Mallory Pike No.1 Fan Page 6

  I felt too shocked to read on. I put the article down and gazed blankly at the bookshelf in front of me. This had to be some big mistake. The article couldn't possibly be about the same person who wrote, The Happiest Day, Vacation at Frog Pond, Ain't Life Grand, and all the Alice Anderson books. There had to be some explanation.

  In a daze, I photocopied the rest of the magazine articles to read at home. Then I went back to the periodical guide and looked up G.N. Rogers. There were a lot of articles on Ms. Hayes's ex-husband, even though I'd never heard of him.

  The articles I found made G.N. Rogers sound like a pretty unpleasant person. His books were described as "dark and forbidding," or as "presenting a world of hopelessness." His photo showed a frowning man with deep, worried creases on his broad forehead. There was even an article about his divorce from Ms. Hayes, which showed him shouting at her outside a courtroom.

  Next, I looked up Cassandra Rogers in the periodical guide, but didn't find anything about her.

  "Are you feeling all right, Mallory?" asked Mrs. Kishi, coming over to where I sat on the couch, with the periodical guide in my lap.

  "You look pale. Would you like me to call your parents? I know you've been ill." "Oh, no thanks," I replied, snapping out of my shocked daze. "I'm fine, I think I just need some air or something." "Are you sure?" Mrs. Kishi asked.

  "Yes, I'm okay," I said, closing the guide and getting up. "Thanks again for the file. Want me to bring it to the front desk?" "No, that's all right. You're welcome," said Mrs. Kishi, taking the file from me.

  Still a bit stunned, I made my way out of the library. What would Ernest Hemingway think of Ms. Hayes? Her writing wasn't autobiographical at all. How could she write about happy, close-knit families when she'd never had one, not even as a child? And if she didn't know what she was talking about, then it was all lies.

  Wasn't it?

  But how could her books be filled with lies? They didn't seem that way. They seemed honest and full of true feelings. They'd made me laugh and cry.

  It was so confusing. I loved Ms. Hayes's books. Yet, if a good writer had to draw on her life experiences, was Ms. Hayes really a good writer? Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she wasn't such a good writer.

  A cold wind whipped brown oak leaves around me. The late-afternoon sky had turned gray. I headed home with my hands jammed in my pockets, wondering how this new information would affect my English project, and what I'd say to Henrietta Hayes the next time I went to her house.

  That next Monday, Kristy volunteered to help me with my first Kids Club rehearsal of The Early Years. Ms. Simon had arranged for us to use the stage in the auditorium. I was happy about that because I wanted the kids to feel comfortable on stage right from the start.

  When Kristy arrived, Charlotte Johanssen was already onstage, about to start reading the part of Mrs Spike.

  "Where's Danielle?" Kristy asked, looking around.

  "I don't know. She must've been sick, or had a doctor's appointment. She's really a good actress, but I was afraid this would happen," I replied.

  Kristy frowned and nodded. She's a perfectionist herself and sympathized with my problem.

  "All right, Charlotte," I called up to the stage. "Take it from 'Oh, Valery. I blame myself.' Charlotte stepped into the middle of the stage, holding her script. "Oh, Valery. I blame myself. I worked you too hard," she said in a timid voice. "Louder," I interrupted her from my seat beside Kristy in the front row of the auditorium.

  Charlotte nodded and went back to her script. This time, as she spoke the words, her voice gradually grew lower, and lower, and lower. "Speak up, Char," I said.

  "I am speaking up," Charlotte replied quietly.

  Kristy couldn't resist the urge to take charge for a moment longer. "Just talk a little louder than your usual voice," she said, standing up in front of her seat. "Talk like this," she added, raising her voice but not shouting.

  Char nodded again and went back to reading the play. Very quietly.

  I sighed.

  Haley, as Jill, came on next. She flapped her arms like an alarmed bird. "Where's the chair I'm supposed to fall over?" "Don't worry about it," I told her. "I've changed your character a little. She's not a klutz anymore. She talks in rhymes all the time instead." I'd decided Vanessa wasn't really clumsy as much as sort of spacey sometimes, especially when she had her mind on a poem.

