2
Amy’s Third Dandelion
Amy had not made a real wish at all. When Mitchell had blown away her first wish, she had been standing with her eyes closed trying to decide which of several wishes to choose—something with whipped cream on it for dessert, lots of birthday-party invitations in the fourth grade, or the president of the United States abolishing the multiplication tables.
On the second dandelion Amy had simply wished that Mitchell would not blow off the dandelion fluff before she blew it off herself, and this wish she felt did not count.
“What are you going to wear the first day of school?” asked Marla Brodsky. “If it isn’t too hot, I’m going to wear my new pleated skirt.”
“Me too,” agreed Amy. “Mom says it is too long, but I like it that way. It makes me feel like a ten-year-old.”
“Are you and Mitch going to be in the same class in the fourth grade?” Marla asked, as the two girls went into the house.
“They won’t let us,” answered Amy. “They say twins should be separated. We haven’t been in the same class since kindergarten.” By “they” Amy meant parents, teachers, and Mr. Greer, the principal.
“Aren’t you glad?” Marla asked. “I wouldn’t want to be in the same class with my brother if I had a brother.”
“Um…not exactly, I guess. It’s sort of fun to have people talk about the Huff twins.” And it was, but there was another side to being a twin that Amy sometimes thought about when she and Mitchell had a fight. As long as she could remember her brother had always been there sharing birthdays and parents and all the important things. While Amy would much rather be a twin than not be a twin, still, there were times when she wished she could have everything to herself for a little while without feeling she had to keep ahead of her brother.
“It’s funny, I used to think twins would be alike,” remarked Marla. “You and Mitch are so different. You’re always reading, and Mitch is always running and jumping around.”
“That’s because we’re not identical,” Amy explained, leading the way into her untidy room. She had put her cello under her bed where no one could step on it and where her mother would not see it and remind her to practice, but her desk and dresser were cluttered with sewing things, stuffed animals, books, crayons, and parts of a doll’s blue-willow tea set. The floor was strewn with bright snips of origami paper, a crumpled drawing, and one dirty sock, which Amy now shoved under the bed with her foot.
“You’re lucky,” said Marla. “My mother makes me pick up my room every single day.”
“My mother says she gets tired of nagging,” said Amy. Mrs. Huff said Amy’s room was as untidy as a mouse nest, but Amy was old enough to take care of it herself. Amy enjoyed the idea of living in a mouse nest and so the state of her room did not bother her. It only bothered her mother.
Marla went over to Amy’s bulletin board to look at the calendar on which Amy always recorded important events. On the square for September first she had written “106 days to Christmas” in red. On September second, “Today I read a good book.” September third was important because “We had Jell-O with whipped cream.”
Out in the living room a man spoke in a calm, even voice. “Pages two hundred eleven to two hundred nineteen. Black-capped chickadee,” he said.
“Who’s that?” Marla asked, startled because Mrs. Huff had been alone when they entered the house.
“Chick-a-dee-dee. Chick-a-dee-dee. Fee-bee. Fee-bee.” A bird twittered in the living room.
“That’s just Mom’s birdcall records,” explained Amy. “She’s nearsighted for a bird-watcher so she’s trying to identify birds by learning their calls from phonograph records.”
“Mountain chickadee,” announced the man’s voice.
“Fee-fee-fee. Tsick-a-zee-zee,” said the bird.
“It sounds as if there are real birds in the living room,” said Marla.
“I know. That’s what the cat next door thought at first,” said Amy. “What shall we play?”
“Dress-up,” answered Marla promptly. “Let’s pretend we’re pioneers.”
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Amy. Marla always wanted to do the right things at the right times. Some girls would have wanted to watch Mitchell road test his skateboard, but not Marla. Marla liked to read old-fashioned stories about pioneer hardships, too, and she was always ready to pretend.
Amy opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, which was spilling over with dress-up clothes her mother had collected for her, a gleaming, shimmering jumble of satins, taffetas, velvets, and chiffons in rainbow colors.
