Mitch and Amy (2 page)

The two boys coasted to a stop at the curb beside Mitchell. “Hi there, kid,” said Alan.

“Hi.” Mitchell did not much care to be called
kid
by a boy who was only one grade ahead of him in school.

“Look at his little skateboard,” scoffed Dwight, who was noted not only for his battery-powered eraser, but for the number of times he had been sent to the principal's office.

“Did you build it all by yourself?” Alan wanted to know. Mitchell could see he was trying to act big because he was with a junior-high-school boy.

“I have a boughten one at home,” said
Mitchell, indignant at the way he was being treated. “I just wanted to see if I could make one that would work.”

“I bet,” said Alan.

Mitchell's stomach suddenly tightened as if it were clenched into a fist. “Well, I do have a real one at home,” he said defiantly.

No one spoke for a moment. Dwight pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, tapped it on his wrist, and stuck one end into his mouth.

Mitchell watched, fascinated. “You're not old enough to smoke,” he said.

“Who says so?” Dwight squinted as he struck a match and held it to his cigarette.

“Yes, who says so?” echoed Alan.

Mitchell did not answer. If Dwight was stupid enough to smoke, that was his business. Mitchell only wished he would go someplace else to do it and stop spoiling his fun.

Dwight flicked out the match and took
a deep puff on the cigarette. Mitchell could not help watching while Dwight's face grew red, his eyes watered, he spluttered, and was finally forced to give in to an embarrassing fit of coughing.

Mitchell managed not to laugh out loud, but he could not keep the corners of his mouth from quirking. Old Dwight wasn't as big as he thought he was. One puff and he was practically choking to death. Another puff would probably make him sick, but after all that gasping and coughing he wouldn't dare try a second puff.

“What's so funny?” demanded Alan, embarrassed and angry because the boy he had been imitating looked ridiculous.

“Old Dwight,” said Mitchell. “That's what's funny.”

Dwight struggled for breath, which seemed to make Alan madder. Before Mitchell realized what the other boy was doing, Alan had picked up the homemade
skateboard and was pounding it with all his strength against the bus-stop sign. There was a sound of splintering wood and another fit of coughing from Dwight.

“You cut that out!” yelled Mitchell, making a lunge for Alan. He did not care if Alan was bigger. He was not going to get away with wrecking the skateboard Mitchell had worked so hard to build. His fingers clutched at Alan's T-shirt.

Alan shook him off. The skateboard split and one of the skate halves fell to the sidewalk. Before Mitchell could get his hands on the skate, Alan had it and was beating it on the concrete until it was bent and twisted out of shape. Then Alan turned on Mitchell with menace on his face. “Start running,” he ordered.

Furious, Mitchell faced the two older boys with his fists clenched. Who did they think they were, pounding up his skate that
way and then giving him orders?

“You heard him,” said Dwight, finally able to speak. “Start running.”

Mitchell did not move, and the two boys stepped forward. “Now,” said Alan. “
N-o-w
. Now.”

A lot of thoughts seethed through Mitchell's mind—he did not like to be spelled at. Alan and Dwight weren't fair. They had no right to gang up on him this way. They were two against one, and both boys were bigger. Mitchell realized there was only one decision he could make and that he had to make it now. He turned and ran.

The bent skate half came flying past. The splintered board with the other half skate still attached to it hit Mitchell's back. Mitchell paused long enough to scoop up the remains of his skateboard before he ran up the hill toward home. He twisted his ankle on the gravel at the edge of the road where the sidewalk ended and behind him
he could hear the boys laughing.

Mitchell held back tears of humiliation, but he could not keep his heart from pounding with exertion and fury. Let them laugh. They were just a couple of no-good bullies. Who did they think they were anyway, a couple of characters on some TV program? Well, they weren't. They were plain old boys even if one did go to junior high and the other had a famous father. Mitchell stopped running and dragged himself on up the hill, lugging his broken skateboard. His back hurt where the board had hit him, and he felt hot and sweaty as he plodded up his steep driveway. Hot, sweaty, and defeated. His day was spoiled. His whole school year was spoiled. Dwight would be going down the hill to junior high school, but Mitchell would have to see Alan every day at school, sometimes even on the way to school, and he would always know, and Alan would always know, that Mitchell had turned and run.

The knowledge that running was the only thing he could have done did not help Mitchell much. I'll get Alan for this, he thought, but he did not really believe what he was thinking. Alan was older and Alan was bigger. There was not much Mitchell could do to him.

Mitchell paused for breath and looked up the driveway at his redwood-and-glass house under the eucalyptus trees. He tried to catch sight of Amy and Marla, but the big windows only gave back the reflection of blue sky and eucalyptus leaves turning and fluttering in the breeze. He hoped the girls had gone to Marla's house to play, because he did not want them to see him come dragging home with his broken skateboard in his hands.

A
my had not made a real wish at all. When Mitchell had blown away her first wish, she had been standing with her eyes closed trying to decide which of several wishes to choose—something with whipped cream on it for dessert, lots of birthday-party invitations in the fourth grade, or the president of the United States abolishing the multiplication tables.

