Kristy + Bart = ? Read online

  “Well?” I said.

  Claudia smiled. “I don’t know, guys,” she said. “Maybe we should try to get it published.”

  “Can’t you just see it on the book club order form?” Mallory said.

  Everybody started talking at once, thinking of ideas for dumb world records.

  Bingo.

  Hey, I told you my friends were cool.

  Some people are huge movie fans. Not me. I can think of a million better places to be than a dark, crowded room for two hours on a sunny day.

  Sometimes, however, I make an exception. That Saturday morning, for instance. I was excited about going to the Stoneybrook Cinema. First of all, I was going with Bart. Second, the movie was a thriller called Missing Pieces, which Stacey and Robert had seen and loved.

  I biked over to Bart’s around eleven o’clock. (I hate being late.) He was standing on his porch with a couple of other guys.

  “Hi!” I called out, wheeling my bike up the walkway.

  “Heyyyy!” Bart replied with a big grin.

  The two other boys looked at me for a moment, then shot each other a glance.

  “These are my friends from Stoneybrook Day, Kevin and Seth,” Bart said. “They were just leaving. Guys, this is Kristy, my girlfriend.”

  Huh?

  Girlfriend?

  He said that so casually, I almost didn’t notice. It was as if he were saying “my teammate” or something.

  I nodded. “Hi.”

  The guys muttered hellos and nice-to-meet-yous.

  As they left, I could see Kevin throwing Bart a thumbs-up sign. As if to say, Nice work.

  Real mature.

  I thought of saying something, but I didn’t. I mean, calling me a girlfriend isn’t a total lie, really. It just sounds a little funny.

  Oh, well. Maybe Bart was carried away with his feelings when he saw me. Can you blame him? (Harrrrumph.)

  If the other guys wanted to be jerks, that was their problem.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  Bart checked his watch. “Now? We have almost an hour.”

  “What if it sells out?”

  Shaking his head, Bart went back into his house. I could hear him telling his parents he was leaving.

  Moments later we were biking toward downtown Stoneybrook. But first we had to pass the local ballfields. “Last one to the other side buys the popcorn!” I said.

  I tore away, down the bike path that circles behind the outfield. Bart tried to cut across. He would have won easily, but the ground was so hard and rutted, he nearly fell off. (I knew that would happen.)

  I waited for him at the other side, buffing my nails.

  “No fair!” he shouted as he approached.

  “No butter, lots of salt, please,” I replied.

  Bart grumbled the rest of the way.

  When we arrived at Stoneybrook Cinema, the ticket seller wasn’t even there yet. So Bart and I bought a couple of candy bars at a store and sat on one of the benches along Main Street. Bart put his arm behind me, across the top of the bench.

  “Everyone’s psyched about Record Wreckers,” I said. “Abby and Mallory are going to tell the Pike kids about it when they sit today.”

  “Without you?” Bart asked.

  “Sure. Why not? The whole BSC is involved.”

  “I know. But it was your idea.”

  “You helped me think of it, you know.”

  “Great minds think alike.”

  I smiled. Bart’s hand landed on my shoulder and he pulled me toward him. He was being so sweet.

  An older couple passed us and nodded a greeting. I felt a little embarrassed. As I watched, they bought tickets for the movie.

  “Come on, it’s open,” I said. “Let’s find good seats.”

  Bart bought the popcorn — no butter, lots of salt — and two sodas, and we walked into the theater. Bart began edging into the third-to-the-back row.

  “Too far,” I said. “Let’s go closer.”

  Bart was already plopping himself into a seat. “I bought the popcorn,” he said with a grin, “so I get to choose where we sit.”

  “Maybe we can rent binoculars,” I remarked.

  But I sat. As the lights dimmed, I reached for the popcorn.

  Bart put his arm around the back of my seat. “Is it salty enough?” he asked.

  “Fome,” I replied. (I was trying to say fine, but my mouth was full.)

  Bart’s arm landed on my shoulder as the previews came on.

  The movie’s opening scene was so exciting, I forgot about my appetite. It quickly spun into a complicated plot about an international smuggling ring. A car chase, a disappearing motorboat, a footrace over some city rooftops — I loved it.

