The Bathwater Gang, Page 2

  7

  “Only two?” squealed Bertie.

  The two who had shown up were Amy Moss and Liz Caputo.

  The three of them looked up and down the streets.

  They waited until ten-thirty.

  They waited until eleven o’clock.

  Nobody else showed up, except Granny. “Well,” she said, “it looks as if the others were more interested in pizza than in gangs.”

  “It’s not fair,” grumped Bertie. “They should pay me back for the pizza.”

  “Look at it this way,” said Granny, putting her arms around Amy and Liz. “It’s better to have two you can count on than fifty-nine you can’t count on.”

  “I know,” Bertie agreed. “But I thought I could count on Damaris. I want her to join, too.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Granny. “I’ll trade you some advice for a ride on your skateboard.”

  “Skateboard? Granny, you’re too—”

  Granny’s finger pressed Bertie’s lips. “Ah-ah. Don’t say it.”

  “Sorry, Granny,” said Bertie. “You can use the skateboard. What’s the advice?”

  “Okay,” said Granny. “Now, the key here is to impress Damaris’s mother, right?”

  “Right.”

  “She thinks gangs are bad, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you want to show her your gang is good, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So—” Granny stepped onto the skateboard. She rolled a few feet. “Hey, this is easy!”

  “Gran-neee,” said Bertie. “So what do we do?”

  “Write a platform,” said Granny.

  “A platform? What’s that?”

  “It’s a list of things you believe in. The things your gang stands for.”

  Granny pushed off on the skateboard. “Show it to Mrs. Pickwellllllllll…” she called as she sailed down the sidewalk.

  Bertie and Amy and Liz sat down at Bertie’s kitchen table with pencils and paper. Here is what they wrote:

  OUR GANG PLATFORM

  This is what we believe in.

  We stand for these things too.

  God

  parents

  grandparents

  great-grandparents

  great-great-grandparents

  great-great-great-grandparents

  uncles

  aunts

  pizza (extra cheese)

  soda

  birthday parties

  birthday cake

  birthday presents

  Christmas presents

  Easter presents

  Fourth of July presents

  Groundhog Day presents

  Peace

  Love

  Flowers

  Bertie added the last three especially for Damaris’s mother.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s show Mrs. Pickwell our platform.”

  The three girls headed for Mrs. Pickwell’s thrift shop. They took the shortcut through the alley between Oriole and Chain Streets.

  They had gone only a short way when suddenly someone jumped out from behind a garage door. It was Andy Boyer.

  He stood in front of them, hands on hips, a sneer on his lips. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To Marshall Street,” said Bertie. “Now, move.”

  “You’re not going this way,” said Andy.

  “No?” said Bertie. “Why not?”

  “Because this is our territory.”

  Bertie looked around. “Whose territory?”

  “Ours.” Andy grinned. “I have a gang now, too. All boys. This alley is our territory—and you’re in it.”

  8

  Bertie poked Andy in the chest. “I’ve been coming down this alley all my life, and I’m not gonna stop now. Especially not for you. Out of our way, armpit breath.”

  Much to her surprise, Andy stepped aside. “As you wish.” He even bowed.

  “Where’s your law now, hairball?” Bertie smirked.

  Andy merely smiled.

  Bertie, Amy, and Liz started walking—and found out why Andy was smiling. From the roofs of two garages, Andy’s gang—Itchy Mills and Noodles Overmeyer—began pelting them with water balloons.

  Within moments, the girls were soaking wet. The platform was a soggy, blurry mess in Bertie’s hand.

  Andy’s gang was racing away, leaving only their laughter behind.

  Bertie shook her fist. “Okay, Boyer! You asked for it! THIS IS WAR!”

  And war it was.

  Bertie, Amy, and Liz returned to their homes and changed into dry clothes. Then they met in Bertie’s bedroom. They planned their first move.

  That evening, while Andy Boyer was having dinner, they let the air out of his bicycle tires. Then they poured molasses over the seat.

  When Bertie awoke next morning and looked out the window, she found the backyard covered with clothespins.

  And so it went, day after day.

  Bertie’s gang left a chocolate cupcake with white icing on Noodles Overmeyer’s front steps. They rang the doorbell and hid behind a car to watch. They knew he would eat it. Noodles ate everything.

  Noodles did come out. And he did eat it—until he realized that the white icing was shaving cream.

