Mary Anne Misses Logan, Page 5

  When I reached Cokie’s house, I chained my bicycle to the Masons’ mailbox. Then I crossed their lawn to the front door.

  Dum, da-dum, dum. Funeral-march time.

  I rang the bell.

  Please, I begged silently, let Cokie be such a ditz that she forgot the meeting was being held at her own house. Let her be out somewhere —

  The door was flung open. There stood Cokie, looking eager. But immediately, the smile vanished from her face.

  “Oh. It’s you,” she said. Then she added, “Come on in,” but she didn’t open the screen door. She turned and walked down the hallway.

  Now is your chance to leave, I told myself. But I entered the house and followed Cokie to the kitchen.

  This was the first time I had been at Cokie’s. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe rooms that were as cold as Cokie herself. But the Masons’ house was the kind a person could feel comfortable in. Cokie looked as if she didn’t belong there. The rooms were large and cluttered, but not messy. The table in the kitchen was covered by a plastic cloth with pictures of fruits and vegetables all over it. The counters were crowded with magazines, boxes of food, jars of jelly. It was a farmhouse kitchen. And in it, Cokie looked like the answer to the question, “What doesn’t belong here?”

  Cokie pointed to one of the ladderback chairs at the table. “Have a seat,” she said.

  The doorbell rang then. I jumped about a foot (my heart jumped a mile) and Cokie made a dash for the door.

  I listened carefully. When I heard Cokie say, “Oh. It’s you,” I knew that Pete had arrived. Like me, he followed Cokie into the kitchen, looking around curiously.

  “Hi, Mary Anne,” he said.

  “Hi,” I replied.

  Pete looked sweaty. I figured he had ridden his bike to the Masons’, too.

  “Have a seat,” Cokie said, pointing to a chair next to mine.

  Pete sat. But, since he is not a subtle person, he started to ask, “Got anything to dr — ?”

  The bell rang once more. Once more my heart leaped, and Cokie leaped out of the room. Once more I listened to her voice.

  This time it said, “Hi, Logan! I’m so glad you’re here.” Then I heard the screen door open. Cokie must have held it for Logan, because he said, “Thanks.”

  A moment later, Cokie appeared in the kitchen, her arm linked through Logan’s. “There you go. You take the seat next to Pete. What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh, just water,” replied Logan.

  “I’ll have a soda,” said Pete, who had not been offered a thing.

  Cokie looked pained. Then she turned to me. “Mary Anne?”

  “Water, too, please.” (I wanted whatever Logan was having.)

  Cokie set four glasses on the table. She brought out a bottle of soda and a jug of water. She filled Logan’s glass. (“Thank you,” said Logan, and he grinned at Cokie.) She filled her own glass. Then she shoved the soda toward Pete, and the water toward me. “There you go,” she said.

  “Thanks ever so much,” replied Pete.

  I didn’t say anything. I also did not pour the water into my glass. I was afraid my hand would shake.

  Guess what. Logan must have realized that because he filled the glass for me.

  I smiled gratefully at him.

  Cokie frowned. Then she edged her chair so close to Logan’s that she was practically sitting in his lap. “Well, let’s get to work,” she said. “What do we do first, Logan?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he answered. “Okay, Megan Rinehart wrote fourteen books.”

  Pete groaned. “We know, we know.”

  “But,” continued Logan as if he hadn’t heard him, “who says our project has to cover everything she wrote?”

  “Yeah!” I exclaimed. In my excitement over the Megan Rinehart project, I forgot to be shy. “We could choose three or four books that are representative —”

  “Or maybe very different from each other,” added Logan.

  “— and just study those. Compare and contrast them.” I knew I sounded like an English teacher, but I couldn’t help it.

  “I guess I could read four books,” said Pete slowly.

  “I read four books once,” said Cokie, staring into space. “Four little books. The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin, The Tale of Benjamin Bunny, and The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. I was ten years old. It only took me a week.”

  Was she kidding? That sounded like something Kristy would say in a totally serious voice — and wait for the rest of the BSC members to start laughing.

