Abby's Un-Valentine Read online

  “You know, Andrew, that Scout belongs to the Guide Dog Foundation. We’re only her family for a little while. In fact, we’ve done such a good job at helping her grow up that she’s going to leave soon. She’s ready to go to school, to learn to do her job.”

  I half expected Andrew to pitch a fit or something, but it was clear he had heard this before.

  He said, “Send Shannon instead!”

  “Shannon’s a part of our family. David Michael and all of us would miss her if she went away.” Kristy’s mom stroked Andrew’s forehead. “We raised Shannon to be our very own dog. We didn’t raise Scout that way.”

  He pulled away from his stepmom’s hand and slid out of her lap. He looked at his dad. “Karen has a kitten and David Michael has Shannon. I want a dog of my own.”

  “Bingo,” I heard Kristy say under her breath. Our eyes met. I’d been right.

  Watson put down his coffee cup. “This isn’t a good time for a new dog, Andrew,” he said. “We have a houseful of people and pets right now.”

  “Then don’t give my dog away!” Andrew suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs. He ran out of the kitchen. “Scout! Scout! Here, girl!” we heard him calling.

  Kristy’s mom looked at Watson. “What are we going to do?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” replied Watson, looking unhappy. He glanced at Kristy and me. “Any suggestions?”

  But we didn’t have a single one.

  * * *

  Holding Emily Michelle on one hip, I followed Kristy into the family room. Andrew was lying on his stomach on the floor, talking softly to Scout as he put a puzzle together. Karen and David Michael were staging some kind of drama involving Karen’s dollhouse, their combined sets of toy farm animals, Pumpkin, and Shannon.

  I sneezed.

  Kristy said, “If we sit on the stairs, we can keep an eye on things, and you won’t be in the same room with all the animals.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  We each claimed a step and settled down.

  “Poor Andrew,” Kristy said softly. “He’s such a, well, kid.”

  “A little boy,” I agreed.

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” she warned me with a smile.

  “I know.” I smiled back. Then I sighed.

  “Boys,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.” Kristy groaned.

  “Valentine’s Day,” I added.

  “When everyone’s brain turns the same consistency as those soft-centered chocolates,” Kristy said.

  “You know, I didn’t ask Ross to like me,” I said. “So why does everyone act as if I did something wrong when I told him no?”

  Maybe I was overstating the case a little, but not much.

  “Couples want other people to be in couples too,” Kristy said. “Mary Anne, for instance, is happy with Logan, and she wants other people to have that. Especially her friends.”

  Aha! A rare moment of insight from Kristy Thomas, I thought. Aloud I said, “You don’t have to be part of a couple to be happy.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but some people have a lot of growing up to do before they figure it out,” Kristy said.

  We were silent for a moment. Then, to my surprise, Kristy said, “Letting Ross know that you don’t want to go out with him was the right thing to do, Abby.”

  “You think so?” I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

  “I know it. When I started sort of seeing Bart, it was because he was a good friend and I felt comfortable with him. But I think I knew all along that I was never going to, you know, feel romantic about him or anything.”

  “But you went to a dance with him. You did date stuff with him.”

  With a shrug, Kristy said, “Because it was easy to do. I mean, we did things with Mary Anne and Logan. Stacey and Claudia and even Jessi and Mal seemed to think it was great, so I … took the easy way out. And when I realized that I didn’t want to be more than friends with Bart, he wasn’t happy. I didn’t just lose a date — I might have lost a friend too. I mean, he and I are still awfully careful around each other, not like real friends. And that’s what really bothers me.”

  I stared at Kristy. She stared back, then made a goofy face.

  I smiled. “Thanks,” I said. I meant, thanks for talking about this, thanks for telling me, thanks for making me feel better. And, of course, thanks for being a friend.

