A Case of the Meanies Page 2

  Most words I still don’t know. “How do you say ‘sit’?” I asked her.

  She said something that sounded like “Ah-see,” but since it was another language, I knew the spelling was probably different. “How do you spell it?” I asked.

  “A-S-S-I-S,” she said.

  I’d have to add that to the list I have at home–Stella’s French Words.

  “It must be hard to teach a dog to sit in TWO languages,” I said.

  “Not at all,” Evie said. “When I see her sitting, I say ‘sit’ and ‘assis.’ Then I give her a treat, so she knows she’s done something right.”

  Evie, her dad, and I walked up the path to apartment number 307—that’s where the Kings live. “Is Mum home?” Evie asked.

  Mr. King shook his head. “She had a trip today, remember?” Evie’s mom is a flight attendant. When she has trips, Mr. King takes care of Evie.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Bella!” Evie called.

  “Shh, honey, I told you she was sleeping,” Mr. King said.

  “But she always comes to greet me when I get home from school,” Evie said. “She smells me coming up the walkway because she has a particularly keen sense of smell.”

  Evie sometimes talks like a grownup. I think that happens when you’re from England, but I’m not sure because Evie’s the only kid I know who comes from there.

  “Also because she knows how much I miss her,” Evie continued.

  “Did you miss your old dad that much?” Mr. King asked.

  “Not quite as much,” Evie admitted. “Sorry Dad.”

  Here’s something funny: Evie says “Dad” just like American kids do, but she calls her mom “Mum.”

  “Oh, bother,” Mr. King said.

  “What?” Evie asked.

  “I just realized I forgot to fetch the mail. I’m expecting a work call in the next few minutes. Would you girls mind getting it?”

  We both shook our heads no.

  “Just don’t run out in the street.”

  “Duh,” Evie said.

  “That’s how you talk now that you’re in America?”

  “No, not really,” Evie said. “That’s just what a boy in school always says.”

  Inside, we could hear the phone start to ring. Mr. King handed Evie his mailbox key. The two of us headed back out.

  In Hilltop Acres, all the mailboxes for all the different apartments are in the same place, stacked one on top of the other. Like this.

  It’s a smart idea to have a key to open the mailbox, so no one can steal anything. At my house, our mailbox is at the end of the driveway, and it doesn’t have a key. Not that anyone has ever stolen our mail, but you never know.

  Evie inserted the key into the lock and opened the mailbox. She pulled out a bunch of envelopes and a magazine, and she handed it all over for me to hold while she locked the mailbox back up. I sorted things into size order: the magazine was biggest, then two white envelopes that looked like bills, and then a tiny blue envelope.

  Wait a second! The front of the blue envelope said: Miss Evie King. “You got something,” I told her.

  “My first mail in Somers!”

  “Did you get a lot of mail in England?” I asked.

  “No, just for my birthday and such things. I haven’t had a birthday since we’ve been here.”

  “Is it your birthday soon?” That’s the only time I get mail, too.

  “Not for months.”

  I handed it over. “Open it now,” I said.

  She did. Inside was a blue card with red letters:

  JOSHUA LEWIS IS TURNING NINE!

  Join the celebration at Batts Confections

  Friday, 4–6 p.m.

  Joshua Lewis is the same Joshua who’s in our class. I told Evie in case she didn’t know his last name.

  We walked up the sidewalk, back to her house. “You didn’t tell me he was having a party at your store,” she said.

  “I didn’t know,” I told her. How come Mom and Dad didn’t tell me? New rule: From now on, if anyone from my class wanted to have a party at the store, they had to tell me first.

  “That’s probably why he invited me,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I bet you’ll have the invitation waiting for you at home. He had to invite you, because it’s your store. Then he probably invited me because I’m your best friend.”

  Evie is really my second-best friend. Willa is my first-best friend—but she moved to Pennsylvania last month, so Evie is my best friend who lives in Somers.

  “But I don’t think he should get to have a party in your store since he’s a meanie,” Evie continued. “He made Asher feel bad about his dragon story.”

  “I’d rather read Asher’s story than Joshua’s,” I said.

  “Me too,” Evie agreed.

  We got back to number 307. When Evie pulled open the door, a little ball of marshmallow fluff fur popped out.

  “Bella!” I said. “You woke up!”

  “You see, she does smell me coming up the walkway,” Evie said. She reached down. But just as she was about to scoop Bella up, she ran off, a marshmallow streak down the steps, across the garden and straight out to the main sidewalk.

  Mr. King had told us to avoid the street. Now Bella was headed right toward it. What if she ran into the street and got hit by a car?

  “Bella!” we both called after her. “Bella, stop!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Stella Superhero

  We started to chase after her. She’s just a little pup, with eensy weensy little legs, like stumpy Tootsie Rolls, but she was running like she had long legs, like lollypop sticks, carrying her down the sidewalk, past the mailboxes.