  I glanced at Logan, but he didn’t look at me.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, “we’ll each need to find a copy of the books we choose. But that shouldn’t be too hard. Mary Anne already has most of the books, and then there are the collections in the school library and the public library.”

  “Which books should we choose?” I asked.

  I think Cokie’s brain resides on another planet, because in answer to my question she said, “Oh, why do we each have to have our own copies of the books? Why can’t we share? We could read aloud to each other,” she added, gazing at Logan.

  “Yes, that’s always been my dream,” said Pete. “To read aloud to Logan.”

  Cokie, who had been leaning over so that her hair brushed against Logan’s arm, straightened up. She glared across the table at Pete. “Pea brain,” she said.

  Logan, confused, cleared his throat. “I think,” he said hoarsely, “that maybe we should choose one of Megan Rinehart’s humorous books, one of her serious books, one of her mysteries, and one of her collections of short stories.”

  “Didn’t she write any picture books?” whined Cokie.

  “Cokie. We are studying books written for young adults,” I informed her. “I don’t think Babar counts.”

  “Megan Rinehart wrote Babar?” exclaimed Cokie.

  Uh-oh. We were in deep trouble. If our project was going to be any good, it would be up to Logan and me to make it so.

  Believe it or not, we accomplished something fairly important before we left Cokie’s house that day. We decided on the four books we would study.

  “Let’s try to read them in two weeks,” I said as we were getting up from the kitchen table.

  “Okay,” agreed Logan.

  “Two weeks?!” exclaimed Pete.

  “What are the titles of those books again?” asked Cokie.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Pete left the house first, as if he couldn’t get out fast enough.

  Good, I thought. I can walk out with Logan.

  I hung around the front door. Logan and Cokie were still in the kitchen. Logan was repeating the titles of the books to Cokie. When he finished, I heard Cokie say in this syrupy sweet voice, “Logan? Would you like to go to a movie sometime?”

  I did not wait to hear Logan’s answer.

  I pushed open the door and fled for my bicycle.

  The Toilet Monster had become a part of our lives. My friends and I talked about him at BSC meetings. (I guess the monster was a him. It could have been a her, though.)

  Each time one of us sat at the Kormans’, the Toilet Monster reared its head. And the story that Melody and Bill told about him kept growing.

  Claud sat at the Kormans’ on a Friday night not long after my horrible afternoon at Cokie’s. I did not know then whether Logan had agreed to go out with Cokie. Our study group hadn’t held another meeting, since we were supposed to be reading the books.

  Anyway, Claudia arrived at the Kormans’ in time to feed the kids and herself an early supper.

  “Hot dogs?” Bill asked Claud as soon as his parents had left.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “E.S.P.,” answered Bill.

  Claud shrugged. She turned back to the stove.

  Bill and Melody were sitting on the floor with Skylar between them.

  “Now, this is how you play Pat-a-Cake,” Melody said patiently.

  “Tat?” shrieked Skylar, look
ing around the room. “Where tat?”

  “No tat,” Bill told her. “Melody said pat, not cat. Pat.”

  “Where tat?” Skylar asked again, sounding pitiful.

  “Hey, you want to get rid of tats forever?” Melody said to her sister. “I mean, only the tats that might be hiding in our house? I just have to do one thing. I just —”

  Skylar did not understand, of course. And she wasn’t paying attention. She had found a wooden spoon and a pot and was banging away happily.

  (One thing my friends and I have learned is that you don’t have to spend a ton of money on toys for babies. They are perfectly happy with a paper cup or an empty milk carton or a cardboard box. Also, a wooden spoon and a pot make a fine drum, if you can stand the noise.)

  “Dinner’s ready,” Claud said a few minutes later.

  “Oh, boy,” said Bill. “Hot dogs and applesauce. Is it, like, a rule that baby-sitters can only fix hot dogs for dinner?”

  “Yes,” Claudia answered seriously. “It’s Rule Number One Hundred and Sixteen in the Baby-sitters Handbook. It’s in the section titled Hot Dog Laws.”

  Bill laughed, but Melody frowned and said, “Really?”

  “No, you geek!” cried Bill.

  “No, geek!” cried Skylar, which made everybody laugh.

