Kristy's Worst Idea

by Ann M. Martin

  CRASH!

  That was a plastic plate Ryan had dropped in the kitchen. (He’s two years old, too.)

  “Eeeeew!” shouted Buddy and Lindsey, running into the family room.

  Claudia and Mary Anne raced into the kitchen. Six-year-old Taylor DeWitt was busy smearing applesauce and cut-up bananas into the kitchen tile with a dish towel. “I’m cleaning up!”

  “Uh, let me help you,” Claudia volunteered, running for a sponge.

  “My teacher’s name is Jody,” Taylor announced. “Her last name is Andrews. On the first day of school, she made us tell about our summers.”

  Claudia knelt down and started sponging up the mess. “That’s nice.”

  “More ’nanas,” Ryan demanded.

  “This kid, David?” Taylor plunged on. “He went to New Hampshire, I think. And Ripley? He took tae kwon do, but when he showed us a kick the teacher got mad. And Annie? She lives on our street?”

  “Will you stop?” Lindsey shouted from the family room. “We heard this a million times!”

  “My teacher’s name is Mrs. Pimpleface,” Buddy said in a singsong voice, “and I’m going to poison her.”

  “Don’t talk about schoooool!” Lindsey screamed.

  “Yeah!” Madeleine agreed from her corner of the room.

  Mary Anne set Marnie down and ducked into the family room. There, Buddy was furiously playing a Game Boy. Lindsey was staring glumly out the window and Madeleine was curled up in an armchair, spinning the wheels of a toy train.

  “What’s up, you guys?” Mary Anne asked, sitting on the sofa. “School getting you down already?”

  No answer.

  “Pow!” Buddy said, punching the buttons of his Game Boy. “I’m blowing up the school!”

  “Blow up mine, too,” Madeleine cried out. “Especially Miss Raymond.”

  “Margaret Dumas, too,” Lindsey said.

  Suzi came skipping in, singing, “Margaret’s in Lindsey’s cla-aass … Margaret’s in Lindsey’s cla-aass …”

  “STOP!” Lindsey burst into tears. “I hate her. She’s my worst enemy.”

  Mary Anne put her arm around Lindsey. “I know how you feel.”

  “You do not,” Lindsey said.

  “This awful boy, Alan Gray, used to pull my hair all the time in second grade,” Mary Anne continued. “He had another teacher, though, thank goodness. Well, the next September, in third grade, guess who was sitting right behind me in class?”

  “Alan?” Lindsey said through sniffles.

  Mary Anne nodded. “I cried for three days straight. Then my friend Kristy and I both told him off, and he never bothered me again.”

  “Really?”

  Mary Anne nodded. “He bothered Kristy instead.”

  They both started laughing. (True story, by the way.)

  “Blam! Stoneybrook Smellementary School bites the dust!” Buddy cried out.

  Madeleine shuffled over to the couch and crawled under Mary Anne’s other arm. “My tummy feels bad.”

  “She always says that,” Suzi said, bouncing in again. “She’s just mad she has to go to preschool.”

  “Boy, all of you are having back-to-schoolitis, huh?” Mary Anne said. “Claudia and I will think of something fun to do.”

  Mary Anne looked over her shoulder. Through the open door, she could see the kitchen, but no Claudia. “Hmmm,” she said, “who wants to play a game?”

  “Candy Land!” Madeleine squealed.

  “Me, too!” Suzi chimed in. She ran to the wall shelves, which are crammed with toys and games.

  “Whoa, I just made five thousand points!” screamed Buddy the Game Boy addict, perfectly happy where he was.

  Lindsey pulled a chessboard from the shelves. “Will you play with me?”

  “Sure,” Mary Anne said.

  Suzi and Madeleine busily set up their game. Lindsey was positioning her chess pieces. Buddy was blowing things up. The grumpy foursome was feeling a lot better.

  Mary Anne was relieved. Mission accomplished.

  After three chess moves, a loud thump sounded in the kitchen. Then Ryan’s voice shrieked with delight.

  “Have no fear, Claudia’s here!” Claud shouted. “Art projects for everybody.”

  Claudia trudged into the family room, dragging a big, heavy bag. Taylor was struggling behind her with an easel. Ryan toddled along, pretending to help out.