Marla picked out a pink chiffon bridesmaid dress, looked at it critically, and asked, “Don’t you have any old calico dresses? Pioneer girls didn’t wear slithering things like this.”
“Nobody has calico dresses anymore,” Amy pointed out. “I’m not even sure what calico looks like.”
“I know, but silks—” Marla’s voice trailed off wistfully.
Out in the living room the man’s voice spoke calmly, as if he had never been sad or angry in his life. “Curve-billed thrasher,” he said.
A bird obediently answered, “Whit-wheet! Whit-wheet!”
Amy knew what Marla meant. The dresses that Mrs. Huff had saved or collected from friends or bought from the Goodwill for Amy were perfect for princesses but not for pioneers. “Oh well,” said Amy. “Come on. We can pretend they are calico.” If they were going to pretend, they might as well really pretend. “Dibs on being Laura.”
“Okay,” agreed Marla. “I’ll be Mary.” Laura and Mary were characters in the Little House stories, the girls’ favorite books, about the pioneer adventures of Laura Ingalls and her family. Marla pawed through the pile of dress-up clothes and dragged out the plainest dress she could find, a pale blue chiffon evening gown. “Let’s have hardships. Let’s pretend there’s a blizzard.”
Amy pulled a raspberry-colored satin dress over her head and groped for the sleeves. “Zip me up the back,” she said, when she found them. “And let’s pretend our father has gone to town to buy supplies. That gets him out of the way.”
Marla zipped up Amy’s dress. “How will we get rid of our mother?” The first rule in any game of pretend was to get rid of parents as soon as possible. Have them die of pneumonia, let Indians shoot them with bows and arrows, but get rid of them.
“She could go out into the blizzard to take care of the animals—”
“No, that wouldn’t really get rid of her,” objected Marla. “She would tie a rope from the house to the barn and follow it back so she wouldn’t lose her way. We’ll have to think of something else.”
Amy thought a moment. How could they get rid of their mother? “We could have her away taking care of a sick neighbor, and we are all alone in the house with the baby—” She picked up her Pooh bear and wrapped it in a doll blanket. “Here’s the baby—”
“And let’s make it that the snow is up to the roof—”
“And blowing through the chinks—”
“And the wolves are howling outside—”
“And we are just about out of food—”
“There’s nothing left but a little cornmeal—”
“Which we have to cook in the fireplace—the space under my desk can be the fireplace—”
“And the baby is crying—wah-wah, that’s the baby crying.”
“And let’s make it that we are out of wood—”
“And have to chop up the chairs—”
“So we won’t freeze to death—”
“What will we use for chairs?”
Amy thought a moment. What could they use for chairs? “I know! We can roll up newspapers and pretend they are pieces of broken-up chairs.”
Marla nodded. “And we can hear the wolves coming closer—”
“And we are afraid Father is lost in the blizzard—”
“Or devoured by wolves—” Both girls ran out of breath and ideas at the same time.
In the living room the man on the record spoke
in the even voice that sounded as if he had never hit his sister or yelled at a ball game, “Hermit thrush.”
“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” answered the hermit thrush.
“What about Indians?” asked Amy.
“Not in a blizzard,” said Marla. “Just wolves.”
Amy had another idea. “I think we should be wearing aprons. Pioneer girls were always wearing aprons. Clean ones. Come on, let’s get some of Mom’s.”
Holding up their silken skirts so they wouldn’t trip, Amy and her friend trailed into the living room where Mrs. Huff looked up from her Field Guide to Western Birds, which she was studying along with the record of birdcalls.
“We’re going to borrow a couple of aprons,” Amy explained. “We’re playing we’re pioneer girls enduring hardships.”
“In those dresses?” Mrs. Huff looked amused.
“We’re pretending they are calico,” explained Amy. “They are all we have to dress up in. Nobody wears calico anymore.”