On the second dandelion Amy had simply
wished that Mitchell would not blow off the dandelion fluff before she blew it off herself, and this wish she felt did not count.

“What are you going to wear the first day of school?” asked Marla Brodsky. “If it isn't too hot, I'm going to wear my new pleated skirt.”

“Me too,” agreed Amy. “Mom says it is too long, but I like it that way. It makes me feel like a ten-year-old.”

“Are you and Mitch going to be in the same class in the fourth grade?” Marla asked, as the two girls went into the house.

“They won't let us,” answered Amy. “They say twins should be separated. We haven't been in the same class since kindergarten.” By “they” Amy meant parents, teachers, and Mr. Greer, the principal.

“Aren't you glad?” Marla asked. “I wouldn't want to be in the same class with my brother if I had a brother.”

“Um…not exactly, I guess. It's sort of fun
to have people talk about the Huff twins.” And it was, but there was another side to being a twin that Amy sometimes thought about when she and Mitchell had a fight. As long as she could remember her brother had always been there sharing birthdays and parents and all the important things. While Amy would much rather be a twin than not be a twin, still, there were times when she wished she could have everything to herself for a little while without feeling she had to keep ahead of her brother.

“It's funny, I used to think twins would be alike,” remarked Marla. “You and Mitch are so different. You're always reading, and Mitch is always running and jumping around.”

“That's because we're not identical,” Amy explained, leading the way into her untidy room. She had put her cello under her bed where no one could step on it and where her mother would not see it and remind her to
practice, but her desk and dresser were cluttered with sewing things, stuffed animals, books, crayons, and parts of a doll's blue-willow tea set. The floor was strewn with bright snips of origami paper, a crumpled drawing, and one dirty sock, which Amy now shoved under the bed with her foot.

“You're lucky,” said Marla. “My mother makes me pick up my room every single day.”

“My mother says she gets tired of nagging,” said Amy. Mrs. Huff said Amy's room was as untidy as a mouse nest, but Amy was old enough to take care of it herself. Amy enjoyed the idea of living in a mouse nest and so the state of her room did not bother her. It only bothered her mother.

Marla went over to Amy's bulletin board to look at the calendar on which Amy always recorded important events. On the square for September first she had written “106 days to Christmas” in red. On September
second, “Today I read a good book.” September third was important because “We had Jell-O with whipped cream.”

Out in the living room a man spoke in a calm, even voice. “Pages two hundred eleven to two hundred nineteen. Black-capped chickadee,” he said.

“Who's that?” Marla asked, startled because Mrs. Huff had been alone when they entered the house.

“Chick-a-dee-dee. Chick-a-dee-dee. Fee-bee. Fee-bee.”
A bird twittered in the living room.

“That's just Mom's birdcall records,” explained Amy. “She's nearsighted for a bird-watcher so she's trying to identify birds by learning their calls from phonograph records.”

“Mountain chickadee,” announced the man's voice.

“Fee-fee-fee. Tsick-a-zee-zee,”
said the bird.

“It sounds as if there are real birds in the
living room,” said Marla.

“I know. That's what the cat next door thought at first,” said Amy. “What shall we play?”

“Dress-up,” answered Marla promptly. “Let's pretend we're pioneers.”

“Yes, let's,” agreed Amy. Marla always wanted to do the right things at the right times. Some girls would have wanted to watch Mitchell road test his skateboard, but not Marla. Marla liked to read old-fashioned stories about pioneer hardships, too, and she was always ready to pretend.

Amy opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, which was spilling over with dress-up clothes her mother had collected for her, a gleaming, shimmering jumble of satins, taffetas, velvets, and chiffons in rainbow colors.

Marla picked out a pink chiffon bridesmaid dress, looked at it critically, and asked, “Don't you have any old calico dresses?
Pioneer girls didn't wear slithering things like this.”

“Nobody has calico dresses anymore,” Amy pointed out. “I'm not even sure what calico looks like.”

“I know, but silks—” Marla's voice trailed off wistfully.

Out in the living room the man's voice spoke calmly, as if he had never been sad or angry in his life. “Curve-billed thrasher,” he said.

A bird obediently answered,
“Whit-wheet! Whit-wheet!”

Amy knew what Marla meant. The dresses that Mrs. Huff had saved or collected from friends or bought from the Goodwill for Amy were perfect for princesses but not for pioneers. “Oh well,” said Amy. “Come on. We can pretend they are calico.” If they were going to pretend, they might as well really pretend. “Dibs on being Laura.”

“Okay,” agreed Marla. “I'll be Mary.”
Laura and Mary were characters in the Little House stories, the girls' favorite books, about the pioneer adventures of Laura Ingalls and her family. Marla pawed through the pile of dress-up clothes and dragged out the plainest dress she could find, a pale blue chiffon evening gown. “Let's have hardships. Let's pretend there's a blizzard.”

Amy pulled a raspberry-colored satin dress over her head and groped for the sleeves. “Zip me up the back,” she said, when she found them. “And let's pretend our father has gone to town to buy supplies. That gets him out of the way.”

