Yours Turly, Shirley Page 8

  “Yeah,” said Shirley. “Me, too.” Reading still wasn’t easy, she thought. But it was usually fun.

  Shirley had been working hard in the Resource Room. She had been working hard in Mr. Bradley’s room. She had stayed in her seat and hadn’t made jokes or called out or distracted the kids around her. Everyone seemed pleased with Shirley.

  So Shirley was surprised when Mr. Bradley called her to his desk at the end of school one day and handed her a note in an envelope. “This is for your parents,” he said. “Will you be sure to give it to them?”

  Shirley nodded. “Yes,” she said, feeling worried.

  Shirley walked home from school by herself that afternoon. She knew that no one would be at her house when she got there. Her father was at work, her mother was busy with Meals-on-Wheels, and Jackie had been invited to Joan’s.

  As Shirley walked along, she thought about the envelope that was in her schoolbag. Her stomach began to feel funny. She reached into the bag and pulled the envelope out. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Basini. Shirley turned it over.

  The envelope wasn’t sealed!

  Quick as a flash, Shirley dropped her things on the ground. She sat down in the middle of the sidewalk and opened the envelope. Inside was a typewritten letter.

  “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Basini,” it began, “I would like to recommend that Shirley attend summer school for eight weeks during the months of July and August. This will be necessary in order for her to enter the fifth grade this fall.”

  What did that mean? That if Shirley didn’t go to summer school, she’d have to stay back? She and Jackie would both be in fourth grade then, only Jackie would be in the smart class. And Shirley would probably still have to go to the Resource Room.

  The letter went on and on, but Shirley didn’t bother to read it. She’d read enough.

  Tears welled up in Shirley’s eyes. Oh, her parents were going to be so upset. Especially her mother. Joe had never had to go to summer school. Jackie would certainly never have to go. And not even a year ago Jackie couldn’t even speak English! Who had helped Jackie learn to speak? Who had helped her with her reading and spelling when she was in the first-grade room? Who had told her about Henry and Ribsy? Shirley, that’s who. And now Shirley had to go to summer school. Face it, she thought, Jackie and Joe were just plain smarter than she was.

  Shirley couldn’t imagine what her parents would do or say when they read the note from Mr. Bradley. But she knew how they would feel. Disappointed.

  Shirley’s tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Didn’t anybody understand how hard she’d tried that year? She stood up, stuffing the note in her schoolbag. Then she walked slowly home.

  By the time she’d reached her house, she’d made a decision.

  She was going to run away.

  It was the only thing to do. Then her parents wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.

  Shirley went to her room and found her suitcase. She threw some clothes in it. She threw her baseball alarm clock in it. She threw her good shoes in it. Then she opened her bank and emptied out her money. She counted it three times. She had eleven dollars and sixty-five cents. She stuffed the money in the pocket of her jeans.

  Shirley carried her suitcase downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, she sat down at the table with a blank piece of paper in front of her. She thought and thought. After a long time, she wrote:

  She placed her note on top of Mr. Bradley’s letter, and left them both on the table.

  Shirley lugged her suitcase outside and down the driveway. The suitcase certainly was heavy. Maybe she shouldn’t have packed her good shoes. And she wasn’t sure she’d need the alarm clock. But it was too late to go back now. Someone might come home and catch her.

  It wasn’t easy, but Shirley managed to get her suitcase all the way to the playground by the shopping center. Sometimes she had to drag it. The dragging made long scratch marks on the bottom. Oh, well, what difference did it make? Her parents would never see her or the suitcase again.

  Shirley sat on the bottom of the slide until the sun began to sink behind the trees. Where would she spend the night? she wondered. Where did people go when they ran away? Did they sleep in the woods? Shirley didn’t want to do that. And she couldn’t take the bus to Joe or any of her relatives. They’d send her right back home.