  "I practiced falling all day yesterday," Haley complained. "I had it just right, too." "Sorry," I told her. "I'll have new scripts for everybody by next week. Why don't we skip to where Ricky comes in with the bucket stuck on his head." "I don't have a bucket," said Tony, walking out on stage.

  "Pretend," said Kristy.

  "Yeah, pretend," I said.

  Tony closed his eyes and staggered around the stage with his arms out. He crashed into Haley. "Hey, watch it," Haley complained.

  "How can I watch it when I have a bucket over my head?" Tony asked.

  "Just say your lines, you guys," Kristy called to them. She looked at me, her eyes wide with exasperation. She was probably thinking that if she were in charge things wouldn't be so chaotic. (And I'm sure that's true.) "Help! Help! I'm stuck!" cried Tony.

  Haley mimed pulling the bucket from his head. Abruptly, she stopped and turned to me. "Do we fall over if I'm not a klutz anymore?" she asked.

  "Uh . . . yeah. You can still fall over," I replied.

  Charlotte and Tony fell backward onto the stage. Charlotte tumbled over with them. "You're not supposed to fall, Char," I said.

  "I couldn't help it, they knocked me down," Charlotte grumbled. "Be more careful, would you?" she scolded Haley and Ricky.

  "Do I come on now?" asked Wendy, sticking her head out from behind the side curtains.

  "Yes!" Kristy and I called back at the same time. Kristy couldn't stand much more of this confusion. She's so orderly it was driving her crazy. I'm sure she couldn't believe I'd let things get this disorganized, but change is part of being creative. Right now the -kids were adjusting to all the changes I'd made in my play.

  Wendy skipped out, twirling the Skip-It over her head. "Yabba-dabba-dooooo!" she shouted.

  "It's Yippeee-iii-kay-yah!" Kristy corrected her, pointing to the line in the script.

  "I know, but I thought Yabba-dabba-doooo would be funnier since this is a comedy and -" Before Wendy could say more, Kristy turned toward the back of the auditorium. Vanessa, Margo, Byron, Adam, Jordan, and Nicky marched angrily down the center aisle. "I told you! See? That nut with the Skip-It is supposed to be you, Margo!" said Vanessa.

  "You're in trouble now," Kristy said as she turned back toward me.

  "What are you guys doing here?" I demanded.

  "We heard from a reliable source that you are deflaming our characters," Vanessa said angrily.

  "That word is defaming," Kristy corrected her.

  "Whatever it is, we hate it!" Margo shouted. "I don't go around twirling Skip-Its over my head." "And I'm not a klutz," added Vanessa.

  "I'm changing that part," I said weakly.

  "You made me look like a jerk," Nicky complained. "I never, ever got a bucket stuck on my head." "Then how do you know that's supposed to be you?" I challenged them. "How do any of you know?" "Oh, like, duh, Mallory, you went and changed my name from Byron to Myron. That really makes it hard to figure out." "How did you know about that?" I asked Byron.

  Vanessa waved a copy of my play in the air. "We read this!" "Who gave it to you?" "That's not important," said Vanessa, which was a good clue that it was either Haley, Charlotte, or Becca. "The important thing is that we want you to stop this play right now.,' "I can't, Vanessa. This is the play I wrote." "I wish we had burned it," Adam said sulkily. "That's the only good scene in the whole stupid play." "If you put this play on, everyone will laugh at us," said Margo.

  "Yeah, they'll think we're a bunch of real losers," said Byron.

  "You're not losers," I said. "But this is the story of my life." "Oh, yeah, like you're such a perfect saint,
" Jordan scoffed.

  By now, all the Kids Club actors had gathered at the edge of the stage to listen. Kristy pulled herself up onto the stage. "Come on, you guys. I think you're all a little stiff," she told them. "Let's do some jumping jacks." "Jumping jacks?" Char complained.

  "Yeah, that's just what all of you need. Jumping jacks." As the stage behind me thundered with the sound of jumping, I stared into the glaring eyes of my brothers and sisters. "I can make little changes," I told them. "I'm still making small corrections here and there. I can't change you guys altogether, your characters, I mean. Otherwise it wouldn't be coming from my true experience An author's work must be autobiographical." "That bucket thing isn't true," Nicky argued.

