The Baby-Sitters Club #108: Don't Give Up, Mallory (Baby-Sitters Club, The) Page 4

  Claudia clapped her hands together. “It looks great, Taylor. What are you going to call it?”

  Taylor scratched his chin, staring at his instrument. Finally he raised his head and declared, “This is a hum-drum. See? You can hum into the tubes and drum on the box.”

  “Brilliant!” Claud gave him a high five.

  All the kids were chattering at once, vying to see who could make up the silliest name.

  In the midst of the giggling, a tiny bell trilled.

  Stacey cocked her head and held up one hand. “Do you hear something? What kind of instrument is that?”

  “Sounds like a jingle-hopper,” Buddy joked.

  “Or a …” Stacey’s eyes grew huge, as she realized what the sound really was. “Phone! We better answer it. Quick. Your parents could be calling.”

  Several kids dove for the phone in the kitchen, but it was Lindsey who answered it. “This is the Barrett-DeWitts’.”

  Lindsey paused for several seconds and then turned to Claudia. “It’s Mary Anne. She wants to talk to you.” She covered the receiver and whispered, “She sounds upset.”

  “Hey, Mary Anne,” Claudia said as she took the phone. “What’s up?”

  “I’m over here with Jenny Prezzioso,” Mary Anne explained, “and we’ve just spent an entire hour trying to make a musical instrument.”

  “And?”

  “Well, all we’ve come up with is this boxy-looking thing with tubes attached to the sides and a lot of tape.”

  “Oh.” Claudia giggled. “Sounds like you’ve made a google-blaster.”

  There was a long pause. Finally Mary Anne said, “A what?”

  “A google-blaster.” Claudia explained, “We have several instruments over here that look just like that.”

  Mary Anne sighed with relief. “I was afraid you guys were making artsy trumpets and drums.”

  “Are you kidding?” Claudia gasped. “We stopped trying to do that hours ago. Now we have our own unique band.”

  “But do the instruments play?”

  Now it was Claud’s turn to pause. “I’m not sure. Let me see.” Claudia looked over at Stacey. “Mary Anne wants to know if we can actually play our instruments.”

  Stacey shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t we find out?”

  Stacey told the Barretts and DeWitts to line up together with their snorkaphones, google-blasters, and hum-drums while Claudia held the phone out for Mary Anne to hear.

  Stacey raised her hands in front of her like a conductor. “On the count of three, we’ll play ‘Jingle Bells.’ A-one, and a-two, and a —”

  Moo! Honk! Thud!

  No matter what the kids did, only thumps and hollow groaning sounds came out of their instruments.

  Claudia slowly brought the phone back to her ear. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “I sure did,” Mary Anne replied. “What was that? It sounded terrible.”

  Claudia tried to answer in a cheery voice. “That was our band.”

  “Oh, no.” Mary Anne groaned.

  “You can say that again,” Claudia replied.

  A little while later, the DeWitt and Barrett kids put down their instruments and started their bedtime snack of apple slices and yogurt in the kitchen. That’s when Stacey gestured for Claudia to join her in the living room.

  “I hate to break it to Kristy and the others,” Stacey whispered to Claudia, “but I think this parade is going to be a disaster.”

  “This meeting of the sixth-grade officers is called to order,” Justin Price declared.

  It was Thursday morning, just before school. I’d talked to the other officers, and we’d agreed to meet before class in the Memory Garden.

  I love that place. It’s a beautiful little garden with a bench and a plaque in memory of an eighth-grader, Amelia Freeman, who was killed by a drunk driver. Mary Anne was so moved by the loss of Amelia that she thought of creating the garden as a memorial. Amelia’s death affected all of us and even spurred the creation of SMS’s chapter of S.A.D.D. (Students Against Drunk Driving).

  Justin was sitting on the bench next to Sandra Hart. He focused his dark brown eyes on me and said, “Mallory, why don’t you give us an update on the sixth-grade fund-raiser?”

  “Okay.” I sat cross-legged on the grass beside Lisa Mannheim, our class treasurer. I opened my notebook labeled “FUN-raiser” and began my report.