Marla zipped up Amy's dress. “How will we get rid of our mother?” The first rule in any game of pretend was to get rid of parents as soon as possible. Have them die of pneumonia, let Indians shoot them with bows and arrows, but get rid of them.

“She could go out into the blizzard to take care of the animals—”

“No, that wouldn't really get rid of her,” objected Marla. “She would tie a rope from the house to the barn and follow it back so she wouldn't lose her way. We'll have to think of something else.”

Amy thought a moment. How could they get rid of their mother? “We could have her away taking care of a sick neighbor, and we are all alone in the house with the baby—” She picked up her Pooh bear and wrapped it in a doll blanket. “Here's the baby—”

“And let's make it that the snow is up to the roof—”

“And blowing through the chinks—”

“And the wolves are howling outside—”

“And we are just about out of food—”

“There's nothing left but a little cornmeal—”

“Which we have to cook in the fireplace—the space under my desk can be the fireplace—”

“And the baby is crying—wah-wah, that's the baby crying.”

“And let's make it that we are out of wood—”

“And have to chop up the chairs—”

“So we won't freeze to death—”

“What will we use for chairs?”

Amy thought a moment. What could they use for chairs? “I know! We can roll up newspapers and pretend they are pieces of broken-up chairs.”

Marla nodded. “And we can hear the wolves coming closer—”

“And we are afraid Father is lost in the blizzard—”

“Or devoured by wolves—” Both girls ran out of breath and ideas at the same time.

In the living room the man on the record spoke in the even voice that sounded as if he had never hit his sister or yelled at a ball game, “Hermit thrush.”

“Tuk-tuk-tuk,”
answered the hermit thrush.

“What about Indians?” asked Amy.

“Not in a blizzard,” said Marla. “Just wolves.”

Amy had another idea. “I think we should be wearing aprons. Pioneer girls were always wearing aprons. Clean ones. Come on, let's get some of Mom's.”

Holding up their silken skirts so they wouldn't trip, Amy and her friend trailed into the living room where Mrs. Huff looked up from her
Field Guide to Western Birds
, which she was studying along with the record of birdcalls.

“We're going to borrow a couple of aprons,” Amy explained. “We're playing we're pioneer girls enduring hardships.”

“In those dresses?” Mrs. Huff looked amused.

“We're pretending they are calico,”
explained Amy. “They are all we have to dress up in. Nobody wears calico anymore.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Huff. “You could hardly be pioneer girls in your mother's old slacks.”

“Come on, Marla, let's find the aprons.” Amy pulled two aprons out of a drawer in the kitchen and handed one to Marla, who put it on over her chiffon evening gown, but somehow, now that they had left the bedroom and had spoken to Mrs. Huff, the spell was broken. The game of pretend no longer seemed urgent. “I suppose we should cook something, especially since we're burning up the chairs,” said Amy.

“Some cornmeal mush or something,” agreed Marla.

“Maybe we could really cook something.” Amy cooked at every opportunity and was particularly good at making French toast.

“Yes, let's cook something and pretend it's
cornmeal mush.” Marla was as enthusiastic about cooking as Amy, although her mother did not often permit her to make a mess in the kitchen.

The birdcall record had come to an end, and Mrs. Huff had overheard the conversation. “You may make some instant pudding if you like,” she said. “There's a package in the cupboard with the canned goods. Lemon-flavored, I think, so it will at least be yellow like cornmeal mush.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Amy found the package of pudding mix and removed the plastic cover from the electric mixer, explaining, “I know pioneers didn't have one of these, but I love to use the mixer.”

“So do I,” agreed Marla.

Outside the kitchen door Amy heard the sound of a skate being thrown down on the concrete patio, and then she saw Mitchell, sweaty, red-faced, and cross, come through the back door. He glared at her and
demanded, “How come you always get to use the electric mixer?”

Amy had not forgotten the dandelion fluff Mitchell had blown away before she could make a wish. “Because I'm a girl, that's why,” she answered. “I bet you're cross because your old skateboard wouldn't work. It probably fell apart the minute you started downhill.”

“It did too work! It worked just fine.” Mitchell was furious. He stood there with his fists clenched and one lock of hair, the one he never could slick down, standing straight up on the crown of his head. His shirttail was hanging out. Mitchell never could remember to tuck in the back of his shirt.

Amy knew that as much as her brother liked motors, his anger was not caused by her getting to use the electric mixer. Something had happened to Mitchell while he was road testing his skateboard.

At that point Mrs. Huff came into the
kitchen. “Why, Mitchell!” she exclaimed, seeing his red face and his scowl. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Mitchell ferociously. “Why is everybody picking on me?”

“Nobody is picking on you,” said Mrs. Huff. “Something is the matter or you wouldn't be acting this way, but, if you don't
want to tell us, you don't have to.”

Amy saw anger drain out of Mitchell's face but hurt remain. Now she understood that something had hurt her brother's feelings and without even knowing what it was, she felt indignant. How dare anyone hurt Mitchell's feelings!