“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Huff. “You could hardly be pioneer girls in your mother’s old slacks.”
“Come on, Marla, let’s find the aprons.” Amy pulled two aprons out of a drawer in the kitchen and handed one to Marla, who put it on over her chiffon evening gown, but somehow, now that they had left the bedroom and had spoken to Mrs. Huff, the spell was broken. The game of pretend no longer seemed urgent. “I suppose we should cook something, especially since we’re burning up the chairs,” said Amy.
“Some cornmeal mush or something,” agreed Marla.
“Maybe we could really cook something.” Amy cooked at every opportunity and was particularly good at making French toast.
“Yes, let’s cook something and pretend it’s cornmeal mush.” Marla was as enthusiastic about cooking as Amy, although her mother did not often permit her to make a mess in the kitchen.
The birdcall record had come to an end, and Mrs. Huff had overheard the conversation. “You may make some instant pudding if you like,” she said. “There’s a package in the cupboard with the canned goods. Lemon-flavored, I think, so it will at least be yellow like cornmeal mush.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Amy found the package of pudding mix and removed the plastic cover from the electric mixer, explaining, “I know pioneers didn’t have one of these, but I love to use the mixer.”
“So do I,” agreed Marla.
Outside the kitchen door Amy heard the sound of a skate being thrown down on the concrete patio, and then she saw Mitchell, sweaty, red-faced, and cross, come through the back door. He glared at her and demanded, “How come you always get to use the electric mixer?”
Amy had not forgotten the dandelion fluff Mitchell had blown away before she could make a wish. “Because I’m a girl, that’s why,” she answered. “I bet you’re cross because your old skateboard wouldn’t work. It probably fell apart the minute you started downhill.”
“It did too work! It worked just fine.” Mitchell was furious. He stood there with his fists clenched and one lock of hair, the one he never could slick down, standing straight up on the crown of his head. His shirttail was hanging out. Mitchell never could remember to tuck in the back of his shirt.
Amy knew that as much as her brother liked motors, his anger was not caused by her getting to use the electric mixer. Something had happened to Mitchell while he was road testing his skateboard.
At that point Mrs. Huff came into the kitchen. “Why, Mitchell!” she exclaimed, seeing his red face and his scowl. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Mitchell ferociously. “Why is everybody picking on me?”
“Nobody is picking on you,” said Mrs. Huff. “Something is the matter or you wouldn’t be acting this way, but, if you don’t want to tell us, you don’t have to.”
Amy saw anger drain out of Mitchell’s face but hurt remain. Now she understood that something had hurt her brother’s feelings and without even knowing what it was, she felt indignant. How dare anyone hurt Mitchell’s feelings!
Marla, who was not even a member of the family, looked sympathetic too.
Mitchell kicked the leg of the kitchen table with the toe of his sneaker, and Amy noticed that their mother restrained herself from telling him not to kick the furniture. “Aw, a couple of guys—” he said and stopped.
“What did they do?” Mrs. Huff asked gently.
“They wrecked my skateboard and pounded up my skate so it isn’t any good anymore and told me to start running and then threw the pieces at me.” Mitchell scowled at the floor when he had finished.
Amy was shocked. Mitchell’s skateboard that he had worked so hard to build! Oh, poor Mitchell—
“Why, Mitchell—what did you do?” asked Mrs. Huff, and Amy could see that her mother was just as shocked as she was.
Mitchell did not take his eyes from the floor. “I ran. What else could I do? There were two of them and they were older than me and bigger.”
“Then you did the wise thing,” said Mrs. Huff. “You would have been foolish to try to stay and fight.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Mitchell, looking up at his mother.
“Yes, I do.” Mrs. Huff was emphatic. “You will always find bullies in this world and the wisest thing to do is stay away from them. Who were these boys?”
“Alan Hibbler and Dwight Hill.”
