The Baby-Sitters Club #108: Don't Give Up, Mallory (Baby-Sitters Club, The) Page 7

  Abby had decided that since they were going to have band practice, a musician should come along. So she had invited Anna to join them.

  “It’s the perfect marching song for a parade,” Anna continued.

  “Terrific!” Abby cried.

  Kristy turned to the Papadakis kids. “Why don’t you guys pass out the kazoos and teach the song to the Barretts and the Ramseys?”

  “I already know that song,” Buddy replied, reaching into the paper sack and pulling out a blue kazoo for himself. Just to prove it, he played the first stanza.

  “All right, Buddy,” Abby said, giving him a high five. “This band is ready to tour!”

  When everyone had received their kazoos, they began playing. Imagine seven kids humming seven different tunes.

  Kristy covered her ears to shut out the buzzing. “They sound like a squadron of insects.”

  “It’s the attack of the killer bees!” Abby giggled.

  “What they need is a band leader,” Anna said, picking up a stick from under the hedge. She cupped one hand around her mouth and shouted over the buzzing. “Everyone! Stand in front of me, please.”

  The kids clustered together in a tight group around Anna.

  “Good listening,” Anna complimented them. “Now, I’ll sing the tune and you hum along with me. Watch my baton!”

  Anna tapped her stick on the rock, the way a conductor taps a baton on a music stand. Then she counted. “One, two, ready, play!”

  The kids started playing the tune and Kristy slowly lowered her hands from her ears. “Say, that’s not bad.”

  “Not bad?” Abby cried. “It’s great. Now all we need to do is teach them to march.”

  “Marching’s easy,” Kristy declared. “You just raise your knees high and march left, right, left, right.”

  Abby shook her head. “No, it’s right, left, right, left.”

  Kristy folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “It’s left foot first. In all of the army marching songs it’s ‘Left. Left. Left, right, left.’ ”

  Then, to everyone’s amazement, Kristy marched smartly in a square around the group, barking like a drill sergeant. “I left my wife and forty-nine children to die of starvation with nothing but johnny cake left. Left. Left, right, left.”

  Abby waved one hand and scoffed, “That’s what they do in the military. In real marching they start with their right foot.”

  Kristy put her hands on her hips and repeated, “Real marching? What’s real marching?”

  Jessi, who had already broken up the kazoo argument, stepped between them. “I think we should do some dancing in this parade. That would be really nice.”

  Abby and Kristy made faces at Jessi.

  “Dancing?” Abby repeated.

  “With cardboard instruments and kazoos?” Kristy added.

  Jessi shrugged. “It would be a little more interesting than just marching.”

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Norman Hill shouted from across the field. He and his sister, Sara, were tossing a Frisbee at the far end of the grass.

  “We’re starting a marching band,” Buddy answered. “Want to join?”

  “Sure!” Norman, who is a little on the pudgy side, tucked the Frisbee under his arm and trotted toward the group.

  “Hey, wait for me!” Sara cried. Sara is taller, older, and speedier. She passed Norman in two strides.

  At the same time the Hills were crossing the field, Adam, Byron, and Jordan appeared.

  “You guys can’t practice without us,” Adam declared. “We have the drums.”

  “That’s right!” Jordan declared. “We’ll lead the band.”

  Buddy Barrett raised his kazoo over his head and whooped, “The boys are the leaders!”

  Hannie Papadakis didn’t go for that at all. “No way!” she shouted. “Boys in the back.”

  “Yeah,” Sara chimed in. “The drums are always in the back of marching bands.”

  Adam hopped onto the big rock. “Not in this band. We’re the leaders!”

  Becca Ramsey, who is usually soft-spoken, cupped her hands around her mouth and started chanting, “Girls lead the band. Girls lead the band.”

  Sara, Suzi Barrett, and Hannie joined her. Pretty soon, the air was filled with the very loud shouts of the girls against the boys.

  “Time out, everybody!” Kristy leaped onto the rock next to Adam with her hands in a T formation. “This is no way to start practice.”

  Suddenly, Jessi started hopping up and down and announcing, “I know! I know!”

  “You look like an out-of-control cheerleader,” Abby said, catching hold of Jessi’s shoulders. “What are you jumping around for?”

