“On Friday? I saw some guys who had made these bunches of buttons with little twist ties, so I made myself twenty of them using some of the junky buttons we found on Saturday, duplicates and stuff.”
“Yeah, I noticed those kids, too.”
“So anyway, this morning I was looking for anything special in the bunches they had—sometimes just one button out of a whole set. And if I spotted a good one, then I would offer to trade two bunches for one bunch—just to get that particular button. And it worked like magic! But the best part? After I take the one button I want from a bunch, then I add an extra button to fill it back up, and just like that, I’ve got another bunch of ten to trade with! Pretty great, huh?”
I nod, but I’m also doing math in my head—because what Hank just described makes a really neat equation: Twenty bunches minus the two bunches he trades leaves eighteen, but then he adds one bunch back—which makes nineteen; minus the next two bunches leaves seventeen, but then he adds one back, to make eighteen, and so on—all the way down to one last single bunch left. There’s a special name for that kind of math progression…maybe recursive?
Hank says, “Right now I’ve still got fourteen bunches left, and I’ve already made six trades, and three of my new buttons are amazing! I’m going to be able to trade two bunches for one bunch nineteen times! Isn’t that great?”
“It is! Really smart!”
Hank’s got me grinning now—I can’t help it. Ben went nuts about his new clarinet, and Grampa was excited about the old mill, but Hank is almost exploding!
He takes a deep breath, and he looks embarrassed. I hope there wasn’t some weird look on my face just now to make him feel that way.
He calms himself down, almost serious. “But I’m going to have to cool it till after homeroom. Mr. Scott has a new rule: no buttons in his room. So remember that before you go to language arts. What about you? Got any button plans for today?”
“Not really, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”
That’s what I say, but the truth is that I’m just not into the buttons thing today.
But I’m very curious to see what’s up with the fad. And I promised Grampa I’d take good notes!
We head toward the sixth-grade hall, and the first thing I notice is that those boys don’t have any button bunches hooked onto their belts today. The bunches are on short loops of cord now. Which makes sense. All those clumps hanging everywhere? Way too awkward.
I also spot five different groups of second- and third-grade kids along the corridor, comparing handfuls of buttons and trading…which means button fever is spreading to the younger grades.
“Your little sister—what grade is she in now?”
A groan from Hank. “Third. I finally convinced my mom that I had to have a lock on my door. Hannah is driving me nuts.”
“Has she claimed some of the family buttons so she can bring them to school? Is she into collecting like you are?”
“No way—not interested. She’s more of a mad-scientist type. Last week she pulled the heads and the arms and the legs off five of her dolls so she could switch them all around onto the different bodies. My mom got pretty freaked out, but I told her not to worry. It’s actually a smart way to mix up a boring doll collection—now she’s got five new little Frankenstein dolls!”
That gets me laughing, and then I try to recall if Ellie ever made me laugh like this—yes…only not as often.
Do I want to compare Hank with Ellie? No.
But it keeps happening.
Which makes me wish I could stop observing my own thinking. Which only makes me think more.
Hank’s been thinking, too.
“How many different kinds of button kids can we identify? So far, I’ve only seen one actual collector—me. I’m calling myself a hunter-gatherer. Then there are kids like that guy.”
He points at a boy swinging a shoelace loop that must be loaded with forty or fifty bunches of buttons. “I’d call him a getter—someone who just wants more.”
“How about traders, kids who like making the deals more than they like the buttons themselves?”
Hank nods. “Absolutely—traders are a definite species.”
“And I’ve also spotted three or four color nuts, kids who mostly go after one particular color.”
He smiles. “And then there are the metalheads.”
“Right, and the military metalheads are a subspecies.” Then, trying not to sound too curious, I say, “How about Ellie? What’s her category?”
“Hmm…maybe a crafter? On account of the stuff she’s making? But…when Ellie got us all to bring buttons to lunch? That’s what really got things moving. And then the first bracelet she made last week? That got a ton of kids hooked. Might have to call Ellie a trendsetter. Which means a lot of the other kids are followers.”
I’m a little scared to ask this, but I say it anyway. “So…what would you call me?”
“You?”
He has to pause, and I’m worried that I’ve put him on the spot, that he thinks I’m trying to be cute, or that I’m only—
“I’ve got it—you’re the catalyst! Except that’s not a category, because there’s only one catalyst. You started everything. And when you gave away those buttons last week after lunch? That was pivotal! Without you, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be collecting, and I wouldn’t know what Bakelite is or how it got used to make fantastic Art Deco buttons—I wouldn’t even know what Art Deco means!”
Catalyst.
I like that.
I like it so much I almost blush.
It’s a word I know from chemistry. A catalyst releases energy. Add the right catalyst, and a process speeds up—like a solid turning to a liquid, or a liquid separating into different gases.
Of course, a catalyst can also make everything burst into flames and destroy the whole lab.
So, yeah…Grace the Catalyst.