“Alan Hibbler. Isn’t he the son of Judson Hibbler, the distinguished—” began Mrs. Huff.
Amy interrupted. “That old Alan Hibbler,” she said scornfully. “He thinks he’s so big because his father is famous. He used to kick my lunch box when I was in the second grade.”
“He sure does think he’s big,” agreed Marla. “He grabbed my raincoat once when I was running and tore the pocket right out.”
“And once when I was a Brownie he pulled off my beanie and threw it into the boys’ bathroom,” continued Amy. “I had to ask the custodian to get it back for me.”
“Well, he is bigger than me,” said Mitchell, “and he’s the one who pounded up my skate.”
“But he looks like such a nice boy,” said Mrs. Huff. “He’s clean-cut and has good manners.”
“He’s the type who’s nice to grown-ups but not to children,” Amy explained. “He doesn’t have evil beady eyes or anything like that, but he’s a bully just the same.”
“I don’t think a boy should be allowed to get away with destroying another boy’s skate,” said Mrs. Huff. “Perhaps I should telephone his—”
“Mom!” Mitchell was alarmed. “Promise you won’t call his family!”
“But Mitchell, the boy destroyed your property.”
Amy knew exactly how her brother felt. “No, Mom, don’t call,” she pleaded, backing up Mitchell.
“He would really get me if you did that,” said Mitchell. “Boy, he would really get me then.”
Amy watched her mother study Mitchell’s face. Please don’t call, she thought. Please, please don’t call. Mitchell was going to have enough trouble. If Alan Hibbler had made him run once, what was to keep him from trying again? And he would be sure to try if he thought Mitchell had got him in trouble with his family.
“I think Mitchell is right,” said Marla timidly, because, after all, she was not a member of the family.
“Believe me, Mom. I know,” insisted Mitchell. “Sometimes parents embarrass their children and get them into all sorts of trouble.”
“Yes, Mitchell knows,” Amy agreed earnestly. “Alan really would be after him.” Although she and Mitchell no longer walked to school together, she knew her brother often met Alan on the way.
Mrs. Huff relented. “All right, Mitchell, I won’t call. But I’m not sure it’s good for Alan to let him get away with destroying your skate.”
“Mitchell has outgrown roller-skating anyway,” said Amy, anxious lest her mother change her mind.
“That’s not the point,” said Mrs. Huff. “The point is, if Alan is allowed to get away with this, what will he try to do next?”
�
��Nothing, I hope,” said Mitchell. “Just don’t go calling his family. Maybe he’ll forget the whole thing.”
Amy could see that her mother was still troubled, and she was troubled herself. She did not like to think of Alan telling her brother to start running. The whole thing sounded like part of the kind of television program her mother would not let her watch. Alan seemed to think he was some kind of TV character, a bully on a shooting program. And the skateboard! Thinking about the broken skateboard her brother had worked so hard to build all by himself hurt Amy. Thinking how Mitchell was feeling hurt her, too.
Amy no longer felt like pretending she was a pioneer girl enduring hardships, cooking cornmeal mush in a fireplace during a blizzard. The magic had gone out of the game, and she did not want to pretend anymore. She thought about Mitchell and how much he liked anything with a motor, and so she said, “Mitch, would you like to make the instant pudding?”
Mitchell looked suspicious, and Amy knew he was wondering why she was giving up a chance to use the electric mixer. “How come?” he asked.
“Oh well, if you don’t want to—” Not for anything would Amy let her brother know how sorry she felt about what had happened.
“Sure I want to.”
“Then go ahead.” Now Amy knew what she wanted to wish for on her third dandelion. She would wish that that old bully, Alan Hibbler, would leave her brother alone. And when she made her wish she would blow so hard that every single dandelion seed would fly off dancing into the wind.
3
The Quarrel
Do I really get to make the pudding?” Mitchell asked his mother after Marla had discovered it was time to go home.
“Of course,” answered Mrs. Huff.
Mitch and Amy Page 2
