Libby on Wednesday (2 page)

“Well,” Christopher said, “I don’t know. We promised your mother, you know. We promised that you’d attend public school. And you’ve been doing so well.”

Libby winced. She’d been afraid they’d say something like that. That someone would mention what a fine social adjustment she’d been making and how right her mother had been to insist that learning to get along with your peers was an important part of education.

“I know,” she said. “It was all Mercedes’ idea.” She tried to make her smile say that she was mature enough to be amused at her mother’s strange theories—theories that might be popular and perhaps even useful in New York City but had nothing to do with the life of Libby McCall of
Morrison, California. “I know,” she said again. “Because I needed to be socialized. Well, what I think is six months is long enough to socialize anyone, especially a person who is a fast learner. You’ve always said I was a fast learner. What I think is that I’ve finished the course. I’m as socialized as I’m ever going to be—at least by Morrison Middle School.”

“Libby, I’m getting an impression that …” On the other side of the table Elliott was leaning forward, his long, narrow face crinkling with concern, and his sloping, exclamation-mark eyebrows quivering the way they always did when he was worried. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment as if he were trying to read her mind and then went on. “I’m getting a strong impression that …” He paused again, sniffed the air like a bird dog, and suddenly dashed from the room.

As Elliott rushed toward the kitchen door, he startled the cats, who stopped in mid-lick and scattered—Goliath under Gillian’s chair; Salome and Isadora under the sideboard; and Ariel, as usual, straight up. Racing up the heavy old velvet draperies, already frazzled by frequent high-speed escapes from many other real or pretend dangers, she peered over the edge of the valance with her astonishing Abyssinian eyes. Everyone except Cordelia laughed. Elliott, who also worried about such things as the frazzling of draperies, might not have either, but he was in the kitchen, so the laughter was almost unanimous.

For a moment Libby felt better than she had since early that morning, but the heavy weight of gloom returned quickly. The others’ smiles faded quickly, too, and Christopher, Gillian, and Cordelia went back to worried frowns and expectant glances at the kitchen door. They were obviously
counting on Elliott to solve the problem in the kitchen and come back and solve Libby’s, whatever it might be.

For almost as long as Libby could remember, everyone had counted on Elliott Garner to take care of problems that shouldn’t really have been his responsibility. Elliott’s only real responsibility should have been managing his bookstore, but here in the McCall House, as people called it—the shabby, rundown, silly old McCall mansion—he’d somehow gotten stuck with managing the kitchen and laundry and Christopher’s bank account, and just about everything else one might mention.

Christopher called Elliott his agent and manager, and Gillian called him an angel sent from heaven to save the McCalls from bankruptcy, squalor, and chronic indigestion. Cordelia, of course, wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about Elliott, but then Cordelia made it a point never to be enthusiastic about the same things as her sister. What she called Elliott was “The Man Who Came to Dinner,” which meant, of course, that he’d come on a visit and forgotten to leave. Of course Cordelia was a fine one to talk, since she’d done pretty much the same thing, but then she was a relative, and that, according to Cordelia, entitled her to make long-term—or even permanent—visits.

Now they were obviously counting on Elliott to find out why Libby suddenly wanted to quit school. He’d solved so many of her previous problems. He was, for one thing, a marvelous math and science teacher, subjects for which no one else in the family had any particular aptitude. And for another, he was a talented builder and repairman.

Over the years he had repaired any number of things of importance to Libby, delicate old things mostly, from her
grandfather’s collections—such as music boxes, cuckoo clocks, and all kinds of fragile antique toys. Not to mention the most important of all—the Treehouse, the incredible, incomparable Treehouse that had once been Christopher’s but now was the private and exclusive property of Libby herself.

Over the years it had been Elliott’s repair work that had kept the Treehouse safe and sound and usable, and Libby would always be grateful to him for that. But not even Elliott would be able to repair the damage that had been done at Morrison Middle School—even though the rest of the family was obviously expecting him to try.

“Libby dear,” Elliott began again when he finally returned to the table with a bowl of slightly scorched gravy and Gillian’s cats had crept out from under chairs and tables. “I have the feeling something must have gone wrong at school today. Was it something about the visiting author? Did it have something to do with meeting Arnold Axminster?”

Libby looked up quickly. It had been at least a month since she’d told them that Arnold Axminster, one of her favorite authors, was going to be visiting Morrison Middle School. She’d only mentioned it once, briefly, and since that time she deliberately hadn’t said anything more. Leave it to Elliott to remember.

Until that moment she hadn’t meant to tell them everything. Or anything, really. She’d counted on their letting her quit school simply because, as far as they knew, there wasn’t any good reason not to. Because she had been sent to public school for a particular purpose, and as far as they knew that purpose had been achieved. But now Elliott’s unexpected
question suggested a new possibility—a way of convincing them without actually giving away the whole truth.

“Yes, you guessed it, Elliott. Something terrible happened today, and it was all Arnold Axminster’s fault.”

They stared at her, at each other, and back again, their eyes saying, “How dreadful. How shocking. Whatever can it mean? What can it mean, Elliott?”

It was Cordelia who spoke first. “Whatever do you mean, Libby?”

Libby made her face into a tragic mask, banishing the dimples and pulling down the corners of her mouth. “I mean,” she said, “that Mr. Arnold Axminster, the famous writer, visited Morrison Middle School today and did something that will probably ruin my entire future existence.”

She paused and checked the effect. Christopher and Elliott looked bewildered and worried. Gillian, who couldn’t help loving a good tragedy, even her own granddaughter’s, looked mostly excited. And Cordelia looked scandalized. Cordelia was easy to scandalize.

Libby allowed herself a sad little smile—sad but hopeful. “My entire future,” she repeated, “ruined! Unless, of course, I’m allowed to quit school.”