  “Stop! Stop!” Evie called out.

  “Stop! Stop!” I echoed her.

  Two more steps, and Bella would be in the street. A red car turned at the corner. Oh no, oh no, OH NO!!! “Bella!” I shouted. “Sit! Assis!!!”

  In my head I thought, Please listen to me, Bella. Please! I wanted to click my heels like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and make a wish but there was no time.

  But then something amazing happened. Bella stopped right where she was. Evie reached her and scooped her up. She handed the mail and keys over to me, because her arms were full of puppy fluff. The red car zoomed past. “Oh, Bells, it’s okay. You’re safe and sound,” Evie said in her most reassuring voice. She lifted her hand to wipe a tear off her cheek.

  Bella didn’t look like she’d ever been worried that she wouldn’t be safe and sound.

  “Thank you, Stella,” Evie said. “You saved her life!”

  When we got back to the apartment, Evie gave Bella a treat so she’d know she did something right by sitting down at the curb, even though I thought Bella had probably forgotten all about it by then.

  “Girls,” Mr. King called. “You took quite a long time. I was just about to go looking for you.”

  “Bella got out,” Evie said, and she filled him in on all the rest of it.

  “Stella is quite handy to have around,” Mr. King said. “She rescued my keys from the truck when we first moved here, and she rescued the dog today. I can see it on the cover of a book—Stella Batts, Superhero!”

  “We’re writing books at school,” Evie told him. “Well, stories.”

  “Brilliant,” Mr. King said. “Tell me about them.”

  “Mine’s about my best friends’ birthday party—my two best friends, Sara and Tesa,” Evie said. “They’re twins, so they always have a party together. This year it was a going-away party for me too, at Buckingham Palace—that’s where the queen lives.”

  Oh my goodness, the palace where the queen lives! An actual, real-life palace!

  I’ve never been in a palace. At Batts Confections, we have one room made up to look like the dining room in a castle. I think palaces and castles are the same thing. But even so, all we have is one fake room.

  “Did you go to the palace a lot when you were in England? Did
you ever see the Crown Jewels?”

  We have candy Crown Jewels at our store—cookies in the shapes of crowns, with rock candies stuck on, meant to look like emeralds and rubies. They’re really cool, but I bet the real Crown Jewels are even better.

  “I’ve never actually been inside the palace,” Evie said.

  “But what about the party?”

  “It was at a pizza place called Da Mario’s, unfortunately.”

  “You love Da Mario’s,” Mr. King said.

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of ordinary for a story. I wanted things to be a bit more posh so I switched it up.”

  “So you changed the setting, but not the plot or the characters,” I said. See, Mrs. Finkel, I thought to myself. I know about story writing!

  “Precisely,” Evie said. “But I had to add a couple more characters, like Queen Elizabeth and her lady-in-waiting, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “I bet it was a much better party than Joshua’s party will be.”

  “What party?” Mr. King asked.

  “This boy in our class named Joshua is having a party at Stella’s candy shop.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Mr. King said.

  “Except he’s the class meanie,” I told him.

  “He’s done loads of mean things,” Evie added. “He calls her Smella.” She nodded toward me. I wish she hadn’t said that. Even though I’m pretty sure Mr. King knows I’m a clean, non-smelly girl. “And he calls out in class. When he gets caught, he puts his hand over his mouth, like this.” Evie smacked her hand on her mouth, just like Joshua.

  “Like he just started talking by accident,” I said, “even though you know it was on purpose.”

  “Yup,” Evie agreed, dropping her hand back down. “I think he should keep his hand over his mouth all day long. He can take it off just when he needs to eat.”

  “Or when he’s sleeping,” I said. “Because then he won’t be talking.”

  “Maybe he will be,” Evie said. “I’ve talked in my sleep before, right Dad?”

  “That’s right. Sometimes Mum and I go in to check on you and we can tell what you’re dreaming.”

  “But we’re not there when Joshua is sleeping so we wouldn’t have to listen to him,” I said.

  “He’ll definitely be talking at his own birthday party, though,” Evie said. “Saying all his mean meanie things. It won’t be fun at all.”

  “It sounds to me like you girls are being the meanies, just now,” Mr. King said.

  When he said that, my cheeks warmed up a little bit. I knew I was blushing—not the Hot-Tamales kind of blushing, but the pinkstick-of-bubblegum kind.

  “But Dad, you don’t understand,” Evie started.

  “I understand,” Mr. King said. “You’re saying this boy Joshua isn’t so pleasant to be around. But maybe he acts mean because he’s lonely.”

  “If he’s lonely, he should be nicer,” Evie said.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to be nice when you’re feeling bad,” Mr. King said. “Like when we first moved to Somers and you hadn’t met Stella yet. You were feeling lonely and that made you a bit cross with Mum and me. Remember that?”