  When I woke up on Sunday morning, I bounded out of bed the way I usually do, dragged on my sweats, and was about to put on my running shoes, when my brain finally registered the hiss of sleety snow against the windows. Realizing that the run I had planned would be an exercise in slip and fall, I flopped back onto my bed, sweats and all, and went back to sleep.

  I slept late. I woke up, ate breakfast, and read the sports section and the comics while Mom yawned over hot tea and the Times. Then I went back to my room to do homework. I passed Anna on the stairs. She had managed to put on her jeans and an old sweater, but I could tell she was still half asleep. She mumbled something that sounded like “Ddmrnin,” which I correctedly translated as “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I replied softly. I have sympathy for people who wake up late and slowly, like my twin, even though I’m normally an early riser myself.

  Feeling virtuous, I planted myself at my desk and reached for my homework. I opened the book to a nasty row of math problems that I’d been putting off. I heard, faintly, some strains of music and recognized one of Anna’s favorite disks, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. Not my cup of tea in the morning, but I guess it eased the transition to wakefulness for Anna. Mom seemed to like it too.

  “Abby?” I heard Anna say a few minutes later.

  I’d just focused in on a problem, but Anna’s voice made me lose the connection. I ran both hands through my hair in frustration. Maybe if I ignored her …

  “Abby!”

  “Coming,” I said.

  I opened the door and called, “What? What is it?”

  “You have company,” Anna said in a funny voice.

  So why didn’t she just send up Kristy or whoever it was? I sighed in exasperation and thumped down the stairs.

  Anna was standing in the front hall, smiling. At Ross. She laughed as I appeared, and Ross laughed with her. In spite of the fact that Anna is no morning glory, she looked positively animated all of a sudden.

  “Ross,” I said.

  He turned, and I saw what he was holding: pink roses.

  “Aren’t they beautiful, Abby?” Anna cooed, stroking one of the velvet buds with a finger.

  “Uh, yeah. They’re ah, ahh, ah-choo!” I said and took a step back.

  “Abby’s a little allergic to things sometimes,” Anna explained.

  Ross didn’t seem to hear her. He was looking at me with a funny expression on his face.

  I realized then that in my old sweats and ratty slippers, with my hair sticking out like a bunch of live wires, I must have been a shocking sight. (Ha-ha!)

  Good, I thought. That should cure Ross. This is the real me.

  Ross said, “Abby, you look great. It’s good to see you.”

  My heart sank. Anna pried the roses from Ross’s hands and said, “I’ll just go put these in water, okay?”

  The sneeze-flowers left the hall, and I could breathe again. The only problem was, Ross was crowding my space. I mean, he was standing in my hall on a Sunday morning. Who had invited him anyway?

  “My mom’s a florist,” Ross said. “She had some extra roses, and I thought I’d drop them off.”

  “So you’re on your way somewhere,” I said.

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  Silence fell. I didn’t want to encourage him.

  But Ross didn’t seem to notice my new mute policy. He cocked his head, listened, and said, “Bach. The Brandenburgs … I went to a concert the other night. The Albemarle Quintet. They did Bach’s Concerto for …”

  “It’s Anna’s,” I interrupted. “Anna’s music. I’m more or
less tone-deaf.”

  “Oh,” said Ross.

  “So you see, I’m not into music or dances.”

  Ross laughed then, as if I’d said something really funny. “I bet you’re a good dancer, Abby,” he replied.

  A car horn sounded.

  I said, “I guess it’s time for you to go.”

  “Right,” said Ross. But he hesitated.

  “Thanks for the roses,” I said. “They’re very … pink.”

  “Don’t mention it. Anytime. See you at school.”

  “See you,” I echoed, more or less herding him out the door. He turned to wave at the bottom of the steps, which made me feel rotten because I was aware that I’d been just a tad rude. I smiled at him and waved back with more warmth then I had intended — the smile and wave of a guilty person.

  But guilty of what? Nothing except not wanting to date someone who wanted to date me.