  "No, but you're always getting stuck in stuff. You got your head stuck in the banister once, and you got stuck in the clothes hamper. Do you remember that?" I shot back.

  "But not a bucket," said Nicky, folding his arms stubbornly.

  "The bucket is just a way of showing all those times rolled into one." I defended my work. "You are the sort of character who gets stuck in weird stuff!" "We may seem like these characters to your sick mind," said Vanessa in a voice so anger-filled that it shook. "But it isn't how we are. I'm going to write a poem called 'Seven Sweet Kids and Their Lying, Selfish, Stuck-Up Oldest Sister.' And I'm going to have it printed in the school paper. See how you like that!" "Vanessa," I pleaded. "Try to understand." Vanessa was now red-faced with fury. "If you put on this play, Mallory, we are going to picket the performance. We're going to hand out papers telling everyone it's just one big lie by an untalented nut." "You would not," I said.

  "Oh, yes we would!" cried Adam.

  Together, they turned their backs to me and stomped up the aisle.

  "That's enough," I heard Kristy tell the kids on the stage. "Take a break." She hopped down off the stage to join me.

  "What a mess!" I wailed, flopping into a chair.

  Kristy rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. "They were pretty ticked off, huh?" "They're going to picket the play!" "Why don't you just change their parts? I didn't see all of the play, but from what I did see, it seems a little . . . I don't know . . . a little insulting." "What about artistic freedom?" I argued. "Why don't you talk to Ms. Hayes about it?" Kristy suggested.

  "Ha!" I laughed scornfully.

  "What does that mean?" "It means Henrietta Hayes won't be any help at all!" Kristy was confused. "Why not?" she asked.

  "Because Henrietta Hayes does not write from her own, personal experiences, but I do. I won't change my play no matter what!" "I don't know," Kristy said. "I don't think I agree with you." "You're entitled to your opinion," I replied stiffly.

  I was sure I was right. Only, I thought you were supposed to feel good inside when you did the right thing. So why did I feel so rotten?

  Chapter 8.

  The next day, I arrived at Ms. Hayes's house feeling pretty tense. I was angry at her for lying in her books. Still, when she came to the door, my anger melted a bit. Ms. Hayes wasn't someone I could easily be mad at. It's hard to stay mad at your idol.

  "Hello, Mallory," she said with a smile. "It's always so good to see you, like a ray of sunshine coming into this shady house." (How could you be mad at someone who said stuff like that?) Part of me wanted to stay mad, though. Nice as she was, Ms. Hayes was a fake.

  "Is something wrong, Mallory?" Ms. Hayes asked.

  "Why? What makes you think that?" I asked, probably sounding pretty distressed.

  "I don't know, you look rather. . . upset." "I do?" Why couldn't I just come out and speak my mind? This was certainly 104 ~ the moment to do it. But I couldn't.

  I chickened out on the direct approach. Instead, I chose an indirect path. "Ms. Hayes, I need to ask you a few more things to finish up my report. Like, um, what about the Alice Anderson TV movie? What happened to that?" "It was never made," Ms. Hayes replied. "I didn't like the way they wanted me to change Alice's character, so I backed out of the deal." That took guts, I thought. Admiring Ms. Hayes's integrity about the TV movie made it even harder to be mad at her.

  "Is there anything else you want to know?" Ms. Hayes asked.

  "Well, yeah," I replied.

  Ms. Hayes checked her watch. "All right. I have about fifteen minutes before George Del-more calls. We're going to talk about the Anderson Family reunion book. Did you come up with any more ideas?" "Uh, no, not really," I admitted. I'd been too disgusted - and confused - to think about it. But I saw an opening for voicing my complaint. "I mean, I figured, why bother thinking up ideas about the Anderson family? You already know what happened to the Anderson family. Don't you? Their story is your story, isn't it?" Ms. Hayes frowned. She looked confused herself. "Of course it's my story, but the reunion book hasn't been written yet." "Well, maybe not on paper, but you know what happens," I said.

  "I have some ideas, yes." Ms. Hayes looked at me as if I'd gone a little crazy. "Why don't we go in the kitchen. You can ask me your questions while we have some hot chocolate." I nodded and followed Ms. Hayes into her kitchen. "What do you need to know?" she asked, filling her bright blue tea kettle with tap water.