We stop beside the art room bulletin boards because Hank has to turn here to head for Mr. Scott’s homeroom. I think he wants to say something, so I wait.
And I’m right.
“See you at lunch, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And listen—don’t let Ellie bug you today. She thinks she runs everything, but she doesn’t. You’re ten times smarter than she’s ever been. Ten times nicer, too.”
He says the last bit with half a smile.
“Thanks.” And I smile back.
Then Hank walks his way, and I walk mine.
So…did my face tell Hank that I needed cheering up?
Because I really did. And what he just said worked: I feel better.
But as I get closer to Mrs. Lang’s room, the feeling evaporates.
I’m not ready for today—not ready to deal with Ellie, not ready for the whole button circus. I wish it would all go away.
I don’t even care anymore that wishing isn’t scientific.
Still, unless I totally chicken out and run for the nurse’s office, I know I’m stuck. Because the one sure thing about a school day? Once it starts, it just keeps going.
And mine begins with homeroom. Right now.
I shouldn’t have been worried about Ellie. She’s way too busy to care about me.
Her button jewelry has its own brand name now: Ellie’s Originals. She’s got a sign on a desk just inside Mrs. Lang’s doorway so that girls from up and down our hall can stop in and trade away all their very best buttons for necklaces and anklets and, of course, her newest bracelets.
I wonder…Is Ellie also selling raffle tickets for sleepovers at her house?
Which is a mean thought.
But that’s definitely something Ellie would do—only she’s not smart enough to think of it.
Which is an even meaner thought.
I walk into the room, slippin
g right past her.
Two minutes later, then three, and she’s still busy, only aware of her customers.
Although…Ellie might just be pretending not to notice me.
Because that’s what I’m doing. I keep sneaking quick looks at her, and maybe she’s doing that, too.
Or maybe not.
Either way, if I can get through homeroom with zero contact, that’ll suit me fine. Then I won’t have to see her until social studies.
Mrs. Lang must have noticed all this button craziness—how could she not? But her eyes are glued to the screen of her laptop, and she’s tapping away at her lesson plans as if she expects ten visits from the principal today.
Over at the windows I’ve got a good view of the blacktop beside the building, and the bell hasn’t rung yet for the third, fourth, and fifth graders. A bunch of fourth-grade boys are playing a game where they each stand at a line and toss a button at a target drawn on the asphalt with chalk. The kid who gets a button to land closest to the center gets to keep the other ones. All over the playground, kids are standing in small groups, passing buttons around, looking at them, flipping them back and forth, making trades. And the button kids way outnumber the others who are running around or tossing balls or using the swings and slides.
Buttons! I still can’t get my head around this thing! Just last Wednesday eight kids brought some buttons to lunch. At Ellie’s table.
That was only five days ago! And now it’s a full-on fad. Is that even possible, in only five days?
The fact is, it’s more than possible, because I’m looking at the proof right there on the playground—and here in my own homeroom. This is happening!
“Hi, Grace.”
“Oh—hi, Brooke. How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“So, did you have that sleepover at Ellie’s?”
I’m half joking, but Brooke doesn’t pick up on it. She shakes her head, then glances toward the doorway.
“Ellie’s not talking to me, not even looking at me.”
“Yeah, I guess we’re both pretty much invisible today!”
She doesn’t smile at all.
I shouldn’t keep trying to joke about this. Not with Brooke.
“Ellie had Taylor for a sleepover on Saturday. I guess I really made her mad. But like you said, I hadn’t agreed to a deal yet—I hadn’t!”
“Well, I’m really sorry I jumped into the middle of things. I guess I went too far trying to get that pinwheel.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it was only a button, right? And if someone wants to get all upset and mean about it, then that’s not my fault. Right?”
“Right.”
But Brooke thinks it is her fault. Which is exactly the way Ellie wants her to feel.
Ellie is at the center of her own imaginary solar system, and Brooke and me? We’re both in some cold, dark corner behind a lost moon, and we’ve each got a big label glued onto our foreheads:
Ellie’s Not My Friend Anymore and It’s All My Fault!
But actually…if this situation is anybody’s fault, it’s my fault.
If I hadn’t barged in to get that button, we’d all still be friends…or at least we’d be talking to each other the way we always did before.
And eating lunch together. At Ellie’s table.
Which wasn’t so bad—in fact, it was mostly good.
I guess.
And Brooke? She’s completely innocent. She didn’t deserve to get pulled into my collision with Ellie. It’s like I caused a black hole to open up, and now the gravity has a grip on everybody.
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and hand her the pinwheel button. “You should go and see if Ellie still wants to trade you for a bracelet or something. So you can fix things with her.”
“But…this is yours now.”
“I know, but like you said, it’s only a button. And this’ll make me feel a lot better about everything.”
A smile makes Brooke look like a whole different person.
“This is so nice, Grace—thanks!”