  Eventually the movie bogged down in the love scene, when the male and female leads do just what everyone has expected them to do.

  I could feel my eyelids growing heavier. On-screen, an actor playing a spy was looking all gooey-eyed at an undercover policewoman. His big face looked closer … closer … so close you could see his skin pores …

  I felt something warm on my left cheek.

  I jerked back. Bart was inches away, leaning over my seat.

  He laughed. I laughed. I settled into my seat.

  And then Bart kissed me.

  Full on the lips. Right there in the back of the dark movie theater.

  How did it feel? Well, it’s not as if Bart and I had never kissed before. We had. We’re not babies. Kissing is no big thing. I didn’t yell or say “yuck” or try to spit out his germs.

  I returned the kiss, just a short one, and we turned back to watch the movie.

  It felt fine.

  Now Bart’s arm was around my shoulder. Which was kind of nice.

  At first.

  The problem was, he kept it there forever. My neck muscles started to ache. My shoulders began to sweat. I finally shifted around, trying to send a hint. Bart lifted his arm to give me some room. Then, plop, down it went.

  About halfway through the movie, I reached around and lifted it off. Gently. With a smile.

  Bart smiled back. As our arms came down toward the armrest, Bart held my hand.

  And then he pulled me close and kissed me again.

  Okay, no big deal. No one was sitting behind us, and the movie was in another dull spot.

  But the third time Bart leaned over, the killer was running from a huge manhunt.

  I couldn’t look away. My face was turned to the left, kissing Bart, but my eyes were straining to the right.

  How could Bart not be watching this? I glanced back at him, but I noticed his eyes were closed.

  Boy, did that make me feel weird. As if I were spying on him. As if I should close my eyes, just to be fair.

  As if I were responsible for his missing the show.

  Was I supposed to close my eyes? Why? Just because people in the movies kiss that way? But they’re supposed to be passionately in love. They’re movie actors, not Kristy and Bart.

  Besides, Bart was pressing too hard. Jamming my lips against my teeth.

  I tried to say “Bart,” but it came out more like “Bloob.”

  He opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Uh, this is the good part,” I replied, glancing at the screen.

  “Oh.”

  We watched. But now I wasn’t thinking about the movie. I felt kind of like a fool. Had I done something wrong? Had I been rude? Had I hurt Bart’s feelings?

  Whatever. For the rest of the movie, Bart stayed in his seat and I could concentrate again. By the end, we were both practically jumping and cheering.

  Have you ever seen a movie so complicated you couldn’t stop talking about it after you left? This one was like that.

  As we went out to where our bikes were locked, our mouths were going a mile a minute. We didn’t stop even when we were riding.

  We decided to continue our conversation at Pizza Express.

  As usual on a Saturday afternoon, the place was crowded. But Bart and I manag
ed to find a booth in the back. We ordered two sodas and a pizza with anchovies. (I know, it’s weird, but we both like them.)

  When the waiter left, Bart began fiddling with his water glass. “That was fun,” he said.

  “Yup,” I replied.

  “I’m glad we like the same kind of movie.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bart took a long sip. I took one from my glass, too. He began fidgeting and looking uncomfortable.

  The kissing. That was what he wanted to talk about, I knew. Which was fine. I kind of wanted to, also. But I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. What would I say? Uh, excuse me, Bart, but could we keep the kissing to a minimum, and not during the exciting parts?

  Finally Bart said, “So, um, I guess we can, like, go to the April Fools’ Day dance at my school, right?”

  “Are you asking me?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah. I am. Don’t you want to go?”

  “Sure, we can go. Great.”

  “You want to?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said.”

  Bart was beaming. “All riiight.”

  Was that what this was all about? Was that why Bart was acting like this? Because of a dance?

  Boys are so goony.

  It was not a dark and stormy night. That’s just Abby’s warped sense of humor. Actually, it was the same bright, sunny afternoon on which Bart and I had gone to the movies.

  Oh, and don’t worry about Abby’s hair. It didn’t look too bad. Considering what had happened.

  Let me start from the beginning.

