The Friendship War

by Andrew Clements

  Then, a complete surprise—a bunch of kids start going nuts about the buttons.

  “A button shaped like a tomato?”

  “There’s a ship on this one!”

  “Look at this super-bright yellow—I love it!”

  “A starfish…and there’s a baseball!”

  “That gold one with the eagle? It’s gotta be off an army uniform.”

  “Oooh—diamonds!”

  With all the bright colors, and some of them glittering in the pile? The buttons look sort of like jewels that spilled from a treasure chest.

  Everyone keeps poking through them until Mrs. Casey says, “Thank you for sharing all this, Grace. Let’s get back to our seats now, and please take out your notes from the homework reading.”

  The Burnham Mills show is over, just like that.

  I gather up my stuff, and in another fifteen minutes it’ll be lunchtime. It’s as if my show-and-tell never happened. Which is just fine with me.

  * * *

  —

  A second surprise comes about a half hour later in the cafeteria.

  Taylor says, “Do you have those buttons with you? Could I look at them again?”

  From the end of our lunch table, Hank pipes up, “Me too!”

  So I take the bag out of my backpack and pour the buttons onto an empty cafeteria tray. As the tray slides down the center of the table, everyone leans in to look and touch—everyone except Ellie.

  She nods at the tray and says, “My mom used to do all kinds of sewing and knitting and quilting, and so did both of my grandmothers. We’ve got a drawer at home that’s loaded with buttons—a lot more than that.”

  Taylor says, “We’ve got buttons at home, too, but these are way better!”

  Brooke nods. “I’ve seen some buttons at my house, too.”

  “Hey—I’ve got an idea,” Ellie says. “How about if we all bring some buttons tomorrow? We can look at them after lunch, just to see what everyone has.”

  This moment? This is the right moment for me to say, The truth is, no matter how many buttons anybody else has, I’ve got way more!

  But I don’t say a word, and the other kids at the table are saying, “Yeah,” and “I could find some buttons,” and “Cool!” and “Count me in!”

  And I can’t help thinking that if I had made this suggestion? Everyone would have thought it was dorky—especially Ellie.

  As I bag up my buttons for the second time today, I understand what’s happening. Ellie likes to be the one who has the most and the best of everything. She isn’t too obnoxious about it, not usually.

  But I’ve seen her act this way before.

  I know exactly why Ellie suggested that all the kids at our table should bring some buttons to lunch tomorrow—and this is not just a theory. It’s because Ellie is totally sure that she has the most and the best and the prettiest buttons in the universe, and she wants to prove that to everybody.

  But, of course, Ellie doesn’t have the most or the best or the prettiest.

  I do…probably.

  And maybe for the first time ever.

  * * *

  —

  I think about this the whole rest of the school day. And even as I’m doing my homework after dinner, Ellie and her buttons are right here inside my head.

  So, just before bed, I begin filling plastic sandwich bags with buttons. I’m aiming for quality, variety, and especially quantity.

  I stop at eight bags. That ought to do it.

  Because if Ellie tries to turn tomorrow’s lunchtime into a big show-off session, then she’s going to get a surprise.

  From me.

  It’s second period on Wednesday, and Hank whispers to me. Again.

  I can’t tell what he said, but I nod anyway. Again.

  We’re sitting in the front row of the auditorium, and I’m turned halfway around in my seat so I can see the other kids as they arrive for our first sixth-grade assembly. I need Hank to stop bothering me because I’m on a mission—counting buttons. And also keeping a running total in my head.

  …341…349…352…355…

  When I can’t quite see, I have to estimate:

  flannel or long-sleeve shirt—eight buttons

  button-front sweater or short-sleeve shirt—six buttons

  pullover polo shirt—three buttons

  pants or shorts—one button, maybe two

  skirt—one button

  T-shirts, sweatshirts, or sweatpants—zero buttons

  Hank pokes me with his elbow.

  “Mrs. Lang is looking at you—here she comes!”

  I hear him, but I keep counting anyway.

  “Grace! Face forward! This is not the time or the place for socializing.”

  Under my breath I say, “Three hundred sixty-three,” and then I turn and sit back in my seat.

  I look up at Mrs. Lang. “Sorry…except I wasn’t socializing. I was collecting data.”

  She frowns and shakes her head. “Eyes front. That’s our assembly rule.”

  I always feel sorry for teachers at assemblies. It seems like they’re trying to show the principal and all the other teachers how their kids are just about perfect.

  But that’s only a theory.

  Mrs. Lang walks on, her clipboard gripped in the crook of her arm. And I notice that she’s wearing pants, a collared shirt, and a sweater—at least fifteen buttons.

  I want to turn around again, to try to pick up my button count, but I don’t dare. It’s too early in the school year to risk getting on Mrs. Lang’s bad side—I’ve got her for homeroom, plus math and science. Although maybe Mrs. Lang doesn’t really have a good side. Then it wouldn’t matter, right?

  Another interesting theory, but I don’t want to test it—not today.

  Instead, I try to estimate how much of the sixth grade had already arrived in the auditorium when Mrs. Lang made me stop counting…probably about two-thirds.

