building, still wet from my dad’s washing. I guessed this was what my dad meant about seeing things from a different angle, but I didn’t understand how it could help.

  Mrs. Jacobi came over beside me and shook half a box of Cheerios onto the windowsill. The pigeons flapped up in one huge gray cloud.

  And my brain snapped, HEY!!

  HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I ran out of Mrs. Jacobi’s apartment and all the way down to my own—eight times twelve stairs, which equals ninety-six.

  “Dad!” I yelled. “What if the pigeons lived on the side of the building, instead of in the front? Would that be okay?”

  “That would be great,” my dad said. “A miracle. Except, of course, first you’d have to convince a million pigeons to move.”

  “But if I could, would that solve the problem? You wouldn’t care if they messed all over the sidewalk in the side alley?”

  “Nope, not a bit. Nobody uses it. That alley could be knee-deep in pigeon splat, and nobody would even notice. Fire away, I’d say.”

  And then I ran all the way back up the stairs to Mrs. Jacobi’s apartment and went right inside since the door was still open—because that’s how fast I was!

  “I’ll run for your Cheerios every week,” I told her. “You won’t even have to ask me. Every day, if you want. But will you stop feeding the pigeons from here? Will you feed them from a side window instead?”

  I took her into the dining room and showed her a perfect place. “Let’s start today,” I said, and I sprinkled out the rest of the box of Cheerios. And even though pigeons have teeny tiny bird brains, they got the message pretty quick because right away a big flock of them flapped over.

  And it was even better for Mrs. Jacobi because this was her dining room, so now she could see those pigeons eating when she was eating!

  And then I was all done being there, so I ran back home to tell my dad the good news.

  He and my mom were in the kitchen starting dinner so I told them and I told them and I told them! And my dad kept saying “Way to go, Sport!” and my mom kept saying “Thank goodness! Now you don’t have to spend your life cleaning up after those pigeons!”

  They were SO happy! But my parents were sneaky, too. Somehow, while I was telling them about Mrs. Jacobi, one of them slipped me a colander of green beans and brainwashed me into snapping them.

  I didn’t really care, though. Seeing the “Wow! I must be dreaming!” faces on my parents was even better than it would have been seeing them on the painters.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t have those faces very long.

  After dinner, my mother said she’d better get a little work done. Then she went to the cupboard to get her special markers. Which were still in Margaret’s room.

  “You used my…not the permanent…those are for…what were you…?!”

  It’s a very bad sign when my mother can’t finish her sentences.

  “They’re at Margaret’s,” I told her. “They’re fine—not even chewed on. I’ll go get them.…”

  “Oh, no,” said my father. “We’ll go get them. I think it’s time we had a talk with Margaret’s mother anyway. You’ll go sit in your room and think about things.”

  So I went to my room and thought about things. Like Margaret’s mother explaining to my parents about the “easy one-hard one” rule.

  “I cannot look at your green head for one more day,” my mom said as soon as I woke up Sunday morning.

  So right after breakfast she took me into the kitchen and started scrubbing my head with scouring powder and saying things I have never heard a TV mother say. She scrubbed so hard she probably made a hole right through my head skin and my head bone, and now everybody can see right into my brains and I’d better not do any more cartwheels.

  All the time, I watched out the kitchen window for Margaret’s feet.

  “Margaret’s brother is not my special friend,” I told my mother this in case she thought I was watching out for Mitchell’s feet which I was not, because he’s not my special friend.

  My mother kept on scrubbing and all she said was “That’s nice,” which is what grown-ups say when they’re not paying attention to you.

  Suddenly, with my amazing corner-eyes I saw what my dad was reading to my brother in the living room.

  “Stop!” I yelled. Then I flew over and jumped on his lap and slammed the book shut just in time.

  “Lima Bean is little, Dad!” I reminded him. “He’d get scared of those shoes!”

  “First of all, your brother’s name isn’t Lima Bean,” said my dad. “And second of all, what shoes, Clementine?”

  I told you he was not so good at paying attention—those shoes are pretty hard to miss.

  “The pointy green ones on the bear,” I whispered. “Page fourteen.”

  Which I know because, okay, fine, I look at that page a lot. Some days I like to scare myself. Today was not one of those days, though.

  “It’s just a picture, Sport,” Dad said. “It’s not real. Do you want to try looking at it with me right here?”

  “NO!” I yelled. And then I was mad because now those pointy shoes were stuck in my head, going to worry me all day. I jumped off my dad’s lap and ran back into the kitchen, because I have discovered that lots of foods are round. Cookies, hamburgers, pizzas, doughnuts, cupcakes, apples—you name it, all the good stuff is round.

