Mallory Pike No.1 Fan Read online

  There was a knock on my door and I opened it a crack, half expecting to get a pie in the face or something. But it was Mom. "Can I come in?" she asked.

  "Sure," I said, opening the door wider. As Mom stepped in, Margo caught my eye and stuck out her tongue. I wasn't going to stoop to that level, so I just gave her my best icy glare and shut the door.

  "Vanessa tells me you wrote a play about our family," said Mom, getting right to the point. I nodded. "She says it's very insulting," Mom added.

  "It's not insulting, it's true to life," I defended myself.

  "Nicky says his character walks around with a bucket on his head," Mom said. "I've never seen Nicky with a bucket on his head." "It's just a little comedy bit to dramatize how the boys are always faffing or getting hurt or crashing into stuff every two seconds," I explained. "It wouldn't be as interesting if I just had my characters getting hurt all the time the way they really do." "I see. It's a little artistic license," said Mom.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "That's when you change things around a little to make them more interesting. Strictly speaking, what you've written isn't true." "But it's basically true," I added. "The heart of it is true, yes," Mom agreed. "Then that's what I've done. I've used artistic license." "Could I read your play?" Mom asked. "You could," I agreed. "But it would be better if you could see it. I'm going to the elementary school tomorrow for a rehearsal, if you'd like to come." "All right. That's what I'll do," said Mom. "Aren't you home from Ms. Hayes's house early?" "Yes. I . . . I don't think I'll be going there anymore. She doesn't really have enough for me to do." I didn't feel like talking about the real reason right then.

  Mom studied me. "Did anything happen with Ms. Hayes?" "No, nothing," I lied.

  "All right," said Mom. "Supper will be ready soon." "Do you mind if I don't eat?" I asked. "I'm not hungry." Mom smiled. "Are you nervous about eating with the Pike family picketers?" Truthfully, the idea didn't thrill me. I just wanted to be alone. "They don't bother me," I said. "But I'm not hungry." "Okay," Mom agreed, but she sounded reluctant.

  That night Vanessa came to our room, changed into her pajamas, and went to bed without even looking at me. I had no great desire to look at or speak with her either. Instead, I opened to the last chapter of Alice Anderson's Greatest Challenge. I read one sentence and then tossed the book on the floor. Why bother reading a bunch of lies.

  After a minute or two, my curiosity won out and I picked the book up again. I needed to know what happened. "Shut off the light, please," Vanessa said snootily. I. snapped off the light and went under the covers with my flashlight.

  It took me less than an hour to finish the book. Alice Anderson asked for some time off from her role in the movie to go home and take care of her sick mother. It took so long that she called up the director and said she couldn't be in the movie. Then one day the film crew showed up at her house. The director loved Alice's little town, so he stayed' and shot other scenes there. Everyone was excited, and Alice was not only on the road to stardom, but the people of her hometown got together and gave her an award for bringing fame and new business to their community.

  I have to admit, I was smiling when Alice burst into happy tears over the award. Then I remembered it was written by a fake, and forced myself to stop smiling.

  I shut off the flashlight and fell asleep under my covers. I had a terrible dream. I dreamed Pow had a dog collar covered with little spikes. Suddenly, the spikes flew off the collar and started attacking me. I guess you don't have to be a genius psychiatrist to figure out why I dreamed of being attacked by spikes.

  In the morning I awoke to a silent Vanessa, and found a note in my cereal bowl on the kitchen table. "Pikes on strike against Spikes," it said.

  "What are spikes?" Mom asked, reading the note over my shoulder.

  "That's the name of the family in the play." "Oh, Mal, couldn't you have picked a better name?" Mom asked.

  "It rhymes." "How about the Likes or the Tykes." "Dumb," I commented.

  "Oh," said Mom. "Well, I'll meet you at the elementary school auditorium after school." "Okay," I agreed, grabbing a handful of Cheerios from the box.

  Two handfuls later, I had met Jessi and we were walking to school together. "Mom is coming to rehearsal today," I told her. "Want to come?" "Sure. But there's something I think you should know. I hate to tell you this, Mal, but Becca told me the play is insulting and that she's not sure if she should be in it." "What?" I cried.