  “The fund-raiser is at this moment less than fourteen days away. Last year the sixth grade ran a candy store for the entire week, but kids stopped buying toward the end. So my committee and I decided to set up five different booths, one for each day of the week.”

  “Good idea,” Sandra said after Justin had nodded his approval. “This way kids won’t get bored.”

  “We’re declaring the entire week a FUN-raiser.”

  Lisa laughed. “That’s really clever, Mal. Have you decided what each booth will sell?”

  I flipped to the next page in my notebook and read out loud, “Monday, hearts and flowers. Tuesday, T-shirt painting. Wednesday, slam-dunk the teachers. Thursday, candy. We have to sell it one day. And Friday …” I looked up and wiggled my eyebrows. “Friday is a secret.”

  “A secret?” Sandra repeated. “Ooh, I like that.”

  “Well, Mal,” Justin said, rubbing his hands together, “it sounds like you have everything under control. Good work.”

  I grinned, feeling a little color creep into my cheeks. It’s always nice to hear a compliment, but it’s extra special when it comes from our class president.

  Lisa’s precise voice broke into my thoughts. “It sounds as if Mallory has the booths all organized, but we still have one small problem.”

  Justin cocked his head. “What’s that?”

  “We haven’t decided what we will do with the money,” Lisa explained. “That is a very important decision.”

  Justin adjusted the cap he was wearing. “Right. That’s why we’re meeting. Whatever we choose to fund will be our class’s legacy to the school.”

  I nodded. “Kids will remember our class for what we gave to SMS.”

  Lisa pushed her glasses up on her nose. “We need to choose carefully.”

  “It should be something really cool.” Justin squinted off in the distance. “What about buying new sports equipment for the gym?”

  I hate gym, but I wrote Justin’s suggestion down, since I am the secretary.

  “Kids have been complaining about the tumbling mats being worn out, and there are never enough basketballs,” he continued.

  I don’t like to disagree with Justin but I really didn’t want my class to donate sports equipment. Let next year’s class do that.

  “Not everyone’s a sports fan,” I pointed out as diplomatically as possible. “Maybe we should think of something that would benefit everybody.”

  Lisa tapped her pen on her notepad. “What about the school lockers? They could really use a paint job. Mine is peeling and has graffiti all over it.”

  “We could paint the lockers,” Justin agreed. “But they’d just need another paint job in a few years. We need to give the school something that will last.”

  Sandra wasn’t participating in our discussion. First she dug in her purse for a brush, which she then ran through her hair. Then she applied lip gloss. Finally, she focused all her attention on waving to kids (especially the boys) who were coming onto the school grounds.

  “Sandra.” Lisa leaned forward and tapped her on the knee. “Are you paying attention?”

  Sandra blinked several times. Finally she confessed, “Not really.”

  Justin turned to her. “Don’t you care where the money goes?”

  Sandra tucked her hair behind one ear and said, “Your ideas sounded just great, Justin. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  I rolled my eyes at Lisa. From the way Sandra was talking, you’d think Justin was the only person who mattered at our meeting.

  “Do you guys have any more ideas?” Justin asked Lisa and m
e.

  I looked down at my notebook. Before the meeting, I’d jotted down a few ideas. But something was stopping me from mentioning them.

  I glanced over my list. Mirrors for the bathrooms. That sounded stupid. Books for the library — not exciting enough.

  If it had been a Baby-sitters Club meeting, I wouldn’t have been embarrassed about sharing my ideas. But for some reason I felt intimidated around Justin.

  Lisa came up with a few more ideas. Then, just before the bell rang, Justin said, “Mallory, could you take a look at the sixth-grade minutes from past years? I know they store them in the library. We can find out what those classes did, and it might give us a few ideas for our class.”

  “Sure, Justin,” I said, sounding a whole lot like Sandra.

  The bell rang. As we headed for our homerooms, Justin called, “Let’s meet again tomorrow, okay?”

  I didn’t see Sandra again until later in the day, when we both raced into Mr. Cobb’s class. We were each hurrying for our own reasons. I was hurrying because I didn’t want to be late. I was already falling down in the participation department. I didn’t want to give Mr. Cobb any other reason to wreck my straight-A average.