  “Everyone can be the leader,” Jessi declared.

  “Huh?” Buddy made a face at Adam. “I don’t understand.”

  “That will be our choreography,” Jessi continued excitedly. “We’ll line up in rows, and each row will lead the band for one block —”

  “I see,” Abby cut in. “Then they’ll peel off and march to the back, right?”

  “Right!” Jessi nodded.

  “So each row has a chance to be the leader!” Kristy concluded. “It’s brilliant!”

  Now Abby was bouncing up and down. “We can do funny marching tricks, like Parade Rest.”

  To demonstrate, Abby keeled over onto the ground and lay on her back, snoring loudly.

  Anna shook her head and laughed. “That’s one of Abby’s all-time favorite tricks. Now she can finally use it.”

  “How about March Right?” Buddy cried. Then he demonstrated by marching on his right foot and dragging his left foot behind him.

  “Or March Left.” Kristy did the same movement starting with the other leg.

  Suzi Barrett squealed, “This is going to be fun!”

  Kristy, who had thought to bring her whistle (once a coach, always a coach), blew one shrill blast. “All right, marchers, line up in rows of three!”

  For a second, it looked as if there was going to be an argument over who would be in the first row to lead the parade. But Abby flipped a coin, and Hannie won the toss.

  Hannie, Suzi, and Becca were in the first row. They were followed by the triplets, who were followed by Buddy and the Hills, who were followed by Linny and Madeleine. Jessi, Squirt, and Marnie brought up the rear.

  “Let’s circle the field,” Kristy cried, leaping out in front of the group. “Watch Anna and listen to me!”

  (She and Abby had flipped a coin, too. Kristy had won.)

  Anna conducted the band, marching backward, while Kristy led the marchers, shouting, “Left! Left! Left, right, left.”

  The procession circled the field, humming into their kazoos. With their goofy cardboard instruments and kazoos that sounded like a thousand mosquitos, the band created quite a stir in the neighborhood.

  Charlotte and Dr. Johanssen were out walking their schnauzer, Carrot, when Charlotte spotted the funny-looking parade. Charlotte’s eight years old. “Can I join in?” she begged her mother. “Please?”

  Dr. Johanssen nodded and grabbed Carrot’s leash as Charlotte raced to find a place in the band. Abby passed her a kazoo, and Charlotte joined Linny and Madeleine without skipping a beat.

  Logan, who had been playing catch with his five-year-old brother, jogged over to Kristy. “Can Hunter march, too?”

  “Sure!” Kristy replied. “The more the merrier!”

  Mom was driving my younger brothers and sisters back from shopping for summer clothes when they saw the parade. She pulled the station wagon to a stop at the edge of Brenner Field. The doors popped open and Nicky, Margo, Claire, and Vanessa dashed across the field.

  Abby was distributing kazoos as fast as she could. “We just ran out of instruments,” she called to Jessi. “Every time I blink my eyes, more kids magically appear.”

  “What should we do about it?” Jessi asked as they watched the now huge group take one more spin around Brenner Field.

  “We can’t say no to a kid who wants to
join,” Abby said, adjusting her glasses. “But if this band grows much larger, it’ll be out of control.”

  Jessi nodded. “Let’s not worry about it now. We still have one more week.”

  Abby crumpled up the now-empty paper bag. “One week to figure out what to do about the biggest marching non-band in Stoneybrook history.”

  “Let the FUN-raising begin!” I declared Monday morning as I stood next to the Hearts and Flowers booth.

  I wore a button that read, “Ask me about our FUN-raiser!” and a painter’s cap covered with heart and flower decals and buttons (courtesy of Claud, of course).

  Our booth was a giant flower stall, which we’d set up by the front entrance to SMS. The shelves were lined with white plastic buckets filled with fresh-cut carnations, all donated by ZuZu’s Petals, the flower shop in downtown Stoneybrook.

  Helen Gallway was in charge of the booth. She was dressed in hot pink bike shorts and a T-shirt with hearts and flowers painted on it in pink puff paint. Helen was surrounded by messengers all wearing the same uniform and Rollerblades with helmets and kneepads.