  “Look what we found,” Claudia said. “Some plaster of paris, tempera paints, an easel. We can do painting, papier-mâché —”

  She darted back into the kitchen, with Ryan skipping along behind.

  “I hate papier-mâché,” Buddy muttered.

  “I like it,” Suzi said. She stood up, knocking over a Candy Land piece.

  “No fair!” Madeleine cried. “You just want to leave because you’re losing!”

  “Well, Claudia says we have to put it away now,” Suzi announced.

  “She didn’t say that,” Mary Anne said.

  Claudia barged in, throwing a pile of old newspapers on the floor. “Buddy and Lindsey,” Claudia called out, “you guys spread these out. We’re going to need all the floor space, so pick up the games.”

  “We want to finish playing!” Lindsey said.

  “We were in the middle of a good game,” Mary Anne explained.

  Claudia was already setting up the easel. “You can play checkers anytime, but art is something special. Besides, this’ll stop you guys from arguing.”

  “But they weren’t argu —” Mary Anne began.

  Claudia zipped out of the room again and started clattering around in the kitchen.

  “Let’s just keep playing, Mary Anne,” Lindsey said.

  Before Mary Anne could answer, Claudia returned with a big bucket of water. “Uh, hello? Didn’t I say to lay the papers down?”

  Suzi started spreading the papers, kicking aside the Candy Land game.

  Madeleine stood up and stormed away. Buddy wandered off, clutching his Game Boy. With a frustrated sigh, Lindsey carefully placed the chess game on the TV and followed Buddy.

  “Guyyyys!” Claudia turned to Mary Anne, frowning. “Will you get them?”

  “Well, maybe they want to do something else, Claudia —”

  Claudia let out a funny kind of snort-laugh. “Right. Puh-leeze. Like competitive games are going to stop them all from fighting?”

  “It was working,” Mary Anne insisted.

  “Well, for a while, sure. But now they have something fun to do. Something cooperative. Creative.” Claudia ripped open the plaster of paris bag. “Buddy! Lindsey! Madeleine! Come in here!”

  Mary Anne took a deep breath. Then she let Claudia have it. Screamed at her. Threw the easel to the floor and dumped plaster of paris on her head.

  Actually, that was what I would have done. But not Mary Anne. “Claudia,” she said calmly, “art is great, but not everyone’s so interested in it.”

  “Yeah?” Claudia said nonchalantly. “My parents, my sister, and who else?”

  “Well, okay, if you want to know — me. And Buddy and Lindsey and Suzi and Madeleine. We were all in the middle of something we liked. I mean, if you had told us you were going to do this, we would have —”

  CRAASSHHH!

  “Marnie and Ryan dumped the dirty silverware out of the dishwasher!” Lindsey called out.

  Mary Anne ran out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “Claudia, you should never leave the little ones all alone!”

  Claudia followed her. The two-year-olds were standing over a pile of dirty forks and spoons, laughing hysterically.

  “They’re okay,” Claudia said.

  “No thanks to you,” Mary Anne commented under her breath.

  “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you teach Marnie and Ryan to play Parcheesi?” Claudia said, marching out of the room.

  “They’re already making a silverware sculpture!” Mary Anne retorted.

  (Boy, was Mary Anne furious. She never talks like that.)

 
She picked up the spilled silverware. She vowed not to go near Claudia the rest of the afternoon.

  Fat chance. As soon as the art project began, the family room became complete chaos. Soon Mary Anne was breaking up a fight between Lindsey and Buddy. Then Buddy dumped papier-mâché on Madeleine’s head, and you-know-who had to wash that off. Not to mention the purple and brown paint stains on the family room sofa, the windows, and her own brand-new cotton blouse.

  By the time the job was finally over, the kids were all playing games again. Mary Anne could barely see straight. She wanted to explode at Claudia.

  But she didn’t have the chance. Claudia stormed away first, without saying good-bye.

  “A little lower,” I called to Abby.

  Claudia, Jessi, Mallory, Shannon, and I were standing under a maple tree in my front yard. Above us, Abby was clinging to a branch.

  She turned a spool of string. The other end was tied to the stem of a red delicious apple. Slowly the apple dropped toward me.

  “Stop there,” I said.

  The apple bobbed at about eye level.

  “Now what?” Jessi asked.