  “Let’s see what else we can get her to say,” suggested Bill, inspired. (As he talked, he pretty much inhaled his hot dog. Already, it was nearly gone.) “Skylar? Skylar, say doggie. Doggie.”

  “Doddie,” Skylar repeated obediently.

  “Don’t anybody ask her to say C-A-T,” Claudia warned Bill and Melody.

  “Oh, we won’t,” Melody assured Claud. “Skylar, say come here.”

  “Tum ear.”

  Bill’s eyes lit up. “Say cowabunga, dude!”

  “Towabumpa, dude!” Skylar looked quite pleased with herself.

  “Hey, Skylar, can you say Toilet Monster?” asked Melody in a teacher’s voice.

  “No,” replied Skylar.

  More laughter.

  “Who here thinks it would be fun to play the Telephone Game with Skylar?” said Bill. (He had finished his dinner.)

  “Not me,” Melody answered. “Anyway, Telephone’s funner with more people.”

  “Funner?!” repeated Bill. “Hey, everybody, Melody said funner.”

  Melody blushed. “Is that a bad word?”

  “No, stupid. It’s —”

  “I’m not stupid!” cried Melody.

  “Okay, you two. Enough,” said Claud.

  The kids settled down. Bill and Melody carried their plates to the sink. Skylar, eating slowly and carefully (without the use of her fork), aimed a piece of hot dog toward her mouth, and missed. As the hot dog fell to the floor, Skylar peered over the edge of her high chair and shouted, “Towabumpa, dude!”

  Melody and Bill nearly became hysterical, so Claudia sent them upstairs while she cleaned up the kitchen, and Skylar finished eating. She thought she heard the toilet flush several times, but she wasn’t sure. It was hard to hear over the sounds of running water, clanking dishes, and Skylar’s cries of “Towabumpa, dude!”

  At last the kitchen was clean. Claudia removed Skylar from her high chair, wiped her face and hands, and started upstairs with her. On the way, she heard the toilet flush again. A horrible thought occurred to Claud. What if Bill and Melody were sick? What if the toilet-flushing meant they’d gotten the stomach flu or something?

  Claudia raced the rest of the way up the stairs — and nearly ran into Melody, who was charging out of the bathroom, giggling.

  “Whoa!” exclaimed Claudia. “What’s going on? Why do I hear the toilet flushing?”

  Bill emerged from his room, looking smug.

  “Bill?” said Claud.

  “You tell her,” Bill said to Melody.

  “Okay,” she replied. “Um, Bill says that the Toilet Monster won’t hurt you if you can run all the way into your bedroom and jump into bed before the toilet stops flushing.” Melody paused. “Uh-oh,” she said. “The toilet is finished and I’m not even in my room.”

  “The Toilet Monster is going to get you,” said Bill. He curled his hands into claws. “Grrr. Hear me growling? I am an angry —”

  “No monsters,” said Skylar.

  “That’s right. There are no monsters,” agreed Claudia.

  Melody looked uncertain. “Bill?” she said. “If I ran into my room and got into bed now, would it be too late?”

  “Much,” was Bill’s answer. “You’re in for it now. You’ll see. Tonight … while you’re sleeping … into your room will creep … the Toilet Monster. Grrr!”

  “Melody, Bill’s just teasing,” said Claud.

  “I thought so,” said Melody, who didn’t look sure at all.

  “Good. Now do you guys have any homework?”

  “On the weekend?” replied Melody. “No way.”

  “Skylar does,” said Bill. “She has to learn to say all sorts of hard words like Leonardo and cafeteria and — the longest word in the world — antidisestablishmentarianism. Right, Skylar?”

  “You guys, I’m serious,” said Claud. “Do you have homework?”

  “Hey, where’s Skylar?” asked Bill, glancing around the hallway.

  Claudia panicked momentarily, looked behind her, saw that the baby gate at the top of the stairs was closed, sighed with relief, and —

  “Aughhh!” screamed Melody and Bill.

  The toilet flushed.