  So, if the first two-thirds of the kids were wearing about three hundred and sixty buttons, then the remaining one-third of the kids would be wearing about half that many: another one hundred and eighty. Which means that today, the whole sixth grade is wearing…five hundred and forty buttons. Approximately.

  Of course, those are just the buttons on the clothes the kids are wearing right now. There are lots more buttons on all their other clothes at home—the shirts and pants and jeans and shorts in dresser drawers, plus the skirts and other clothes on hangers and hooks in closets. And then there are the buttons on everybody’s coats and jackets and raincoats.

  To get a scientific count of the sixth graders’ buttons, I would have to ask every kid to go home, study all their clothes, count every button, and then fill out a form for me.

  Which isn’t going to happen.

  Besides, this sudden urge to count buttons? I know it’s only a distraction, something I’m doing to keep myself from worrying about what might happen at lunchtime—right after this assembly.

  I almost never wake up early, but this morning at six-fifteen I sat straight up in bed, sweating. I’d been dreaming about snowboarding down a mountainside, and then an avalanche broke loose above me, and suddenly that rushing hillside of snow turned into a towering wave of buttons, trying to sweep me under, bury me.

  And the moment I got myself fully awake? I started to worry about lunch.

  And buttons.

  And the Ellie Effect.

  My thoughts keep spinning, and I begin to wonder how many buttons there are on the clothes of the other kids at school today. And the teachers, too.

  And beyond the school, there are the parents of the kids, at home or at work, with buttons on their clothes. Plus all the rest of the people of this town…and this state…and this country, and this continent, and this hemisphere, and th
is planet!

  And what about the buttons on all the clothes on all the bodies buried in all the graveyards, everywhere in the world? Gross…but true. That would add up to billions and billions more!

  I feel dizzy, and I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling of the auditorium. It’s like I’ve accidentally pointed a telescope toward a strange galaxy, and instead of stars and planets, I’m looking into an endless new sky filled with buttons.

  The assembly begins, and the principal is at the podium onstage, waiting as the room gets quiet.

  “Your teachers and I have known many of you for more than five years, and we are so excited about the amazing year we’ve planned. It’s going to be demanding, and so far, you’re doing great! As all of us look ahead together, I’m hoping that…”

  Mrs. Porter keeps talking, but I’m having trouble listening. My hands are cold, and it feels like I have a knot in the center of my stomach.

  I hate getting upset about anything, but to feel this upset about buttons? It’s not even logical. Because, really, who cares about buttons? No one ever even thinks about buttons!

  Unless one pops off and your pants fall down.

  I saw that in a cartoon, but there’s no reason why it couldn’t happen in real life: A button pops, gravity pulls, and pants fall—it’s basic science, simple cause and effect.

  Cause and effect!

  The first time I heard that phrase was during a second-grade science lesson. It means that nothing happens without a reason. It means that events can always be studied and understood. Which is so…comforting.

  And suddenly I am absolutely sure that what I need here is more scientific thinking—more understanding.

  And less emotion.

  Except…right now? I understand the cause of my worries perfectly—and the anxious feelings are only getting worse. Why? As soon as this assembly is over, I know that I’m going to stop by my locker, grab a backpack full of buttons, and then go to the cafeteria with my best friend.

  Whether my stomach likes it or not.

  At our table in the cafeteria, the eating part of the lunch period is over quickly.

  Since the main event was Ellie’s idea, she takes charge. Which is what I thought would happen.

  “Let’s get the table cleared off—”

  “Yeah, but maybe keep your trays.”

  That’s Hank—interrupting Ellie. She shoots a look at him before continuing.

  “And yes, keep a tray if you want to.”

  Once everyone is back and settled, Ellie says, “I think Grace should go first. Then we can go on around the table to the left. So, besides the buttons you had yesterday, did you find any others at home?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  I’m lost, scattered, totally flustered.

  Because my plan was to wait until everyone else was done, and then dump out bag after bag of buttons, and calmly enjoy everyone’s amazement—especially Ellie’s.

  And now I don’t know what to do. Plus my stomach is still hurting.

  I reach into my backpack and pull out one bag—a mix of green, blue, red, and yellow buttons, all about the size of a nickel.

  “I…I have these.”

  I pour the buttons onto a tray and slide it to my left.

  And in a flash, I see why Ellie started things off this way—so that her buttons will be the last ones revealed!

  Ellie smiles at my tray. “Nice colors,” she says.

  But to me it sounds like she’s only being polite.

  Cody is on my left, and from the pocket of his hoodie he pulls out a dark blue sock with a bulge down in the toe.

  “Eww—that’s gross!” Taylor slides as far away from Cody as she can get.

  “What? It’s not stinky, if that’s what you’re worried about. And in case you didn’t know it, plastic bags are terrible for the environment.”

  Cody empties his buttons onto a tray, then stuffs the sock back into his pocket. There are four or five bright orange ones, three large red ones, several dozen in different shades of gray and tan, fifteen or twenty black ones, and then lots of smaller white buttons.