  Feeling more than a little annoyed, I stomped toward the kitchen just as Anna emerged, with the roses in a tall glass vase. “Is Ross gone already?” she asked, looking down the hall as if she expected to see him behind me.

  I took a step back and held up my hands. Anna looked at the roses. “Oh,” she said.

  “Why don’t you put them in your room?” I was going to tell her to throw them away, but since she’d already put them in a vase, I decided it would be a waste.

  “Really?”

  “They’re all yours. I have to do my homework.”

  But I wasn’t going to get away that easily. Anna followed me upstairs, holding the roses. “I’ll put them on my dresser,” she said. “They’ll be reflected in the mirror. It’ll be beautiful.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear what Ross said about the quintet. They’re good but relatively new. Not many people have heard of them. I’ve been wanting to hear them perform.”

  “Mmm.”

  “It’s so cool that Ross gave you these roses.”

  “They make me sneeze,” I said ungraciously. How could Ross have known that?

  “He didn’t know,” Anna argued. “It was a sweet thing to do. I think he’s trying to convince you to go to the dance, don’t you?”

  “It didn’t work.” I was feeling increasingly cross. Guilty, angry, and cross.

  “Oh, Abby!” Anna cried.

  “Oh, Anna,” I said meanly. I opened my door, went in, and closed it behind me.

  I sat down at my desk. I stared at my homework. One and one is two, I thought. But Ross and I are never going to add up. I knew it as surely as I knew anything.

  But how could I convince Ross — and all the rest of the world — to believe me?

  * * *

  If I’d been rude to Ross, he hadn’t noticed. I realized that the next morning as I approached my locker. I slowed down as I neared it, then stopped. At the base of the locker, wrapped in fancy florist’s paper and tied with a ribbon, was a big red carnation.

  It made my locker look like a big gray tombstone with a flower at the foot of it.

  Students passing by were glancing down at it and then up at me. I bent and picked up the carnation. Attached to it I found a folded square of paper.

  I opened it and read:

  Although she cannot the sound of music hear,

  Her name is music unto mine ear.

  And if roses make her sneeze,

  Perhaps this carnation will then please.

  For Abby and the flowers are one,

  But she’s the fairest flower under the sun.

  It was unsigned, and a good thing. Ross was not a poet, but he sure didn’t know it.

  I looked up and down the hall. My nose tickled and I sneezed. Then I opened the door and stuffed the flower and the poem inside. I was just lucky that none of my friends — or Anna — had come by before I’d had time to hide the flower and the poem.

  The situation went from bad to worse in English class.

  Walking into the room was like walking onto a stage. I was the unwilling star, and Ross was the audience of one. He kept staring at me and once, when he caught my eye, he smiled.

  I didn’t roll my eyes, so you can’t really say I was rude.

  Naturally, the discussion was about poetry again. But this time, I was prepared. When Ms. Colley asked for someone to read, I raised my hand. “I have a sonnet,” I said. “Shakespeare. Number One Hundred and Thirty.”

  I’d gotten the idea from an old episode of My So-Called Life I’d just seen on television. The teacher had read this poem to the class.

  I opened the book. I read:

  “ ‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;

  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

  And in some perfumes is there more delight

  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

  I love to hear her speak; yet well I know

  That music hath a far more pleasing sound.

  I grant I never saw a goddess go:

  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

  As any she belied with false compare.’ ”

  If I’d expected to catch Ms. Colley off guard, I didn’t. She chuckled when I finished and said, “Yes. Good old One-thirty. Not what everyone expects from Will, is it? Well, what does that poem say, class? Anyone?”

  Stunned silence. It was kind of blissful.

  Then Ross’s hand shot up. “It’s about true love,” he said.

  “It’s about reality,” I retorted.

  “It’s about loving someone no matter what. Letting someone be herself, giving her a chance,” he insisted.

  “No way!” How had he gotten “give me a chance” from a poem like this?