  “One dollar, and we’ll messenger a flower or valentine to the sweetheart of your choice,” Helen announced through a megaphone.

  Jessi was working as one of the messengers. She skated up beside me. “I’ve already delivered three roses to lockers and two valentines to homerooms, and school hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Five dollars!” I exclaimed to the crowd milling around the booth. “We’ve made five dollars. Only nine-hundred and ninety-five dollars to go!”

  Justin Price, who had come for the launch, whooped a loud cheer and stuck his fist in the air. I have to admit, that made me feel good. Sandra, on the other hand, stood off to one side, looking embarrassed by the commotion.

  Logan Bruno stepped up to the booth, waving two dollar bills. “I’d like to send a heart and a flower,” he drawled in his Southern accent.

  “Mary Anne’s going to be very happy!” I sang out, wiggling my eyebrows.

  “Now, this is from a secret admirer, so don’t tell Mary Anne a thing,” Logan said with a wink.

  I pretended to pull a zipper across my mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

  Alan Gray was next in line and he ordered ten valentines. “For ten of my secret admirers,” he announced in a loud voice.

  Jamie Sperling, who was also one of the messengers, skated by me and whispered, “Alan’s probably sending all of those valentines to himself.”

  I giggled. The booth was a big hit. As word spread, the line for valentines and flowers stretched all the way out the front door.

  Lisa Mannheim hurried to my side. “Maybe we’d better start another line to handle the crowd.”

  “Don’t worry, Lisa,” Laura Aronsen called. “It’s under control.” She waved her hearts-and-flowers cap above her head and yelled, “Hey, everybody, the second line forms here.”

  Ten more people raced to stand in front of Laura. All of them clutched dollar bills in their hands.

  I spied Sandra Hart by the water fountain and hurried to join her. “Look at all that money!” I squealed, rubbing my hands together. “We’re going to be rich!”

  Sandra glanced over both shoulders, then whispered, “Mal, don’t act so silly. People will think you’re weird.”

  I was feeling too excited to worry about what Sandra thought. I just crossed my eyes and whispered back, “I am weird, Sandra. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Mal!” Helen called from the crowded booth. “We’re going to need a third line. Can you run it?”

  I saluted, then jogged to the flower stall to join her. “At your service.”

  The FUN-raiser was off to a terrific start. Justin knew it. Lisa knew it. And I knew it. All day Monday I was beaming. Even in Mr. Cobb’s class.

  Monday’s class focused on the enormously successful picture book Goodnight Moon, by Margaret Wise Brown.

  “Almost every child’s bookshelf has a copy of this perennial favorite,” Mr. Cobb said, holding up the green-and-orange picture book. “How many of you have read this book, or had it read to you?”

  I raised my hand. It was my favorite when I was a baby. And a favorite of every one of my brothers and sisters.

  “What makes this book so popular?” Mr. Cobb pointed to Lisa Mannheim.

  Lisa tapped her chin with her pencil. “Well …”

  Mr. Cobb waited for a second, then turned to Bobby Gustavson. “Bobby? Why did you like this book?”

  Bobby ran one hand through his hair, leaned back in his seat, and doodled on a piece of paper with his pen. Mr. Cobb waited patiently until finally Bobby said, “I guess I liked the pictures. I liked trying to find that little mouse.”

  Mr. Cobb nodded. “Uh-huh. So the book has an element of mystery or puzzle-solving in it. What else?”

  I raised my hand, and so did several other people. Benny Ott, who was waving his arm like a flag, finally shouted, “I liked the way my mom would say ‘moooooon.’ ” Benny, who insists he’s going to be an actor some day, stretched out the word, so it sounded like he was mooing.

  But Mr. Cobb didn’t laugh. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. “The words in the book can be very soothing. Especially the repetition of them. ‘Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, cow jumping over the moon.’ ”

  “I liked the picture on the wall of the rabbit fishing,” Robbie Mara said without raising his hand.

  Megan Armstrong waved her arm in front of Mr. Cobb.

  “Yes, Megan,” he said.

  “That painting is from another one of Margaret Wise Brown’s books,” she pointed out. “It’s called The Runaway Bunny.”

  “Also a very popular book,” Mr. Cobb added.