  “This is what all of McLelland Road will look like.” I gestured up the road in front of my house. “A street full of apple trees. The kids will reach up and pick. Just like a trip to the orchard, only safer. Perfect, huh? A taste of the country in good old Stoneybrook — that’s the motto of the Fall Into Fall Festival Block Party.”

  “Can I come down now?” Abby asked.

  “It’ll be easy and fun,” I went on, yanking the apple off the string.

  The branch wobbled. “Who-o-oa!” yelled Abby.

  I looked up to see her hugging the branch for dear life … one hand holding the string I’d just pulled.

  “Oops, sorry,” I said. I bit into the apple and smiled at my friends. “Well, what do you think of my idea?”

  Four open-mouthed stares answered me. My friends had become the Great American Gapers Association. GAGA.

  It was Saturday, around ten o’clock in the morning. The sky was clear, and a cool northern breeze brought a hint of fall to the air. A perfect day for our first Fall Into Fall planning session.

  Well, almost perfect. I’d sort of hoped that everyone would show up. But Stacey was off visiting her dad in New York, and Mary Anne said she wasn’t feeling well. (Personally, I think she just didn’t want to be near Claudia.)

  I’d thought hard about the festival. We needed something creative and spectacular. In my opinion, the schedule shifting had been awful for club spirit. All three meetings that week had been tense. Claudia and Mary Anne weren’t talking at all (Abby and I weren’t exactly bosom buddies, either). Fall Into Fall was going to be a quadruple triumph — great for club morale, great for BSC public relations, great for the neighborhood kids, and a perfect way to publicize our schedule change.

  For this, we would say good-bye to humdrum pumpkins and baked goods and leaf piles.

  Apple picking was just the first of my great ideas.

  “It’s …” Jessi said.

  “It’s …” Mallory echoed.

  “Insane,” Claudia finished.

  “That’s what they said about Picasso’s theory of relativism,” I said.

  “You mean Einstein,” Jessi said.

  “Picasso’s theory of Einstein,” I corrected myself.

  “I don’t know about this, Kristy,” Claudia said. “I mean, apples dangling over the street on strings? It’ll look stupid.”

  “Not to mention all the time it’ll take to set up,” Shannon added.

  Jessi nodded. “I have zero spare time, between homework and ballet practice, and —”

  “We could just transplant a whole orchard,” Abby suggested. “That would be less work.”

  “Don’t worry, guys, you’ll catch the spirit.” I turned away and led them all toward the wooded area at the end of the block. “We need an open area for maple sugaring, so I figured this would do fine.”

  Claudia rubbed her ears. “I must need to have my hearing examined. I actually thought she said, ‘maple sugaring.’ Again.”

  “Kristy, be serious,” Abby said.

  “I am,” I replied. “But the problem is, it takes, like, forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. So what we do is water down some real maple syrup, to make a kind of fake sap. Then we build a stone grill and make a fire, for boiling.”

  Claudia looked flabbergasted.

  “Isn’t it the wrong season for maple sugaring?” Shannon asked.

  “Who cares?” I replied.

  Mallory shook her head sadly. “I think she’s lost it.”

  “What else, Kristy?” Abby laughed. “A laser light show?”

  “A hay ride!” Jessi giggled. “With horses.”

  “Christmas lights will work just fine,” I said. “But only the fall colors — orange, red, and white. We’ll have to work on that. And Mrs. Stone has plenty of hay in her barn. I was thinking she could line the back of her pickup truck and drive the kids around. But horses — that’s not a bad idea.”

  “I was only kidding!” Jessi said.

  “Can’t we just make it simple?” Mallory pleaded. “Some leaf piles for jumping, some face-painting …”

  “Bobbing for apples,” Jessi suggested.

  I sighed heavily. “You guys have no imagination. Follow me.”

  Tossing my apple from hand to hand, I led them all back into my house.

  Watson was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper in the kitchen. He broke into a big smile. “Weekend meeting?”

  “Nope,” I answered. “Planning session for our gala Fall Into Fall Festival Block Party. Which wouldn’t be complete without cider making.”

  Walking to the counter, I pulled out my mom’s juice maker and dropped my apple into the hole at the top. I turned on the machine and it whirred to life. Most of the apple spat out, all mangled and chewed up, into a clear plastic pulp collector. A few drops of brown liquid plinked into the juice receptacle.