  "Charlotte and Haley might drop out, too," Jessi reported. "They feel they're being disloyal to Vanessa. I told Becca that they couldn't leave you just like that, but they're not the only ones. Nicky told Buddy Barrett he couldn't ever see Pow again if Buddy was in the play." "Are you kidding?" (We got Pow from the Barretts when Marnie Barrett developed an allergy to animal dander. Buddy and Suzi Barrett are still very attached to Pow and come to visit him often.) "I'll kill Nicky!" Later that day, when I arrived at the elementary school, I found the Pike picket line in full swing. My darling siblings were marching back and forth in front of the double doors with their idiotic signs. It was mortifying! "Make them stop," I said to Mom who was standing by the line.

  "Mom, you wouldn't cross a picket line, would you?" asked Adam.

  "Think of me as an impartial arbitrator," said Mom.

  "So, you admit you're being a traitor!" shouted Vanessa.

  "No," Mom explained. "An arbitrator is someone who tries to find a solution which is fair to both parties in a dispute. Impartial means I'm not on either side. I'm alone in the middle." - "Come on, Mom, I have to start this rehearsal," I said. "Make them go home." "That's enough, kids," said Mom. "Head home. Stacey and Mary Anne are waiting for you with Claire." With a lot of grumbling and dirty looks, they shouldered their signs and left. Mom and I went into the auditorium. Jessi was there with the kids, who were already sitting on the edge of the stage. "Hi, Mal. Hi, Mrs. Pike," Jessi greeted us as she hopped off the stage. She hurried up the aisle toward us, looking as if she had something important to say. "Mal, I think I headed off a crisis for you," she said.

  "Not another one." I sighed.

  "I told Haley, Becca, and Buddy that your mom was here to decide if the play was insulting. If she says it isn't, they'll stay in the play. If she says it is insulting, they want out." "Mom, you have to say it's okay," I pleaded.

  "Mallory, I'll give you my honest opinion," Mom insisted as she took a seat in the third row.

  Jessi and I herded the kids into their positions on stage. Luckily, Danielle was back. She looked a bit worn, but her dark eyes were shining with excitement. "I memorized all my lines while I waited in the doctor's office," she told me.

  "Good work," I said sincerely. "Give this your best. Today is an important rehearsal. The whole future of the play depends on it." "I'll try," Danielle assured me, and I knew she would.

  "Okay, everybody, take it from the top!" I yelled as I went back to my seat in the front row next to Jessi.

  Danielle came out and said her first line. "How I wish I could write something truly great . .

  I glanced at Mom. She smiled back at me. I figured that was a good sign.

  Next, Haley came in as Jill, the Vanessa part which I'd rewritten. She still held her script since the lines were new. "Valery, Valery, what could it be? Why am I not more like thee? With wit so quick, and heart so kind, surpassed by only your brilliant mind. What do you think of my latest poem, Valery?" Danielle as Valery replied with new lines I'd given her character. "It's lovely, Jill. But you have to stop comparing yourself to me. You're your own person with your own unique talents." I sneaked another peek at Mom. She had to have liked that line. This time she didn't notice me. She sat forward with her chin propped on her fingertips, watching the play intently.

  "Oh, Valery, I don't know how you put up with the rest of us," said Haley as Jill. Then Haley put her hands on her hips and took two strides to the front of the stage. "Vanessa would never say something like that," she objected. "Never in
a billion years." "Just say the lines the way they're written," I told her impatiently.

  Buddy came spinning onstage with a real bucket - in which he'd cut two eye holes -over his head. "Help! Help! I'm stuck!" he cried.

  I almost jumped up to object to the eyeholes, but I thought that it might be best not to call too much attention to the bucket. In the new version, Jill pulled the bucket off but didn't fall down. She said, "On his head he wears a pail unintentionally stuck. Oh, Valery how can you stand to live with such a cluck?" "Jill, please stop rhyming," said Danielle as Valery. "It gets a little annoying after awhile." "Sorry, Valery," Jill (Haley) replied. "Sometimes I just can't stop myself." Wendy came on, twirling the Skip-It over her head. The Skip-It slipped from her hands and bonked Haley on the head.

  "Ow! Watch it!" Haley cried.