  While the older kids dashed for their beds, Claudia peeped into the bathroom. There was Skylar. She was throwing handfuls of Kleenex into the toilet. She was about to flush it again. “Towabumpa!” she cried, as she reached for the handle. She looked as though she were concentrating hard.

  Claudia made a grab for Skylar. “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “You’re going to make the toilet overflow, and then what will your brother and sister think?”

  The toilet stopped flushing, and Claud heard cries of “I made it!” from Bill and Melody’s bedrooms.

  “Safe again!” added Bill.

  But Melody called, “Claudia? Is the Toilet Monster flushing himself now? If he is, then Bill and I are always going to have to listen for the toilet and then race for our rooms. What if we’re downstairs when the toilet flushes?”

  “Melody,” said Claudia, but she was interrupted.

  “Towabumpa!” The toilet flushed again.

  “Well, this time at least we’re already in bed,” said Melody nervously.

  Claudia retrieved Skylar from the bathroom, set her in her crib, returned to the bathroom, put the Kleenex box out of reach, and went back to Skylar.

  “Now, listen,” she said, but not too sternly, “the toilet is not a toy…. Although come to think of it, toilet sounds like toy, so maybe you’re confused. But anyway, Skylar, we do not flush things down the toilet, okay?” Claudia paused, wondering if she ought to clarify that statement by saying that it was okay to flush toilet paper. But she decided not to. She just said, “No flushing,” and hoped she wasn’t ruining anything Mr. and Mrs. Korman might teach Skylar when they toilet-trained her.

  Claudia changed Skylar’s diaper, put her in a pair of pajamas, sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” to her, then turned out the light and tiptoed into the hall. She stood still, listening. Not a sound. She peeked into Bill’s room. He was lying on his bed. She peeked into Melody’s room. She was lying on her bed.

  “Bill. Melody,” said Claud.

  “Yeah?” they replied.

  “How long do you have to stay in bed after the toilet has stopped flushing?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Melody.

  “Good question,” said Bill.

  “Well, I think you’ll be safe now. You can come out of your rooms. The toilet stopped flushing about fifteen minutes ago. Besides, you guys have to go to bed soon yourselves. You don’t want to waste a perfectly good Friday evening, do you?”

  “No,” said the kids.

  Claudia, Bill, and Melo
dy played Parcheesi. They played a “tournament,” which Bill won. When the tournament was over, it was bedtime.

  “Which one of you guys is brave enough to use the bathroom first?” asked Claud.

  “Me!” cried Melody.

  She and Bill changed into their nightclothes, and then Melody ventured into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the toilet flushed, the bathroom door burst open, and Melody sprinted into the hallway, tripped, fell, stopped to rub her ankle, then limped to her bed. She was about to climb in when … the toilet stopped flushing.

  “He’s after me!” screamed Melody. She leaped into her bed and hid under the covers. “Check for monsters, Claudia!” she demanded.

  Claudia made a point of looking everywhere (including in the toilet tank) and saying, “Nope. Not under the bed…. Nope. Not behind the curtains…. Nope. Not in the dresser drawers.”

  Finally Melody emerged from under the covers. “I guess I’m safe,” she said.

  Meanwhile, Bill found the courage to use the bathroom himself. Thankfully, he landed in his bed seconds before the toilet stopped flushing.

  “Good night,” Claudia said to Melody and Bill. She went downstairs, reluctantly opened her math book, and began her weekend homework.

  Half an hour later, she checked on the kids. They were sound asleep — in their own beds. Good, thought Claudia. But not more than ten minutes later, she heard screaming from upstairs.

  In a flash, Claud was kneeling by Melody’s bed. “Did you have a bad dream?’ ” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “The Toilet Monster got me,” said Melody in a choked voice.

  “But he didn’t,” Claud told her. “Not really. See? You’re okay. You were dreaming.”

  “I heard noises,” Melody insisted.

  “Like flushing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Melody, do you believe in witches?” Claud asked slowly.

  “Witches? No!” Melody nearly giggled.

  “Do you believe in Casper the Friendly Ghost?”

  “No!”

  “Then how about the Toilet Monster?”

  “He’s right in the bathroom … waiting for me.”

  Claudia shook her head.