  Sandra was hurrying because she thought Mr. Cobb was cute.

  “I can’t wait to see what he’s wearing today,” she said, giggling, as we opened the door to the class.

  Sandra wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Cobb looked as handsome as ever. He sported crisp tan chinos, leather boat shoes, and an ice-blue linen shirt that matched the color of his eyes. He defined cute.

  “Chris Van Allsburg!” Mr. Cobb announced, holding up a book. “He’s my man.”

  Chris Van Allsburg is one of my top three favorite author-illustrators. It’s become a family tradition at the Pike house to read his book The Polar Express every Christmas.

  You’d think I would have been thrilled at the prospect of discussing Van Allsburg’s books. Last week, I might have been. Now, I was afraid that I would say something stupid.

  Mr. Cobb leaned back against his desk with his feet crossed at the ankles. “I think I’d have to say The Mysteries of Harris Burdick is my favorite book of Allsburg’s.”

  “Mine, too,” I blurted out. Just as quickly I covered my mouth.

  Mr. Cobb cocked his head. “Valerie? Did you want to say something?”

  “It’s Mallory,” I murmured.

  “What?” He cupped his hand around one ear. “You’re going to have to speak up.”

  Megan Armstrong, who was sitting in the front row, said, “She’s trying to tell you her name is Mallory, not Valerie.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t you say something before?” Mr. Cobb asked, a perplexed look on his face.

  Now everyone was turning around in their seats and staring at me.

  Here it comes, I thought, as a burning sensation rushed to my ears, then my cheeks, and then my forehead. I slumped farther and farther down in my seat and stared at my desktop.

  “We were discussing Chris Van Allsburg,” Mr. Cobb continued. “Was there something you wanted to say about him, Mallory?”

  I peeked at Mr. Cobb over the top of my glasses and opened my mouth to speak, but Bobby Gustavson’s hand shot up in the air.

  “Me! Me! Mr. C.,” Bobby shouted.

  Mr. Cobb turned away from me. “Bobby, what’s on your mind?”

  Bobby said, “My family reads The Polar Express every Christmas.”

  I was going to tell Mr. Cobb that. But I couldn’t now. I’d sound like a copycat. I waited until we started talking about The Wreck of the Zephyr, Van Allsburg’s book about a flying ship, to raise my hand.

  I raised my right arm. Then my left. Finally I lay with my head on my left arm, which was holding my right elbow, trying to keep my right hand in the air. But Mr. Cobb didn’t call on me for the rest of the class.

  Robbie Mara and Jimmy Bouloukos started a heated discussion about one of the books, and several other guys joined in. I do remember Lisa Mannheim being called on once. But mostly, the class was a blur of trying to make Mr. Cobb notice me. By the end, I figured I’d had one chance and blown it. I didn’t even try to raise my hand again.

  That night, I ate my dinner, then retreated to my room to study. The book Mr. Cobb wanted us to read, Make Way for Ducklings, was on my bookshelf. But every time I even looked at it, I started thinking about what a wimp I’d become in Mr. Cobb’s class — how I sat with my arm meekly raised, while others shouted out their opinions, and how I finally just gave up trying. It made me feel depressed.

  I decided to concentrate on something less upsetting. In my book bag were the sixth-grade minutes from the last ten years at SMS. I settled in to study them.

  The first year’s notes, from a decade earlier, were handwritten by someone named Christine Schneider. Their fund-raiser had been a bake sale. They’d bought a tree for the courtyard.

  “A tree?” I mused out loud. “That’s nice. And lasting.”

  The next two classes had also bought trees or shrubbery. So trees were out.

  One class donated chalk. Another donated library books.

  I was lying on my bed as I read the records, and I have to admit, my eyelids were getting pretty droopy. Suddenly I spotted something odd.

  I blinked several times and rubbed my eyes. Then I sat up.

  According to the minutes, five years ago the sixth grade had pledged a thousand dollars to the SMS Library Fund. That money was to go toward purchasing furniture and magazine subscriptions for a student lounge in the library.