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to bean him with a book of poems. A big book of poems.

  Ms. Colley intervened and steered the conversation back to the poem.

  I refused to look at Ross, and I made sure that I was the first one out the door after class. I didn’t want to discuss poetry, classical music, or flowers with him. I didn’t want him around.

  I did not want a BF right now. And even if I did (which I DID NOT) he wasn’t my type, not now, not ever. Classical music and poetry? No and no. Maybe someone like Anna enjoyed that sort of thing but …

  Hey, wait a minute, I thought. Anna. Anna.

  Suddenly, just like that, I had pinpointed Ross’s problem: He had fallen for the wrong twin.

  Anna liked him. I was sure of that. Maybe I could convince Ross to shift his attentions to her.

  But how? Too bad there weren’t any sonnets dealing with that.

  With Kristy at the dentist and Nannie elbow-deep in cooking for her catering business, the Brewer-Thomas bunch needed a baby-sitter on Tuesday afternoon, and Claudia was it.

  She went prepared, thanks to Mary Anne’s description of her last sitting job and the discussion Kristy and I had had at the BSC meeting about what Andrew had said on Saturday.

  No, she didn’t take a new pet for Andrew (although we’d discussed future pet ideas for him) and no, she didn’t fall back on her Kid-Kit. She brought along a book about a guide dog.

  Since the weather was cold and miserable, outside activities were not a possibility. Nannie had promised treats from her kitchen in a little while, so Claudia wisely decided to steer clear of cookie baking.

  That was fine with Karen. She wanted to make mice.

  So did David Michael.

  Claudia wasn’t sure she heard correctly when, as she walked into the family room, Karen rose up from a litter of scraps of material and spools of thread and said, “Oh, good! You’re here. You can help us make mice. These scissors won’t cut and Nannie said we couldn’t use her pinking shears unless you were here.”r />
  “I sure did,” said Nannie, who had escorted Claudia to the family room. She produced the pinking shears from her apron. They were big scissors with sharp, interlocking teeth that cut in a zigzag pattern. The zigzag cut helps keep material from unraveling.

  “I’m going to cut up mice?” Claudia said in mock surprise as Nannie patted her shoulder, then headed back to the kitchen. (Believe me, I was as surprised as Claudia, when she told me about it later.)

  “No!” That was Andrew.

  “Yes,” said Karen. She paused dramatically and exchanged a look with David Michael, then giggled and said, “Catnip mice. Will you draw us a pattern?”

  “Slow down,” said Claudia.

  “I want to make something for Scout,” put in Andrew.

  “Dogs don’t like catnip. Shannon doesn’t, anyway,” David Michael said, glancing at Shannon, who was lying on the rug near the door with Scout.

  Claudia was beginning to get the picture. “You’re making a catnip mouse toy for Pumpkin.”

  “Yes.” Karen pointed at a small container on the windowsill. “That’s the catnip. We’re going to cut out mice, stuff them with catnip —”

  “Mice with catnip guts,” interrupted David Michael with relish.

  “— and give them to Pumpkin. Maybe we’ll make one for Mary Anne and Tigger too,” Karen went on.

  “Sounds good,” said Claudia. She took a book and a piece of blank paper from a table and sat down next to the pile of scraps. “You and David Michael and Andrew pick out the best material for the mice, while I draw a mouse pattern.”

  Soon Claudia had helped to cut several “mice” out of felt and denim. She had just finished showing Karen and David Michael how they needed to sew the two sides of the mice together, leaving an opening, so that they could turn the mice inside out and then fill them with catnip “guts,” when Andrew stood up. “Come on, Scout, let’s go do something fun.”

  “This is fun,” Karen said, frowning ferociously as she stitched her mouse together.

  David Michael didn’t say anything. He was concentrating too hard on the art of sewing a denim mouse.

  “Where are you going?” Claudia asked Andrew.

  “To my room, with my dog,” Andrew replied.