  Shirley’s stomach began to growl. She should have packed some food. And where was she going to sleep? Shirley hadn’t spent the night in too many places besides her own bed. She had slept over at friends’ houses a few times. She and her parents had spent several nights in hotels. Once, her family had camped out in Maine. And once she had slept in the tree house. … The tree house! That’s where Shirley could sleep. What a brilliant idea! She could spend the night there and worry about where to run away to the next day.

  Shirley walked back to her neighborhood as fast as she could, which wasn’t very fast. Her suitcase felt heavier with every step she took. When she reached the house that was two doors away from her own, she crept around the side. Then she cut through the yards to the Basinis’ property.

  She paused under the tree house. How was she going to get her suitcase up there? She thought and thought. There was no way to do it. She’d have to hide it somewhere. Maybe the garage, if no one was home yet.

  Shirley studied the back of her house. A light was on in her bedroom. Jackie had probably come home, but not her parents. If her parents had come home, they would have found the notes. They’d be looking for Shirley. They’d be calling and shouting. Maybe even crying.

  Shirley smiled. She was a pretty good detective. Too bad she couldn’t tell that to Mr. Bradley.

  But Mr. and Mrs. Basini would be home soon, so Shirley would have to hurry. She dragged her suitcase into the garage and shoved it under the shelves that her mother had built to hold tools and flowerpots and empty jars and all the things the Basinis didn’t need but couldn’t bear to throw away. And there, on the shelf just above her suitcase, was the box with the baby minder in it—the baby minder her mother had bought when she thought Jackie was going to be a three-year-old instead of an eight-year-old.

  It was the sight of the baby minder that gave Shirley the best idea she had ever had. She only hoped she had enough time to pull it off. And that she could be quiet enough to pull it off.

  Without a second thought, she opened the box, grabbed the baby minder, and checked to make sure it had batteries. Then she tiptoed into her kitchen, set the monitor on the counter, plugged it in behind the dish towels hanging on the rack, and tiptoed back out, with the intercom in her hand.

  Not a moment too soon.

  Shirley was just climbing the last rung of the ladder to the tree house when a car pulled into the driveway. She scrambled inside, scooted behind the front wall, and peered out through a knothole. It was her mother’s car.

  Shirley flicked on the intercom. She turned the volume up high. Soon she heard a door slam, and a faint voice, which was her mother’s, calling, “Girls! Shirley? Jackie? I’m home.”

  Then for a few seconds, Shirley heard only a scuffling sound. She guessed it was Jackie coming downstairs. Or her mother putting her things away.

  Then silence.

  Suddenly a voice blasted over the intercom. “Jackie!” exclaimed Mrs. Basini. “Did you see this?” (Shirley hurriedly turned the volume down.)

  Jackie and Mrs. Basini must be in the kitchen. Perfect, thought Shirley.

  “See what?” Jackie replied.

  “This note from Shirley.” Mrs. Basini read the note to Jackie.

  “Exprain ‘run away,’ prease,” Shirley heard Jackie say.

  “Oh, honey, not right now. Have you seen Shirley this afternoon?”

  “No. I spend afternoon at Joan’s.”

  “But Shirley was in school today, wasn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jackie.

  “Well, that’s something. You’re sure Shirley isn’t at home?”

  “No. She is not here.”
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  “Okay. I’ve got to call Daddy.”

  In the quiet that followed, Shirley heard another car pull into her driveway. She looked through the knothole. It was her father.

  And at that moment, Jackie said, “Mommy, I think Daddy is home.”

  “Oh, thank heavens,” said Mrs. Basini.

  Pause.

  Shirley heard faint voices that grew louder.

  “… what I found!” her mother was crying.

  “What’s this?” asked Mr. Basini.

  Papers rustled.

  “It’s from Mr. Bradley,” said Shirley’s mother.

  Mumble, mumble. “Oh, summer school,” said Mr. Basini. “That’s what she meant.”

  “Exprain ‘summer schoo,’ prease,” said Jackie desperately.

  “Not right now,” Shirley’s parents replied at the same time.