  “There’s no student lounge at my school,” I said out loud. “I’m sure there never has been one.”

  I reread the minutes several times, tracking the class’s entire fund-raising efforts. They’d put a lot of time and hard work into raising that thousand dollars.

  “So where’d the money go?” I murmured.

  Those students were now in high school. I wondered if they knew that their student lounge never happened.

  This was definitely a mystery worth looking into. I couldn’t wait to tell Justin, Sandra, and Lisa all about it.

  “End-of-class projects,” Mr. Cobb declared, pointing to the four words he’d written on the blackboard. “Let’s take a few moments to discuss your ideas.”

  It was Friday. The last class of the week. I was sitting in my usual seat, with my usual slump, hoping no one would notice me — as usual.

  “What’s the theme of the project?” Craig Avazian asked, without raising his hand.

  “I would like you to come up with a project that furthers the cause of children’s literature,” Mr. Cobb replied.

  “You mean, like designing a poster campaign using covers from famous books?” Chris Brooks asked.

  “Exactomundo,” Mr. Cobb said. “That’s a great idea.”

  “Can I steal it?” Robbie Mara joked, leaning across the aisle.

  “No way.” Chris shook a fist at him. “Think of your own idea.”

  Glen Johnson raised his hand and suggested a fund-raiser. “We could use the money to donate Newbery and Caldecott Award–winning books to libraries in underprivileged areas.”

  Mr. Cobb clapped his hands together. “Outstanding suggestion.”

  Noah Fein raised his hand. “They wouldn’t have to be libraries. You could donate the books to homeless shelters or soup kitchens around the country.”

  “I like this,” Mr. Cobb said, striding vigorously up and down the aisle between desks. “We’re on a roll. Let’s keep it coming.” He paused in front of my desk and tapped the desktop. “Valerie — excuse me, Mallory? Anything percolating in your brain?”

  I straightened in my seat. “What about organizing students to read for kids at Stoneybrook Elementary School?”

  Mr. Cobb stared at me. “And?”

  I shrugged. “And that’s it. We could go over three times a week and read after school.”

  Chris Brooks, who sat in front of me, turned around. “That sounds more like an after-school activity than a project to pr
omote great children’s literature.”

  “But it would promote children’s literature,” I shot back. “The books would all be carefully chosen, though they wouldn’t have to be Newbery or Caldecott winners. I think there are a lot of good books that haven’t won awards.”

  “What’s wrong with award winners?” Sandra Hart asked.

  This was really slipping off the track.

  “Nothing,” I said in exasperation. “I just feel that an after-school reading program should have a wide variety of books.”

  Chris shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”

  I wanted to hit Chris. I was pretty sure I’d read more award-winning books in the last six months than he’d read in his whole life. Now he was acting like he was an authority on children’s literature.

  I blew my bangs off my forehead and sighed heavily. “I think a reading program of any kind can help make kids interested in children’s literature.”

  Mr. Cobb tilted his head back and rubbed his chin. “Maybe. Maybe.”

  He didn’t sound convinced. I slumped down in my seat and glared at the back of Mr. Cobb’s head as he walked up the aisle.

  I spent the rest of the class not participating in the discussion. I was still miffed that Chris and Mr. Cobb hadn’t liked my idea. I was certain it was a good one. I just wished I’d presented it better.

  Our class officers’ meeting was held after Mr. Cobb’s class, in the cafeteria. Sandra walked to it with me.

  “Isn’t Mr. Cobb’s class fun?” she asked, waving to friends as we hurried down the main hall.

  “Fun?” I raised an eyebrow. “I can think of fifty things more fun than Mr. Cobb’s class. Going to the dentist is one of them.”

  Sandra cocked her head for a second, then giggled. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Maybe.”

  “I thought your idea about organizing students to read to kids at SES was a good one.”

  I stopped dead in the middle of the crowded hall and said, “You did? Then why were you against it in class?”

  “I wasn’t against it,” Sandra said in surprise. “Chris Brooks was against it.”

  “You sounded like you were siding with Chris.”

  Sandra giggled and waved one hand. “I was just trying to help him out. He’s a really cool guy.”