“You’re welcome.”
I try not to watch, but Brooke goes and waits her turn at Ellie’s store. Then they talk, and there’s an exchange, and Ellie stands up and gives Brooke a little hug.
I go back to watching the third and fourth graders swapping and flipping and tossing buttons around outside.
And I really do feel better.
* * *
—
The good feeling lasts all day. I see Ellie during social studies, then at lunch, gym, and language arts. We don’t talk, but it seems like she almost smiles at me a few times.
Five minutes before the bell at the end of the day, Brooke stops at my desk in homeroom. And she’s wearing her new bracelet—a dark blue ribbon with white buttons.
“Ellie wanted me to give you this. See you tomorrow, and thanks again!”
It’s a piece of paper folded sort of like an envelope, and there’s a note on the outside, written in Ellie’s perfect cursive:
Brooke told me what you did, so I wanted you to have this.
And when I unfold the paper, it’s the pinwheel button!
Except…not quite.
It’s been snapped into three jagged pieces, totally destroyed.
I’m not getting mad, I’m not getting mad, I’m not getting mad! It’s just a stupid button—let it go!
It was just a stupid button, and this morning I knew that—that’s why it was so easy to give it to Brooke, to let it go. I wanted to get our universe back into balance.
But now? Now this button stands for every unkind thing that Ellie’s ever done—things I went along with, things I didn’t even think about.
Because it’s not like Ellie turned mean all of a sudden. Little bits of meanness have been around for a long time, just not so much out in the open.
Before, I used to laugh when Ellie whispered something about another girl, about how awful her clothes looked, or how someone’s nose was shaped funny, or how some girl talked too loud or said something dumb.
And now the meanness is aimed at me.
So I probably deserve this.
What did I like about Ellie, anyway? How come I thought we were such great friends?
That’s a hard question.
Then it hits me: Other kids must have thought I was kind of mean, too, because I was Ellie’s friend!
Did some of her meanness rub off on me, just from hanging out every day? Did I get infected—is that how meanness spreads…scientifically?
And how mean did I let myself get? Did I go along with Ellie so we could keep being friends?
I guess I must have.
But I know it’s not really accurate to think about Ellie as if she were this totally horrible person. I’ve seen her good side, too—I have. She can be generous, sort of. And kind, sort of. And also clever, and silly, and even sweet…truly sweet.
Like when she got choked up talking about the buttons that had been on her grandfather’s suits? That was totally sweet!
So maybe I need to find the least mean way to deal with this…incident.
Maybe I need to keep trying to be kind to Ellie, no matter what.
Or maybe even just let it go, let it drift away into space, let it vanish without reacting at all.
I’m still sitting at my desk as the final bell rings, and I notice that my right hand is throbbing. So I look down, and it hurts to open my fist.
I’ve been squeezing the broken pinwheel button with so much force that the rough edges have pressed little red dents and ridges deep into the skin of my palm.
Like scars.
When water reaches its freezing point, it turns to ice instantly. And just like that, I feel a decision snap into place—clear and cold and hard.
I a
m not letting Ellie get away with this!
“So…I heard you’ll trade eight of these for one bracelet. Is that true?”
It’s Audrey Harken. She’s in Mrs. Casey’s homeroom, and she’s looking through my bag of fancy buttons.
“That’s right, and you can pick whichever ones you want.”
“Nice—here you go!”
She slaps a bracelet down on the lunch table and begins choosing.
I’ve still got at least a hundred of the specialty buttons here at school—which is good, because they’re very popular. But I’ve also got six other bags of nice vintage buttons in reserve—the same ones that I had planned to dump onto a tray last week at Ellie’s lunchtime button show.
As Audrey leaves, I say, “Be sure to tell the kids in your homeroom that I’m looking for bracelets and necklaces, and I’ve got lots of really great buttons here!”
My new business is bouncing along nicely on this fine Tuesday morning, and everybody loves my sign: GRACE’S GORGEOUS GOODIES. So far, I’ve traded for nine bracelets, three necklaces, and one anklet—all made by Ellie. And I’ve still got fifteen minutes before lunch is over. If all goes well, by the end of the day most of Ellie’s Originals are going to belong to one person: me.
Hank’s been watching since lunch period began, and I can feel his eyes, feel his questions. I feel some disapproval, too. And it’s not because I’m getting rid of so many great old buttons—I already let him pick through my stuff and choose all the ones he wanted, for free. For his collection.
So that’s not what he disapproves of.
No, Hank can tell something else is going on here. I haven’t shown him the broken pinwheel button, but he can see that what I’m doing has an edge to it—something a little sharp, a little harsh, a little grim.
And he’s right.
Because this isn’t about fun with buttons. This is war. Grace’s Gorgeous Goodies and Ellie’s Originals are locked in a desperate battle to the death.
Okay—that’s too dramatic.
But no matter what this is called, so far I’m winning.
The Friendship War Page 8