  "That wasn't supposed to happen," I told Mom.

  Mom nodded slowly. I didn't like the pained expression on her face. And the play had just begun. By the time Char came on as Mom and asked Valery to do all that work, I had a pretty strong feeling - that the arbitrator's verdict might not go in my favor. I checked Mom's expression, and saw that her eyebrows were arched and her lips were tight - not a good sign at all.

  "Good job," I told the kids when the play was done. "We'll meet again on Monday. I want everyone to have all their lines memorized by then." "Wait a minute," Char objected. "We want to hear what your mother has to say first." I turned to Mom. "What did you think?" I asked nervously.

  "It's pretty insulting, Mal," she said softly.

  "She didn't like it, did she?" cried Char. "I told you," she said to Becca.

  "Mallory, I have to quit," Buddy spoke up. "I'm sorry, but I have to." "Me too," said Haley.

  "We do too," Char and Becca spoke up together.

  "Mom! Say something to them!" I begged. "It wasn't that bad!" "What about a rewrite?" Mom suggested. "You could soften the characters." "But the play will be performed in a week. They can't learn a new play in that amount of time," I objected.

  "They don't all know their lines now," Jessi reminded me. "It shouldn't make that much difference." "But I don't want to write an untrue play," I said to Mom. "I don't want to tell lies the way. . . the way. . . some authors do." "This isn't a true picture as it is now, Mal," Mom insisted. "Your brothers and sisters all have endearing traits as well as annoying characteristics, just as all people do. Just as you do." "Sorry about having to quit, Mallory," said Charlotte as she climbed down off the stage.

  "Hold on," I told her and the rest of the cast. "All right. I'll do some rewriting. Would you all agree to wait until you see the revision?" The kids looked at one another.

  "The revision will probably make it okay," Jessi said to the kids. "Why don't you give Mallory a break?" "I don't want Nicky mad at me," said Buddy.

  "Buddy, you can see Pow no matter what," I told him. "But I promise, my brothers and sisters will approve of the next script. I'll have them initial it if it will make you happy." "That would be good," said Becca.

  "All right," I said.

  What had I done? I was letting others tell me what I should write. Then again, Mom had said it wasn't true the way it was. I thought it was. But if no one else agreed, how true could it be?

  My head began to swim. Not only would I have to rethink the essay part of my project about Ms. Hayes, I had to rethink my play now, too.

  Chapter 10.

  I'm not initialing this," Margo told me on Thursday afternoon. By working like crazy, I'd finished revising my play. It wasn't exactly the play I'd set out to write, since it wasn't as true to life, but it was still pretty good.

  "Why won't you sign?" I asked Margo. "What's wrong with this play?" "My character is named Muriel now. I hate that name. When you rewrote the play, you gave everybody else good names." "Margo," I snapped impatiently. "What name would you like?" "Melissa," she said. "It's the name Mom and Dad should have named me. I'm definitely a Melissa." I flipped open my manuscript, crossed out "Muriel," and printed in "Melissa." "There, Margo, you are now Melissa. Happy?" Margo smiled and nodded as she initialed the play. Hers was the last signature I needed.

  122 - All the rest of my brothers and sisters had read the play (Claire had had it read to her) and said it was all right by them. Mom had made a copy of it and was reading it that very moment.

  Now everything depended on the Kids Club. They'd only have two more rehearsals before I had to show Mr. Williams a production of the play. They'd have to memorize a lot of new lines in a very short time.

  They weren't the only ones who would be busy between now and the play. The elementary school auditorium would only be available to me next Wednesday, so that's when I'd have to do the play. But my report was due in four days, by Monday. I had to get going on it tonight.

  But how could I compare the way my life influenced my work and the way Ms. Hayes's life influenced hers, when my play had been changed because it was so unpopular, and Ms. Hayes's writing wasn't based on her life at all?

  As I do whenever I have a big problem, I called Jessi. She answered the phone and I explained my problem to her. "Any ideas?" I asked hopefully.

  "Well," she began, "it seems sort of like a science experiment." "What do you mean?" "In a science experiment you set out to test something, a hypothesis, but if your result isn't what you thought it would be, then that's your answer." "I still don't get it," I admitted.