  “Impressive,” Abby said drily.

  “Well, we’ll need a lot of apples,” I said. “So we’ll start hanging them a few days in advance.”

  “Hanging them?” Watson repeated.

  “From the trees outside,” Claudia explained, shaking her head sadly. “For apple picking. It’s part of the festival.”

  I described the plan to Watson. His reaction? “Sounds … interesting. Did you set a date?”

  “I was thinking, October fifth,” I said.

  “I guess you talked to the town about a permit?” Watson asked.

  “Permit?” I repeated.

  “You did say block party, right? I assume you want to close off the block? You do realize you have to apply for a permit to do that?”

  Gulp.

  “Of course I know,” I lied. “I’ll call the, uh, officials before our Monday meeting.”

  David Michael’s voice filtered in through the open kitchen window. “Hey, what’s this string for?”

  My friends and I went outside. David Michael had run into the backyard with four friends: Hannie and Linny Papadakis, and Bill and Melody Korman.

  I explained my idea to them. They seemed to like it, until I said I expected them to help set up.

  “No way,” said Hannie. “I’m not climbing trees. That’s dangerous.”

  “Boiling syrup is boring,” was Linny’s contribution.

  “You should hang candy instead,” Melody suggested.

  “Now, there’s an idea,” said Claudia. “We could turn the street into a candy mobile. Change the theme. Call it Fall Into Abstract Edible Art or something.”

  Zing. Another idea hit me. “That’s it, Claudia!”

  “What’s it?”

  “Abstract art,” I said. “We’ll have a leaf sculpture! You know, like an ice sculpture, only better. Take some autumn leaves, pile them up, twine them together into big shapes or whatever. You’ll be in charge of that part. Okay, now let’s think of booths. We have to
have some booths …”

  Claudia was staring at me as if I’d just sprouted antennae.

  Me? I didn’t care. I had a festival to organize, and it was a month away. I was just warming up.

  “So, what elephants smelling maximum news and lottery?” asked my English teacher, Mr. Fiske.

  Well, that was what it sounded like. I wasn’t really paying attention. It was the Monday after our planning session and I was furiously scribbling ideas into my English notebook:

  “Kristy?” Mr. Fiske said.

  “Huh?”

  The whole class was staring at me. Cokie Mason, the nemesis of my life, was snickering so hard her whole body was twitching. I must have looked like a total doofus.

  Mr. Fiske let out a deep sigh. “One more time. What elements of storytelling does Shirley Jackson use in ‘The Lottery’?”

  “Elements?”

  All I could think of were hydrogen and oxygen. I had to remind myself which class I was in.

  “Theme? Point of view? Use of irony?” Mr. Fiske pressed on. “Did you find this to be a morality tale, Kristy, or was it a simple horror story?”

  I’d read “The Lottery.” It was a weird story with a surprise ending (I won’t spoil it for you), which I liked a lot.

  “Well,” I ventured. “Uh, it was pretty cool, actually …”

  Cokie shot her hand into the air.

  “Cokie?” Mr. Fiske asked.

  “I wasn’t fin —” I protested.

  “Shirley Jackson does not take the point of view of any character,” Cokie read in a singsong voice from a sheet of looseleaf paper, “thus heightening the narrative distance and giving the story a tension which builds until the final shock, delivering a powerful moral message about mass psychology in American society.”

  Mr. Fiske smiled. “Excellent analysis. Does anyone have anything to add to that?”

  As he walked across the room, Cokie crossed her eyes at me.

  I was steaming. I wouldn’t have said exactly that (I didn’t know what it meant), but at least I would have used my own words. I just knew she had copied that answer out of some book. Cokie’s not that smart. Besides, she’s a cheater, a liar, and the world’s laziest student.

  Otherwise, she’s a lovely person.

  Mr. Fiske looked at the clock. “Tonight we descend further into gothic territory. Please read Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ by tomorrow. For those of you who may be thinking of other pursuits …” He gave me a look, and suddenly I had the urge to hurl my textbook at Cokie. “I must remind you that you will have a reading assignment every night and over each weekend. Fall behind, and you will sink fast. Stay with me, and you’ll be richly rewarded, as we visit the vastly different worlds of Dickens, Stevenson, Faulkner, Blume, Cormier …”