  I grabbed two slices of bologna and I bit them into a pair of glasses, which is a trick I invented and only I know and now you will, too. Fold a slice of bologna in half and then bite right in the middle of the flat side. Do it again. Then slap the circles over your eyes and you have bologna glasses! Here is a picture of that:

  And then because I am so good of a sister and okay, fine, because I was still hungry, I made a pair for my brother, too.

  “Here, Pea Pod,” I said, climbing back onto my dad’s lap and slapping my brother’s pair onto his eyes. “Put on your glasses.”

  My brother started laughing so hard he spit up his breakfast waffles and my parents said, “Clem-en-tine, please!” at exactly the same time, which I think they practice at night when I am
asleep, but they were laughing, too.

  And suddenly it was a pretty good day in spite of the hole scrubbed into my head.

  The good-day feeling made me think about all the bad-day feelings I’d been having this week, and that made me think about Margaret, and then the best idea of all sproinged right into my brain.

  Because I am so good at paying attention, I know all the things that Margaret likes. So I ran around my apartment gathering them up:

  Polka Dottie’s flea collar, because Margaret loved my old cat.

  Pepperoni, because that’s the only kind of pizza I have ever seen her eat.

  The red shoes Margaret makes me put on Barbie every time we play.

  A blue jay feather from my collection, because her favorite color is blue.

  Some M&M’s, because she breathed on mine.

  My charm bracelet, because she always makes I-wish eyes at it.

  Lace ripped from my party socks, because I borrowed them from Margaret one time and I forgot to tell her.

  Pink sparkle nail polish, because she tried to borrow it from me but I caught her.

  A dead bumblebee—I don’t know why.

  The rest of the red curly hair I cut off, because that’s how we got into all this trouble in the first place.

  Then I got my mother’s favorite hat, a big bottle of glue, and my dad’s aftershave, which Margaret and I love to squirt all over us because it has such a heavenly aroma.

  I glued and I glued and I glued, and I squirted and I squirted and I squirted. And I smiled. Then I ran out and guess who I met in the elevator?

  Margaret! Without Amanda-Lee!

  “I have something for you,” we both said at exactly the same time, which we have never practiced before. Then I handed her the Margaret hat and she handed me a bag. Inside was a brand-new, not-sat-on, Sparkle-Glitter Paint Set.

  “I got it at the mall,” Margaret said. Then, without even a grown-up telling her to, she told me she was sorry she was mean to me at my birthday.

  “I’m sorry about your hair,” I said.

  “Okay, fine,” we both said.

  And it was. For about one minute.

  “I have to go,” Margaret said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yep. See you tonight,” I said. Then I said, “Um…what’s tonight?”

  “The party. Your parents invited us.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I knew that.” But I didn’t.

  Uh-oh.

  If my parents were having a party and I didn’t know about it, that meant it was a surprise party. Surprise parties are either for birthdays or goingaways.

  It wasn’t my birthday anymore.

  I raced back to my apartment. My parents were in their bedroom.

  “That’s right, a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting,” my mom was saying to someone on the phone. “‘Good-bye and Good Riddance!’ should be in red icing.”

  “Make sure they spell her name right,” I heard my dad say.

  Then my mom spelled C-L-E-M-E-N-T-I-N-E, and said she’d be over to pick it up soon.

  There wasn’t much time.

  “Well, I guess I’ll go clean my room,” I said, extra loud, as I walked through the living room. I tried to make it sound as if these words were used to coming out of my mouth. “Yep, I’ll just be cleaning like crazy this afternoon.”

  My dad came out and squinted at me, and then sat down to read his Boston Globe. My mother just glanced at me as she passed by to help my brother with his puzzle.

  “Maybe when I’m done, I’ll clean Radish’s room, too,” I tried. “And then I’ll do my homework. If you need me to help with anything, or solve any more problems like The Great Pigeon War, just come and get me.”

  “Okay, Clementine,” my parents said. But they didn’t even look up this time.

  So it was probably too late. Just in case it wasn’t, I got the spray bottle of cleaner and some paper towels, because even though I have never actually cleaned my room, I know that’s the first step.

  Except I didn’t know what to do next. I wanted my room to look like Margaret’s, like a magazine picture, but I didn’t know how to do it.

  The problem was, everything already looked great to me.

  Luckily, I knew what my parents would like me to clean.

  I dragged out everything from The Black Hole and piled it on top of my bed. And you would not believe how much stuff came out!