  Abby arrived at the Pike house prepared for the worst. She wore old clothes and pulled her hair into a ponytail. And she had borrowed my metal whistle.

  Sitting for Mal’s younger siblings is not for the faint-hearted. You have to be part traffic cop, part referee, and part camp counselor. If you survive a job with them, you can sit for anyone.

  No, they’re not awful kids. Just numerous. Seven, to be exact. The oldest are ten-year-old triplets named Adam, Jordan, and Byron. (Sometimes one of them volunteers to be the second sitter. But mostly, they can’t be bothered.) Next is Vanessa, who’s nine; Nicky, eight; Margo, seven; and Claire, five.

  As Abby went up the Pikes’ front walk, the house was shaking. Well, that’s what she claims. She heard wild whooping and laughing inside. She gathered her inner strength and pressed the doorbell.

  “Aaaaabbyyyyyyy!” a happy cry rang out.

  The door flew open. There stood the entire clan, spilling over with joyful energy. An image of the Brady Bunch popped into Abby’s mind.

  “Can we start?” Adam asked.

  “Start what?” Abby asked back.

  “The records!” Margo and Nicky shouted.

  “You put on any records,” Mr. Pike’s voice rang out, “and you have to put them back.”

  “Not those kinds of records, Daddy-silly-billy-goo-goo,” Claire said.

  The others broke out laughing, chattering, bragging, challenging each other, and predicting victory.

  Mr. and Mrs. Pike walked into the living room, looking totally confused. Quickly they gave Abby and Mal some last-minute instructions and hurried out.

  “Okay, let’s go over the rules,” Mallory said.

  “Rule number one,” Abby announced. “You must have fun.” (Good old Abby.)

  “YAAAAAAAY!”

  “Rule number two,” Mallory said. “Your record must be set in the presence of a BSC member.”

  “And we have to approve the event,” Abby added. “No stuff like ‘Most times beating up a younger brother.’ ”

  “Rats,” Adam murmured.

  “How about a younger sister?” Nicky asked.

  Claire whapped him with a rag doll.

  “Okay, guys,” Abby said. “On your mark, get set, go!”

  Utter, complete pandemonium.

  (Honestly, I don’t know how the Pikes’ neighbors can stand it. They all must have earplugs.)

  Like a herd of wild yak, the kids tramped through the house. Mal ran to her room to get a notebook.

  Abby went into the kitchen, where Byron and Jordan were rummaging around in the cupboards.

  Margo emerged from the coat closet with her arms full of caps and hats, dropped them on the kitchen table, then plunged into the closet again.

  As Mal came downstairs, holding a spiral notebook, Jordan and Byron set an open box of Cap’n Crunch between them on the kitchen counter.

  “Most Crunch catches, by mouth,” Byron announced.

  He tossed a nugget of cereal into the air and leaned his head back, mouth wide open. The cereal bonked him on the chin and bounced onto the floor.

  Next Jordan gave it a try, and he caught one. “One,” he said.

  Margo raced in with another load of hats. “Okay, here I go. Help me keep count.”

  She put her dad’s huge fur hat on and said, “One.”

  From the den, Nicky called out, “Somebody come in here!”

  “I’ll go,” Abby volunteered.

  Mal gave her some sheets from the notebook. Abby rushed into the den.

  There, she found Nicky sitting on a sofa, watching a cartoon.

  “Uh, hello?” Abby said. “Did we forget about our records?”

  Nicky checked his watch. “One minute, fourteen seconds.”

  “Of what?” Abby asked.

  “TV watching.”

  “Ehhhhhh!” Abby made a noise like a game show buzzer. “Wrong. Not approved.”

  Nicky stomped away. Then Adam burst in with Vanessa, who was holding a big math textbook and a pencil.

  “Speed multiplication, the fastest in the nation,” Vanessa the Obsessive Rhymer announced, as she and Adam plopped down on opposite sides of the couch. Opening up the book, she said, “Abby, you time Adam.”

  Abby looked at her watch. “Okay … go.”

  “Five times six,” Vanessa snapped.

  “Thirty,” Adam shot back.

  “Nine times eight!”