  “Oh, what are we going to do?” (That was Mrs. Basini.) “Maybe we ought to call the police.”

  “Porice!” exclaimed Jackie. “But why?”

  “Because your sister is missing, that’s why.”

  Shirley listened and listened. Her parents were talking a mile a minute. They decided not to call the police just then. First they were going to call her friends and Joe, and then drive around the neighborhood.

  Shirley began to feel puzzled. She had wanted to see what her parents would do when they found her notes. That was why she had set up the baby minder, of course. But why didn’t her parents sound angry or disappointed? All Shirley could hear in their voices was worry and fear. They hadn’t said a thing about how awful summer school was.

  I should go back, thought Shirley. I should go back right now. Even if they do care about summer school a little bit, I should go back before they start driving around. And certainly before they call the police.

  Shirley wasn’t in trouble, then. But she would be if the police started looking for her and found her in the tree house. How was she supposed to go home, though? She couldn’t just walk in the front door and say, “Hi. Here I am. Sorry I ran away.”

  Maybe another note would do the trick. Shirley’s mind began clicking away as fast as when she had a good idea for a bulletin board. When her plan was worked out, she picked up the intercom and climbed carefully out of the tree house. She kept the intercom on, the volume low. She paused just outside the garage, near the trash cans. From the sound of things inside, Mrs. Basini was on the phone with Erin’s mother. Jackie and her father were looking through an address book, making a list of other people to call.

  Shirley turned the intercom off. Silently, she removed the lid from one of the trash cans. Pew. The smell was terrible. Shirley set the intercom down so she could hold her nose with one hand and look for a scrap of paper with the other. When she found one, she put the lid on the can again and took the intercom and the paper into the garage with her. Then she returned the intercom to its box. She searched the junk shelves until she found a pencil.

  Shirley settled herself on the floor and wrote:

  She tiptoed around to the front of the house and placed the note on the front stoop where it would be easy to see. Then she rang the doorbell and ran back to the garage as fast as her legs could carry her.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Basini and Jackie dashed into the garage a few moments later, they found Shirley sitting on her suitcase, looking as if she had just come home.

  Mrs. Basini ran to her and gathered her in her arms. “Oh, thank goodness you came back! I don’t know what we’d have done if—” She broke off.

  “Mom!” Shirley exclaimed. “Are you crying?”

  “A little.”

  Shirley looked up at her father and Jackie. They were wiping tears away, too.

  “I guess you’re not mad,” Shirley ventured.

  “Well, maybe just slightly,” replied her father. “You scared us to death. Besides, running away is never the answer to a problem.”

  “You must have felt like there was nothing else you could do, though,” said Mrs. Basini. She let go of Shirley, and the four Basinis walked into the house. They sat down around the kitchen table.

  Shirley glanced nervously at the counter where the baby minder monitor was hidden. She’d have to be sure to put it away before it was discovered. And at some point she’d have to show her parents the damaged suitcase. But not just then. That could wait.

  “You’re right. I didn’t know what else to do,” Shirley admitted. “And, um, I felt ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? Why?” asked her father.

  “Because!” cried Shirley. (Wasn’t it obvious?) “Only kids who get bad grades have to go to summer school.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Mr. Basini, “and I should know. I’m a teacher. Also, I spoke to Mr. Bradley.” (When had that happened? wondered Shirley. Probably when she was in the garage writing the second note.) “He said he wants you to go to summer school because you’ve improved so much this year. If you hadn’t done so well, summer school wouldn’t be any help. Then you’d have to stay back.”

  “Really?” exclaimed Shirley.

  “Really,” said Mrs. Basini. “And guess who your summer-school teacher is going to be?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Soderman.”

  “All right!” Shirley felt relieved and proud and happy.

  Her parents grinned at her.

  But Jackie looked frustrated. “Would someone, prease,” she said, “exprain now ‘run away’ and ‘summer schoo.’”

  Shirley smiled. “I’ll explain,” she told her parents.