  My arm was growing tired from holding it in the air. And I was starting to forget why I’d even raised it. But finally Mr. Cobb called on me just before the break he always gave us.

  “I read this book to my sister Claire,” I told Mr. Cobb.

  He smiled vaguely. “Uh-huh.”

  “And Claire likes to watch the way the hands on the clock change in each picture. I do, too.”

  Mr. Cobb nodded. “The light in the room alters on each page, also. Did you notice that?”

  “Yeah,” Chris Brooks answered for me. “And the moon also rises. You can see it through the window.”

  At class break, I walked with Lisa Mannheim to the bathroom. “Mr. Cobb didn’t give you any time to answer his question,” I commented to Lisa.

  Lisa nodded and frowned. “And he waited forever for Bobby Gustavson to think of something to say.”

  “Mr. Cobb does that a lot, doesn’t he?” I said, pushing open the bathroom door. I crossed to the mirror and pulled a brush out of my backpack. “He doesn’t seem to give a girl any time to think, but he’ll let the guys take all day to come up with an answer.”

  Lisa cocked her head. “You know, now that you mention it, he seems to call on the boys more than the girls.”

  “He doesn’t always call on them,” I said, running a brush through my hair. “Robbie Mara and Benny Ott just shout out their answers whenever they feel like it. They never raise their hands.”

  “While we sit there with our arms politely raised.” Lisa demonstrated in the mirror by holding her arm crooked at the elbow. “Sometimes I think my arm will fall off before Mr. Cobb calls on me.”

  I shoved my brush back into my pack. “I wonder if Mr. Cobb realizes that his class discussions are so one-sided. Boy-sided.”

  Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d hate to think he was favoring the boys on purpose.”

  “Me, too.”

  But after we returned from break, I noticed that Mr. Cobb continued his pattern of calling on the boys more than the girls. He also kept on giving the boys more time to think of their answers. Lisa was paying attention to the pattern, too. During the rest of the hour, whenever Mr. Cobb favored a boy — which happened a lot — Lisa turned to me and raised her eyebrows.

  I left the class feeling torn. On the
one hand, it was a great relief to know I wasn’t the only one Mr. Cobb was avoiding. On the other hand, I knew something should be done about his favoritism. But what? I needed to think about it.

  The week continued. Our FUN-raisers were going full speed ahead. Tuesday’s T-shirt–painting booth was a success, but Wednesday’s Slam Dunk Your Teacher! booth was a monster hit.

  We set it up on the front lawn of the school, and Liz Cohen ran it. Here’s how it worked: The “victim” sat on a hinged plank above a big plastic tub filled with water. A bull’s-eye target extended out to one side. For one dollar, a student bought three chances to hit the target. A direct hit would drop the “victim” into the tub.

  “Hit the target!” Liz instructed the crowd. She wore a yellow slicker over her bathing suit and big rubber boots. “Dunk the teacher. It’s that simple.”

  Many of the teachers were good sports about being dunked. Mrs. Gonzalez, an eighth-grade science teacher, wore a flowered bathing cap and a scuba mask. She sat on the wooden plank and squealed loudly every time the target was hit and she was dumped into the pool.

  Mr. De Young, the boys’ gym teacher, wore a pair of swim trunks that showed off his muscular body. He shouted fake threats like, “Hit that target and you’re toast!” which made everyone laugh.

  But the all-time favorite was our assistant principal.

  “Our next victim is Mr. Kingbridge!” Liz Cohen called through a Mr. Microphone that she’d brought from home. “Who would like to dunk our assistant principal?”

  There was a stampede for the line. It seemed that the entire student body wanted to hurl softballs and dunk Mr. Kingbridge.

  He was only scheduled for five minutes, but he stayed for fifteen. “I never realized I was so popular,” Mr. Kingbridge cracked when he climbed out of the tub for the last time.

  While Liz ran the booth, Lisa manned the cash box. Later, just before Mr. Cobb’s class, Lisa grabbed me in the hall and waved a piece of paper in front of my face. I don’t remember ever seeing her so excited.

  “Mallory, we’re going to make it!” she squealed, pointing to the slip of paper. “If we continue raising money at the rate we’re going, we’ll meet our goal!”