  "Sometimes in an experiment you get an answer you never expected. That doesn't mean your experiment was a failure. It could mean you were asking the wrong question. It could mean you learned something new, and your experiment was even more valuable than if you'd gotten the result you expected. You know, that's how scientists discover new things." "Thanks, I think," I told her. "How's your project coming?" "All right, I guess. I was typing up the story of The Nutcracker when you called. Mr. Williams wanted me to illustrate my stories, too. That's going to be the hard part for me." "Good luck," I said. "I'm going to hang up now and think some more about what you said. I understand what you mean, but I'm not exactly sure what I did learn from all this." "Okay, see you tomorrow," said Jessi.

  Back in my room I sat at my desk and stared at the blank pages in front of me. What had I learned?

  There was a rap on the door and Mom came in. She held the play in her hand. "This version is much better," she told me as she handed it to me.

  "Do you really think so?" "I think it's a much better play than it was," Mom said. "It's funnier and more touching. It seems like your writing improved when you paid more attention to writing a good play and a bit less attention to trying to show an accurate portrayal of our family. I think it's now a very good play." "Thanks," I said thoughtfully.

  Mom smiled and patted my shoulder. After she left, I went back to staring at the blank paper in front of me. In a moment I started writing.

  I wrote honestly about my experiences with The Early Years. As I wrote, I came to see more clearly how I'd concentrated too narrowly on my family life. In writing my second version, I tried to write an interesting story with interesting and realistic characters. When I did that, the entire picture changed. And the second play was better.

  Then I came to the compare and contrast part. What about Henrietta Hayes? Had she had any experience from which the truth of a happy family could have come? Now that I thought about it, I hadn't given her a chance to tell me. I'd been kind of harsh, really. I probably owed her the chance to tell me what she'd been thinking. After all, I'd been given another chance by the people who didn't think I'd told the truth in my writing.

  Glancing out the window, I saw that although it was late afternoon, there was an hour or so of daylight left. I could probably make it to Ms. Hayes's house and back before dark.

  I picked my jacket up off the bed, and headed out of the house. As I pedaled my bike toward Morgan Road, I wondered if Ms. Hayes was angry at me. Would she even want to talk to me? Why should she? But I felt as though I had to try, so I kept on going.

  I rea
ched her house, and walked my bike through the trees. Approaching her door, I felt as nervous as I had the very first day I'd come there.

  I knocked on the door, and Ms. Hayes answered quickly. "Mallory," she greeted me, obviously surprised to see me. "Come in." Luckily, there was warmth in her voice and a welcoming look on her face. If she'd been cold I might have bolted out of there, too nervous to go on. "Ms. Hayes, I'm sorry for the way I ran out last week," I apologized sincerely.

  She nodded, that blank look coming over her face. I realized that was her thinking look. What was she thinking now? "I'm very glad you're here," Ms. Hayes said. "Sit down, and we can talk." I took a seat on the couch. Ms. Hayes sat in a large cushiony chair by the end of the couch. "I intended to write you a letter," she said. "A real letter," she added with a quick smile, "because I've given a great deal of thought to what you said the other day. You know, in some ways, I think you're right." "You do?" "And in many ways I think you're wrong. Mallory, you know a story doesn't have to be autobiographical. It's a story that you, as an author, make up. It can be the story of someone else's life, or a story of your own fantasy. Yet, here's where I think you're correct. What you write should tell things that you honestly know to be true of the world. And I have tried to always do that in my books. You've enjoyed my books, haven't you?" "I love your books!" I said sincerely.

  "I think you responded so well to them because you sensed the emotional truth in the stories." "That makes sense," I agreed.

  "Good writing has more to do with perfecting your artistry as a storyteller and sharpening your skill with words than it has to do with the raw material of your life." "But did you know someone like Alice Anderson?" I asked.

  "Yes, I did," said Ms. Hayes. "When I was eleven I spent a year with a foster family on a small farm in upstate New York. Their names were the Larsons, but they became the Andersons in my books. Alice was modelled on Linda Larson. She was a wonderful girl, and her brothers were wonderful, too. I wished I could have stayed there and lived with them forever, but that's not how the foster care system works." "So what you wrote was true. I'm so sorry," I said, feeling like an idiot.