  Andy’s gang ambushed Amy Moss on her way to the dentist. They grabbed her by the leg and pulled off one of her sneakers. Then they flung it into Finsterwald’s backyard, from which no kid had ever returned alive.

  Bertie’s gang pelted Andy Boyer’s front door with eggs.

  Andy’s gang pelted Bertie with eggs.

  Bertie’s gang, by mistake, pelted Andy’s father with eggs.

  The war raged on.

  Every time Bertie saw her best friend, Damaris Pickwell, she thought of what Damaris’s mother had said: One gang leads to another… and trouble starts.

  It looked as if Mrs. Pickwell had been right. And that meant Damaris would never be allowed to join.

  But Bertie had no time to worry about that. She was too busy with the war.

  And then one day it started to rain.

  9

  Boy, did it rain… and rain… and rain…

  The gangs stayed indoors. It was too wet to go to war.

  When the rain finally stopped, everyone’s mind was on one thing.

  “Mud!” shouted Bertie’s gang.

  “Mud!” shouted Andy’s gang.

  Kids raced to their rooms and changed into their bathing suits. Then they raced to the dead end of Oriole Street… across the tracks… across the path to the park… to the place known as the Mud Hole.

  To the kids of the West End, mud was summer snow.

  The best thing about the Mud Hole was that it was at the bottom of Mud Hill. One slide down Mud Hill, and you were hooked forever.

  By the time the gangs showed up, kids were already zooming down the hill.

  Some slid down on plastic snow coasters, some on trash-can covers, some on cookie pans.

  One kid came down hanging ten on a surfboard. And some sailed down on nothing but the backsides of their bathing suits.

  Even the Pickwells’ pet duck, Roscoe, came down. His webbed, orange feet made perfect mud skis.

  There was mud wooshing and mud squooshing… mud flopping and mud slopping… mud races and mud faces.

  Then someone shouted: “Mudball fight!”

  There were no sides. Everyone was so covered in mud, no one could tell who was who. So everybody flung mudballs at everybody else.

  When the party began to break up, one of the mud creatures called, in Damaris Pickwell’s voice: “Oriole and Chain Street kids, follow me! Ducks too!”

  A dozen kids marched up Rako Hill and into the Pickwells’ backyard. They were one motley, happy mob of mud-o-maniacs.

  Damaris turned on the garden hose. She squirted herself from head to toe till all the goo was gone.

  Then she aimed the hose at Roscoe, and Roscoe became a white duck again.

  Then she began hosing down the others
. One by one, as though the hose were painting them, kids appeared. Familiar faces. Familiar problems.

  Two of the mud creatures were having a laughing time finger-painting each other’s backs. Then the hose hit them, and they discovered who they were: Bertie Kidd and Andy Boyer. The laughing turned to name-calling.

  Two others were tickling each other when the hose water arrived. They turned out to be Amy Moss and Itchy Mills.

  They were two gangs again—insulting and mocking each other. Once again, war was on their minds.

  Suddenly, someone called out: “Look!”

  Everyone looked.

  Damaris was hosing off the final mud creature. The hose began at the creature’s feet and moved upward. By the time it reached the waist, it was clear that the body belonged to no kid anybody could recognize.

  Finally the face appeared from under the mud.

  Everyone gasped: “Granny!”

  10

  Granny was all wet and shiny in her yellow bathing suit.

  “Granny!” said Bertie. “What are you doing here?”

  “What’s it look like?” said Granny. “Getting my mud washed off.”

  “You were at the Mud Hole?”

  Granny grinned. “You think I’m gonna let you kids have all the fun?”

  Granny’s grin disappeared. “At least, I was having fun. Till you guys—”

  The two gangs—three boys and three girls—were off and fighting again. Shoving. Snarling. Shouting.

  But not louder than Granny shouted: “SHUT UP!”

  Six shouters shut up.

  Granny lowered her voice but spoke sternly. “Look at you. A disgrace. A bunch of hoodlums. You were nicer when you were covered with mud.” She shook her head sadly. “There’s only one thing left for me to do.”

  She started to walk away.

  “What?” the kids called. “What?”

  Granny stopped. She turned slowly. She gave a smug little smile. “I’m starting my own gang.”

  She walked away.

  The kids just stood there.

  It took about ten seconds for Granny’s words to sink in.

  It took another ten seconds to decide that she was serious.

  It took one second to realize this was the chance of a lifetime.

  And it took no time at all for the six of them to catch up to her.