  Claire ran in, all excited. She was holding the Pikes’ basset hound, Pow. “I know! Most times hopping on one foot with a doggie!” she cried. “One, two, three, four, five …”

  “Clai-aire! You’re interrupting!” Adam yelled. “I call a do-over!”

  “… Nine, ten, eleven …” Claire was already starting to poop out. She can barely hold Pow. And poor Pow was not enjoying all the jouncing.

  Not to mention poor Abby.

  “Ahhh-CHOOOOOO!” she sneezed. “Uh, Claire, would you bide lettig Pow idto the backyard? I’b allergic.”

  Claire’s feet hit the ground. “But what about my record?”

  “You set it!” Abby quickly declared. “No wud id the world has ever jubped elevid tibes holdig a dog! Codgratulashuds!”

  “Yippee!” Claire ran to the back door, planting kisses all over Pow.

  “Ah — ahhh —” Abby dashed into the kitchen.

  Mallory was already looking for the tissues.

  “They’re over there!” Margo said.

  As she pointed, the hats fell from her head onto the floor. They landed in a pile of Cap’n Crunch.

  “Oh, n-o-o-o-o!” cried Margo.

  “You broke my concentration!” yelled Jordan.

  “Nine!” announced Byron.

  “CHOOOO!” sneezed Abby.

  “Stop!” Claire’s voice screamed from outside. “Nicky’s hitting me with Twinkies!”

  Abby blew her nose. Margo began loading hats again. Jordan started flipping Cap’n Crunches. Byron sat down and moaned from a cereal overload. Vanessa and Adam began speed multiplying in the den again.

  Mal ran out the back door, just in time to see a plastic-wrapped missile hurtle across the yard.

  “Roo-o-o-o!” yowled Pow, running after it.

  “No, Pow, stay!” Nicky shouted.

  Too late. The moment the Twinkie landed, Pow was on it.

  “Ohhhh, that was the farthest one!” Nicky said.

  That was when Mal noticed the other Twinkies
— one near the garage, another in a barren rosebush. And one at the feet of Claire, who was standing in the middle of the yard.

  “Can I try one?” Claire pleaded.

  Mallory put Pow back into the doghouse. She was about to tell Claire and Nicky to stop wasting the Twinkies, but she didn’t.

  Claire wasn’t angry anymore. She and Nicky were dividing up the remaining missiles, giggling like crazy.

  With a sigh, Mallory wrote TWINKIE TOSS at the top of a sheet of paper.

  Abby stayed with the indoor events. She timed Vanessa and Adam (Vanessa won), then recorded Margo’s hat record (nine) and Byron and Jordan’s contest (Byron had twelve consecutive catches).

  Afterward, they all went outside. Margo joined the Twinkie toss. Claire and Vanessa were off cooking up another idea.

  The triplets disappeared into the garage. A moment later they emerged with their bikes and an air pump with a pressure gauge. Immediately they began letting the air out of their tires.

  “Fastest tire pumper,” Byron explained. “Full is forty pounds.”

  Abby knelt down, looking at her watch. “Say when.”

  That was when she felt the splat on the back of her head.

  “Oops,” Claire’s voice meekly rang out.

  For a moment the yard fell silent.

  Abby didn’t like the sound of that. She reached around and felt something warm and sticky in her hair.

  “Claire, what did you do?” Mallory snapped.

  “It was Vanessa!” Claire yelled back.

  Vanessa was turning red. “I didn’t think it would go so far.”

  “It was a bubblegum spit,” Claire explained.

  Abby stood up. She tried to pull the wad out. But it was the soft and gooey kind. When she lifted her fingers away, they were stuck to long strands of gum and matted hair.

  “Eeeewwwww!” Margo squealed.

  “Oh, no!” Abby moaned. She ran inside and brought out a jar of peanut butter. Rubbing it into gummed hair is supposed to work. Well, it didn’t. She tried ice cubes, another cure.

  Oh for two.

  As a last resort, Mallory ran inside to find the scissors. The others just stood there, gawking.

  And Abby — strong, cheerful Abby — began to cry.

  Oh, well.

  No one ever said this job would be easy.

  “Grounder,” Bart called.