    2

“It’s really ironic,” she told them. (
Ironic
, a word she no longer used at school, had long been a favorite at home.) “I was
so
excited when I heard that he was coming—that Arnold Axminster was actually coming to Morrison Middle School in person. You know how many of his books I’ve read, and when I found out I was going to get to see him in person, I was really thrilled. And then he goes and ruins my life. Don’t you think that’s ironic?”

“Yes,” everybody said. “Yes, yes. Ironic. But what happened? What exactly happened, Libby?” They were all listening carefully now. All four of them had pushed aside their plates and were leaning forward across the table.

Libby considered for a moment. How much could she tell without including the part that would give everything away? Tucking her hair behind her ears with both hands, she took a deep breath and began. “It all happened because of the Literary Festival. I didn’t tell you about the Literary Festival because—well, just because. But anyway, that was why Arnold Axminster was asked to come to the school.”

“Libby!” Cordelia broke in. “What happened? Don’t drag it out so. What did that man do? Tell us!”

“
AUNT
Cordelia,” Libby said, which was an ironical way of pointing out that nobody else in the McCall household cared about titles. Certainly Christopher never insisted on being called Father, and Gillian said that
grandmother
was a generic label instead of an individual’s name and she preferred to be an individual. But Cordelia thought titles were important, so Libby called her AUNT, or even GREAT-AUNT, when she was being particularly Cordeliaish. “
AUNT
Cordelia,” she said again. “I
am
telling you. I didn’t want to tell anybody, but if I must go into it, I have to tell it right—the way it all happened.”

“Leave the child alone, Cordelia,” Gillian said. “She’s a McCall, and she has to tell a story in the proper order. It’s in her blood.”

“So,” Libby went on, “the other part of the Literary Festival was the writing contest and—”

“A writing contest?” they said. “Why didn’t you tell us? Did you enter something? You won, didn’t you? You must have won.”

She knew that would be their reaction—the family would take it for granted that the granddaughter of Graham and the daughter of Christopher McCall would write a hundred times better than anyone else at Morrison Middle School. She waited patiently for the uproar to die down. “
That
,” she told them, “is exactly why I didn’t tell you. You would have insisted that I enter one of my stories, and I didn’t want to. At least I didn’t want to at first. Well, actually I never wanted to, but Ms. Ostrowski kept after me and
after me until I finally said I would. So at the last minute I entered a chapter of
Rainbow in the Dust
.”

“I quite understand,” Elliott said. “I understand why you didn’t want to tell us. I suppose that you were afraid that you might not win and that we might be disappointed. I imagine that—”

“No,” Libby interrupted. “That wasn’t it. What I was afraid of was that I
might
win.” She looked at her father.

Christopher was nodding. Libby watched him as she went on. Her father was an extremely private person and a poet besides. If anyone could understand how she felt, it would be he. “I might win, and if I did, I might have to get up on the stage in front of everyone, and maybe I’d even have to read some of my story out loud and …” Christopher shuddered. Libby had known he would understand.

“You see how it was?” she said. “But then Ms. Ostrowski kept asking me, and finally I decided I would enter something. What I was thinking was that if I did win, I could always pretend I was sick on the day of the festival so I wouldn’t have to do all the …” She shrugged. “You know. All the ribbons and prizes and …” A grin oozed out through her tragic mask. Jumping up onto her chair, she bowed grandly to right and left. “Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen and boys and girls, for this great honor. I don’t know why I’m thanking you because you didn’t have anything to do with it, and you probably hate me because I won a prize and you didn’t, but winners are always supposed to get up in front of everybody and say stupid things, so thanks again, and—help! Let me out of here!” Making a terror-stricken face, she bowed again hastily, jumped down, and dashed toward the door.

They all laughed and they were still smiling when Libby came back to her chair. For a moment she smiled back—ruefully. A rueful smile was the best she could do under the circumstances. Their laughter certainly didn’t change anything. She’d always acted things out for them—a tendency she’d no doubt inherited from her actress mother—and they were always an enthusiastic audience. But at the moment even a standing ovation on their part wouldn’t have made her feel much better.

“So,” she said, “that was that! Except for deciding whether to have food poisoning or just a terrible headache on the big day. But then, when I hadn’t heard anything by yesterday, I asked Ms. Ostrowski and she said she wasn’t on the judging committee but she’d heard that the winners had been chosen and notified already. So I was sure I hadn’t won. And so, since I really did want to see what Arnold Axminster looked like, I decided not to be sick today after all and—”

“What did he look like?” Gillian asked.

“Look like?” Libby had to think for a moment. “Tall. Tall, with a wide face and shaggy eyebrows. And lots of wavy white hair.”

“Umm,” Gillian nodded approvingly. “A handsome man. Writers are always beautiful men.”

“And he gave a talk during assembly,” Libby went on, “a talk about writing and his books, and then Mr. Shoe-maker asked him to read the names of the winners of the writers’ contest, and I was sure it would be all right because I thought all the winners had been notified. And then …” Libby paused dramatically and they all leaned forward.
“And then Arnold Axminster read, ‘First prize—
Rainbow in the Dust
, by Elizabeth McCall.’ ”

Gillian and Elliott looked delighted, and Christopher smiled cautiously, holding back until he knew how it all turned out. But Cordelia was angry. “Well,” she said, “Elizabeth Portia McCall, you should be ashamed of yourself, worrying us all for no reason.” She lifted her chin high and began rearranging her hairdo, pulling pins out of the long braids coiled at the back of her neck and stabbing them back in fiercely. “You’re telling us that your life was ruined by having to stand up in front of your classmates to accept a prize. Just another example of McCall artistic temperament, I suppose. Well, what I think is—”