  "I need to know more about your family life," I said as I sat at the kitchen table.

  Ms. Hayes had turned toward the stove, so I couldn't see her face. Her shoulders tensed, though. Then she relaxed them slightly and turned to face me. "What part of my life?" "We could start with your childhood. Was your childhood like Alice Anderson's?" "No," Ms. Hayes replied sadly. "Not at all. I had only one younger brother, but he died in a fire along with my parents. From there I went to many different foster homes. Some were pleasant, others not so pleasant." "Then I guess Alice Anderson was like your daughter," I said.

  "Mallory, I told you, I don't like to talk about my. . . about Cassie," said Ms. Hayes quietly.

  "Well, what about Mr. Hayes?" I pressed.

  "Hayes is my name. I never changed it. My husband - my ex-husband - is Gregory Rogers, the author. He and I have been divorced for over ten years now." I pretended to write in my notebook, but I really just scribbled. I knew all this. Why was I asking these cruel questions? Did I want to torture Ms. Hayes or something? "What I'm trying to figure out," I said, "is what part of your life is in the Alice Anderson books." "What do you mean?" Ms. Hayes asked.

  "I mean . . ." I began shakily. I had to tell her. I just couldn't hold it in~ any longer. "I mean you're not being fair to your readers. Your books don't tell anything about your life. They're all made up! They're lies!" By the time I reached the word "lies," my voice was shaking.

  Ms. Hayes gave me that blank look I'd seen before. Then she drew her shoulders back, suddenly looking taller. "Mallory," she said in an even, cool voice, "I have not lied. My books are not meant to reflect my life. They are novels. Fiction. I suggest you look up the definition of those words in the dictionary before you go about hurling accusations." The phone rang then. "Excuse me, that's probably George, calling ahead of schedule," Ms.' Hayes said in a formal voice.

  With a final icy stare, Ms. Hayes went toward her study.

  I sat a moment, trying to absorb what she'd said. Was it true? No, it wasn't. I knew what fiction meant. You didn't have to report every fact, as if you were writing a newspaper article, but the heart of your story had to be true.

  How could she write about happy families if she didn't know what it was like to be in one? It was as simple as that to me, no matter how she tried to weasel out of it. Yet I liked her books so much! I really did! This was confusing. And what would it do to my project? It was way too late to change it now. Still, I knew there was only one right thing for me to do.

  I tore a piece of paper from my spiral notebook and began to write.

  Putting the letter in the middle of the table, I stood up and walked outside. It was beginning to get dark. The trees rustled overhead, sending a light shower of brown and red leaves to the ground. I took my bike from the side of the house and began walking it down the path.

  Tears well
ed in my eyes as I passed the line of trees and neared the road. Wiping them with the sleeves of my jacket, I climbed on my bike and started to ride. As I pedaled, I had the awful feeling that I'd just turned my back on one of the most wonderful people I'd ever known. Stop thinking she's so great, I commanded myself. Henrietta Hayes isn't who you thought she was.

  With my head bent against the wind, I pedaled hard up Morgan Road, away from Henrietta Hayes and her happy books of a madeup, fake family, and toward the real-life Pike family - who were mostly not talking to me at all.

  Chapter 8.

  I cracked open my bedroom door and peeked out. It was unbelievable! They were still there. My brothers and sisters marched back and forth in front of my room carrying picket signs. "Mallory Pike unfair!" read the one Vanessa held. "The Spikes are a lie!" read Byron's sign. Even Claire had drawn a picture of me in crayon and then drawn a red circle around the picture and slashed a line across it - an international sign for No Mallory. "Mallory-busters!" she chanted as she paced the hallway with the others.

  When I'd returned from Ms. Hayes's house that afternoon, the picket line had been in front of the house. "This is just practice!" Vanessa cried as they followed me upstairs. They'd been picketing the hallway for the last hour.

  Shutting the door, I shook my head wearily. What a weird family. I didn't know what they were mad about. Judging from the way they were acting now, I'd treated them kindly in my play. They were really a bunch of nuts.