  “Granny, I’ll join!”

  “Sign me up, Granny!”

  “Me, Granny!”

  “Me!”

  Granny waved her arms as though she were under attack by flies. “Quiet! Give me space. Back off.”

  The kids backed off.

  “Okay,” said Granny. “Here’s how it is. I am not having a one-sex gang.”

  She glared at Bertie. “Boys are people.”

  She glared at Andy. “Girls are people.”

  She glared at them all. “Either everybody joins my gang—or nobody joins. We’ll take a vote. Somebody bring me a watch.”

  Damaris dashed into the house and returned with a watch. Granny looked at it. “You have sixty seconds to decide.” She snapped her fingers. “Begin.”

  Granny stepped away. She turned her back on them.

  She waited. She could hear whispers. A squeak or two. Then silence.

  At sixty seconds, she turned. Six faces staring. No smiles. No frowns.

  What were they thinking?

  She took a deep breath. “Here’s the question. Everybody who wants to join my gang, raise your hand.”

  Six hands shot up.

  Granny threw her arms in the air. “All riiiight! Looks like we got ourselves a gang!”

  The kids mobbed her.

  11

  Two days later, Mrs. Pickwell was sorting sweaters in her thrift shop on Marshall Street. The doorbell jingled. In came Damaris and Bertie.

  “Mom, can I join a gang?” said Damaris.

  Mrs. Pickwell sighed. “I thought we went all over that.”

  “But this is a different gang, Mom. This one is better. This is a good gang.”

  “This is a great gang,” added Bertie.

  “Really?” said Mrs. Pickwell. “And what makes this gang so great?”

  “Well, for one thing,” said Bertie, “the captain.”

  Mrs. Pickwell grinned. “I suppose you mean yourself.”

  “Oh, no,” said Bertie. “We have a new captain. One of the most respectable people in town. Probably in the country. Would you like to meet her?”

  Mrs. Pickwell folded her arms. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Captain!” called Bertie. “You can come in now!”

  When the captain walked through the doorway, Mrs. Pickwell nearly choked.

  “Granny!”

  “In the flesh,” said the captain of the gang.

  Mrs. Pickwell looked at Damaris.

  “It’s true, Mom. Granny is in charge. It’s going to be the best gang ever. Can I join, Mom?”

  Before Mrs. Pickwell could answer, Granny took her by the hand and led her outside.

  The other members of the gang were standing around a pair of wagons. In the wagons were buckets of water, scrub brushes, soap, and piles of sponges.

  “This will be the gang’s main job,” Granny explained. “They go around selling baths for pets. I got the idea when I saw Roscoe the duck at the Mud Hole the other day.”

  Granny faced the kids. “And who are we?”

  The kids shouted as one: “The Bathwater Gang!”

  “See, Mom?” pleaded Damaris. “Gangs can be good. Can I join now?”

  Bertie unfolded a new copy of the gang’s platform. She showed it to Damaris’s mother. “This is what we stand for. You can tell it’s all good stuff. Look at numbers nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one.”

  Mrs. Pickwell looked. She read out loud, “Peace. Love. Flowers.” She burst out laughing. “Oh, all right—yes—yes.”

  The gang cheered.

  Granny clapped her hands. “Okay, you guys. Off you go. You have work to do.”

  Bertie said, “Aren’t you coming, Gran—uh, excuse me—Captain?”

  “Oh, no,” said Granny. “The captain doesn’t work. The captain bosses. Now git!”

  So off went the Bathwater Gang, in search of their first dirty dog… or crummy cat… or yucky ducky.

  For more great reads and free samplers, visit

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  JERRY SPINELLI is the author of over thirty immensely popular books for young readers, including Eggs; Stargirl; Space Station Seventh Grade; Newbery Honor Book Wringer; Maniac Magee, winner of more than fifteen state children’s book awards in addition to the Newbery Award; and the picture book I Can Be Anything! He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Eileen. His website is jerryspinelli.com.

  Also by Jerry Spinelli

  Eggs

  Maniac Magee

  Space Station Seventh Grade

  Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush

  Jason and Marceline

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Welcome

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Also by Jerry Spinelli

  Copyright

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1990 by Jerry Spinelli

  Illustrations copyright © 1990 by Meredith Johnson

  Cover art by Kevin O’Malley

  Cover © 2005 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  First ebook edition: July 2014

  ISBN 978-0-316-38148-2

  E3