  Four shoes, three brushes, and too many hair clips to count. Socks, a really crunchy Easter Peep, and the top hat that had been missing from the Monopoly game for two years. A Mr. Potato Head nose, three library books, my book report due last Monday, and Friday’s Saturn sentences. Some more socks. A Halloween mask, the skirt I pretended I lost, two flashlights, a mitten. A green plastic trapezoid, a “Taking it Easy in the Everglades” snow globe, half a button, Polka Dottie’s favorite rubber mouse. Mom’s yoga video and Dad’s needle-nosed pliers. Forty-five cents. Even more socks.

  I got the things all piled up on my bed, and even though they looked fine to me, I started to clean them. I squirted everything with lots of cleaner and rubbed hard with paper towels.

  I squirted and I rubbed all afternoon. It started to get dark outside. But nothing got cleaner. Everything just got wetter. And covered with glumps of wet paper towel. Suddenly my eyes were crying and they wouldn’t stop.

  And that’s when my parents came in.

  “I just got some cleaner in my eyes, is all,” I told them. “I’m doing really great cleaning up my room.” But even I didn’t believe that.

  “Okay, fine,” I said, wiping away the tears so I could see how mad they were at me. “I am S-O-R-R-Y, sorry! And I won’t be like this anymore!”

  “Like what, Clementine?” my mom asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Like whatever you don’t want,” I said. “I won’t talk so much and I’ll clean up my room for real and I will Think About the Consequences before I do stuff and I won’t do stuff anyway and I will never lose my homework because I will never lose anything and I will sit so still you will think ‘Hey, is that Clementine or just a statue of Clementine?’ and I will never bring another note home that says ‘Clementine had a difficult day at school today,’ and I will bring hundreds of notes home that say, ‘Wow, Clementine certainly pays attention in school!’ and the underneath of my bed will look like the underneath of normal people’s beds and my hands will always be where they belong and I will take piano lessons again but this time I will sit on the bench the whole time and…”

  And then I ran out of air. I took a big gulp.

  “I won’t be like me anymore. And then I’ll be the easy one, too, as easy as Celery. So you don’t have to get rid of me which I know about because I heard you say ‘One’s all we need’ and then I heard you order a cake that says ‘Good-bye and Good Riddance, Clementine!’”

  My parents both ran over to me and hugged me at the same time—a hug sandwich. Then they took my hands and brought me out to the dining room.

  And there was Margaret and her mother, and Mitchell with my brother on his shoulders, all looking at me. I scrubbed my face to make sure there weren’t any tears left, even though I did not care what Mitchell thought because he’s not my boyfriend.

  My brother yelled, “Prize!” and everybody else yelled, “Surprise!” and then they stepped out of the way so I could see the dining-room table.

  And on it was a cake, all right. But it didn’t say Good-bye and Good Riddance, Clementine, it said Good-bye and Good Riddance! above a thousand frosting pigeons and then under that it said Thank You, Clementine—Hero of The Great Pigeon War!

  Oh.

  “Well, what about the ‘One’s all we need’ thing?” I asked. “What about that?”

  My mom and my dad smiled really, really big then.

  “Wait right here, Sport,” Dad said. He went into the hall and came back with a big box. “Open it up.”

  So I did. And do you know what was in there?

 
A kitten! I am not kidding you.

  “There was only one left,” Dad said. “And we told them, ‘One’s all we need.’”

  I lifted the kitten out of the box and took him into the bathroom to get him a name. Right away I found the most exquisite word. I held him up to my cheek and told him his name and he started to purr, which filled up a space in my ears that had been empty since Polka died.

  When I came back out, I saw Margaret wanting to touch my kitten and I saw her tell her hands to be quiet about that because he was mine and he was new.

  I wanted to say, The rule is no touching my kitten because it’s the rule. But I didn’t. Instead my mouth opened up and said, “Want to pat Moisturizer, Margaret?” which was a very big surprise, let me tell you.

  “We know it’s not the same as having Polka Dottie back…” my mom started.

  “He’s different…” my dad said.

  “I know,” I told them. “He’s perfect.”

  Then I looked up and saw that everything else was perfect, too: my mother in her overalls, my comedian father, my brother who didn’t get stuck with a fruit name, Margaret in her Margaret hat, Mitchell slicing the Clementine-the-Hero cake, my not-from-a-magazine apartment. So when Margaret’s mother came over and said, “Tomorrow after school I’m taking both you girls to my hairdresser to fix up those haircuts,” I almost said “No, thanks!” because I didn’t want to change a single thing.

  But she was smiling at me and that looked perfect, too, so I smiled back and said, “Great!”

  And then I passed out the cake and I was extremely polite because I served everyone else a slice first and then at the very end I took one.

  Two. Okay, fine.

  MORE HONORS AND PRAISE FOR CLEMENTINE