  Chapter Ten: June

  SHIRLEY STOOD BACK FROM the bulletin board. She looked at it proudly. The June bulletin board, she decided, was the best of the year. It was a summer scene. She’d thought about it hard. And she’d planned it carefully. What, Shirley had asked herself, was one of the best things about summer? The answer was easy—swimming. But how could she make realistic water? Shirley didn’t want her swimming pool to be just a piece of blue construction paper on the board. No, it had to be more special than that.

  Shirley worked on the rest of the scene first. She made a couple of lifeguards to watch over the pool. She made some swimmers and sunbathers, a brilliant sun, and some puffy clouds. She made beach balls and flippers and rafts.

  When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she tackled the water. She experimented with paper and paint and even papier-mâché. At last she discovered something wonderful—tinfoil. She colored it blue with a fat Magic Marker and crinkled it a little. It made wavy, amazing-looking water! Shirley glued it to the board. Then she added the other figures she had made.

  Once again, her classmates were impressed. Especially with the water. Shirley was satisfied. Her final bulletin board was a success, and school was nearly over. She still faced summer school, but that didn’t seem so bad anymore. And Jackie was jealous! She wanted to go to school year round, too. Like Shirley.

  One day, when the end of fourth grade was just a week and a half away, Mr. Bradley gave Shirley’s class an assignment.

  “I want you to write about ‘family,’” he said.

  And that’s all he would say, except that he wanted each composition to be two to three pages long. They were due in a week.

  “Do you want us to write about our families?” asked Ned Hernandez.

  Mr. Bradley shrugged.

  “Do you want us to write about the people in our families?” asked Jason Rice.

  Mr. Bradley shrugged again.

  Shirley had about a million questions, but she didn’t raise her hand. What was the point, if Mr. Bradley was just going to stand there and shrug? She took the problem to Mr. Soderman in the Resource Room that afternoon.

  “What do you think a family is?” Mr. Soderman asked Shirley.

  “A mom and a dad and their kids,” Shirley replied. She paused. “No, that’s not right. Some parents get divorced or die. The people who are left are still a family. And Jackie’s in my family, but she’s not my parents’ kid. Not a real one, anyway.”

>   Mr. Soderman’s eyes traveled across the room. Shirley followed his gaze—to the dictionary.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “We’ll see what the dictionary says. It’s always right.”

  After Shirley had looked up “family” in the dictionary, though, she said, “There are nine different definitions in there, and I don’t really like any of them. The one about a family being all the members of a household is close, I guess. But it leaves out relatives who don’t live in your house. Like my brother Joe. And my grandparents. The definitions about parents and children and relatives—they’re not quite right either. They leave out Jackie.”

  “There you go,” said Mr. Soderman.

  “Huh?”

  “I think you’ve got your composition. You have very strong opinions about the meaning of ‘family.’”

  “Yeah,” said Shirley slowly, “I do.”

  “Well, why don’t you get started?” suggested Mr. Soderman.

  “Now?” replied Shirley in dismay. The composition wasn’t due for days. Besides, she was in the middle of a terrific Beverly Cleary book, Dear Mr. Henshaw.

  “There’s no time like the present,” Mr. Soderman replied.

  “Okay,” said Shirley with a sigh.

  She placed a pad of paper in front of her. She poised a pencil over it. She wrote,

  “I like that,” Mr. Soderman commented. Shirley nodded thoughtfully. Then she continued

  Suddenly Shirley had an awful lot to say on the subject. Mr. Soderman was right. She did have strong opinions about the meaning of “family.” Shirley filled two and three-quarters pages before it was time for her to go back to Mr. Bradley’s room.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mr. Soderman told her with a smile. “You have a really terrific rough draft here.”

  “Rough draft?” Shirley repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your first try at the composition. You wrote it off the top of your head—very quickly. Now it needs some polishing and fixing up. Afterward, I’ll show you which words you’ve misspelled and the places where the punctuation is wrong. Then you can correct everything.”