  To my eye, the most interesting buttons on his tray are the largest black ones. They have an anchor-and-rope design cut into the surface. I’ve got thirty or forty like that.

  I point at one. “I’m pretty sure that’s a US Navy button.”

  Cody picks it up. “Yeah, that’s what my mom said. These were on my dad’s old jacket, but he burned a big hole in it on a fishing trip, and she only kept the buttons.”

  And that’s it for Cody.

  Taylor starts pulling small plastic bags out of her backpack. “When my mom was in junior high, she and her big sister got into decorating stuff with buttons—lampshades and coasters and glass jars, all kinds of things. We still have some of the coasters. And my mom kept all the buttons they never used. I’m not allowed to get them mixed together. We’ve got some other regular buttons, too, but I didn’t bring them.”

  There are at least fifteen bags on Taylor’s tray, and even though the colors are different, the buttons look identical, each a little bigger than the kind used on the front of a shirt.

  Kevin is next, and his buttons aren’t in a plastic bag or a sock. He just pulls a few handfuls from his pockets.

  “These are from the sewing box in our family room. There are more, but I was almost late for the bus this morning, so…that’s it.”

  These look a lot like Cody’s mix, only I don’t spot any US Navy buttons. But I do see four that are made of pewter. They all have the same raised design on the surface—a swan.

  It’s Hank’s turn, and he stands up and spreads out five white sheets of poster board, each one a little bigger than a regular piece of printer paper. Every sheet has buttons on it, mounted in rows and columns, and every button is fastened in place with thin black wire threaded into holes poked through the board.

  “I searched for all the loose buttons at my house yesterday, and then I got them organized, first by color, then by shape and size. And also by the number of holes they have—two or four…except for the buttons like this brass one, and this little round-topped blue one. This kind just has a single loop on the back. I recorded how many of each separate kind I have—that’s the number I wrote underneath some of them. And I mounted the buttons like this because I looked online, and this is sort of how collectors organize them. I’m not really done yet.”

  Everyone is kind of blown away by Hank’s presentation, but I’m not surprised. Hank and I teamed up for the fourth-grade science fair. When we were working at his house one Saturday, I saw his butterfly and moth collection—over a hundred and fifty different species, from tiny ones with delicate white wings, to a brilliant green luna moth bigger than my dad’s hand. Each insect was perfectly mounted and labeled.

  Six or seven other kids have come over to stand around our table, some from my homeroom and others from Mr. Scott’s and Mrs. Casey’s rooms—a few fifth graders, too. Everyone is leaning forward, and they remind me of a quiet audience at one of those golf tournaments on TV.

  Brooke and Diana didn’t bring a lot—about as many as Kevin. The most interesting thing on either of their trays is some cloth-covered buttons Brooke found.

  Finally, it’s Ellie’s turn.

  We’ve got at least twelve extra spectators now, and she smiles at them and says, “Sorry there’s not enough room for you to sit at the table, but I hope you can see everything anyway. First of all, I have some military buttons, which are very special.”

  Ellie pauses, making sure she has our full attention.

  “My great-great-grandfather joined the United States Army in 1918, and then after World War One he stayed in the army until he became a captain. And these are buttons off some of his clothes. These huge ones are from a heavy overcoat. The oldest buttons, these brown met
al ones? They were actually on his uniform when he was fighting in France during the war. And these shiny brass ones came from his captain’s uniform later on. Now, these six buttons? They’re from a US Marine uniform that my grandmother’s brother wore. I never met him, because he died in the Vietnam War, when my grandmother was still in high school. I’ll pass them around, but please don’t take them out of the protective bag.”

  Ellie has used two different cafeteria trays now, and she has five more stacked in front of her—she’s got a whole little show planned out, like something on the History Channel! I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed or jealous, so all three feelings are banging around inside me.

  And Ellie keeps going.

  “These nine buttons? They’re from my great-aunt Ellen’s wedding dress—she’s the person I’m named for. See how they shine when you tilt them? They’re made from this semiprecious stone called white opal. Aunt Ellen gave them to my mom so that I could wear them someday on my wedding dress, and I didn’t even know that until last night—so amazing!”

  The wedding dress buttons, also in plastic, get to parade down the table on a tray of their own.

  “I think these might be my favorites. My dad told me that back in 1898, his great-grandparents bought a farm in southern Illinois. And these two buttons came from a pair of overalls that my great-great-grandfather wore almost every day!”

  Ellie passes them to me. They’re made of brass, and raised up on the front of each button are two words: STRONG HOLD. I want to ask her what else she knows about her great-great-grandparents, but Ellie’s not slowing down for anything.

  “Okay, so these twelve shiny black buttons? They’re carved from a stone called onyx, and my mom told me how she wore them on a long blue gown.”

  There’s a muffled laugh to my left, but it’s not about Ellie’s show. Kevin and Cody have moved so they’re sitting next to each other, and my tray is between them. They’re piling up buttons, seeing who can build the tallest stack before it topples.

  Ellie looks, too, and she pauses to frown at them. But the guys don’t stop. She’s taking too long, and she knows it.