  Evie nodded. “I remember.”

  I remembered it, too. She didn’t even want to be my friend.

  “But Joshua didn’t just move here,” Evie said.

  “There are all sorts of things to be lonely about,” Mr. King told her.

  “I suppose I should go to this party, then,” Evie said.

  “I suppose you should, sweets,” Mr. King said.

  “I should probably go too,” I said. “It is my store, and if I don’t go, it would be two wrongs not making a right—that’s what my friend Willa always says.”

  “Right on, girls,” Mr. King said. “Kill them with kindness, I always say.”

  Actually he didn’t say “Kill THEM with kindness.” He said “Kill ’EM with kindness.” He left off the “TH” sound, but I knew what he meant.

  “You don’t always say that,” Evie said. “And besides, we don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “It’s an expression. It means you should be extra kind, and maybe you’ll knock the mean part right out of him.”

  “Maybe,” Evie said. Though I wasn’t sure about that.

  The phone rang right then. This time it was my dad, calling to say he was on his way to pick me up.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Idea

  “It’s not fair!”

  Those were the first words I heard when Dad and I walked in the door. Can you guess who said them? If you said Penny, then you’d be right. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her.

  Dad had a bag from Batts Confections. It was silver, with BATTS CONFECTIONS in red letters. He put it down on the shelf in the front hall. That’s the same shelf where Mom puts the mail. I flipped through the pile, but there was only grownup stuff. That means bills, bills, bills.

  Dad and I were taking our shoes off, as we always do before we walk around the house, when Mom came out from the kitchen to say hello. “Where’s Pen?” Dad asked.

  “In her room, moping,” Mom said. “I think she’s a bit embarrassed.”

  “Have you been able to get the story out of her?” Dad asked.

  “Something about the baby,” Mom said. “I was just about to go check on her again.”

  “Wait, where’s the rest of the mail?” I asked.

  “That’s it, on the shelf.”

  “But I didn’t see Joshua’s birthday invitation. And how come you didn’t tell me he was having his party at the store, anyway?”

  “I didn’t schedule anything at the store for Joshua,” Dad said.

  “Oh, I did,” Mom said. “Sorry, hon. I’ve been pretty distracted with this baby stuff.”

  “Are you sure the invitation didn’t come? Evie got hers, and maybe you were distracted about the mail, too.”

  Mom shook her head. “That’s just the way of the post office. You can mail a stack of invitations, but if they’re all headed out to different places, sometimes they don’t get there at the exact same time. The party’s on Friday, right?”

  I nodded. “Evie and I don’t like him, but we decided we’ll go anyway.”

  Speaking of things I don’t like: “Something smells fishy,” I added.

  “I’m marinating the salmon,” Mom said. “It will be ready in an hour, along with asparagus and rice.”

  Here’s my plan for when I grow up. I’ll make dinners that are always delicious. Mondays will be spaghetti-and-meatball night, and my kids will be allowed to use as much shaky cheese as they want. The more cheese the better. In fact, everyone’ll have their own personal bottle of cheese. Tuesdays we’ll have hot dogs and French fries. Wednesdays can be shrimp, which is the only kind of seafood that I like to eat. And Thursdays … okay, I haven’t decided on the Thursday meal yet, or any of the rest of the days of the week. But I’ll write them down as soon as I figure it out.

  “I don’t really like salmon or asparagus,” I told Mom.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “That’s all we’ve got.”

  “But if you eat it, there’s a treat from the store in your future,” Dad added. “Stuart’s brainchild.”

  “Stuart’s what?”

  “Brainchild,” Dad said. “It’s another word for invention.”

  “Oh, I get it,” I said. “What kind of kid would your brain have? The invention kind!”

  “Exactly,” Dad said.

  “That’s a cool word,” I said. “What is his brainchild this time?”

  “If I tell you, it would ruin the surprise.”

  “I don’t need a surprise,” I said.

  “Oh really, so I should just give Penny both treats to eat?”

  “No!” I said. “I just mean if you tell me now, I’ll get to think about what the treat is and be excited for longer. But if you don’t tell me, maybe I’ll think it’s something I’m not in the mood for and I won’t even eat my salmon.”

 
; “That’s a good argument, Stella,” Dad said. “Perhaps you’ll be a lawyer when you grow up.”

  “No, I’m going to be a writer,” I reminded him. “Actually I have to write a story for school. But I don’t think Mrs. Finkel—”

  “I said it’s not fair!” Penny shouted again from her room, interrupting me.

  “Oh dear,” Mom said. “I’m going to try talking to her again.”

  “I’ll go,” Dad told her. “Stel, want to come with me? Maybe you can help cheer up your sister.”

  “I am NOT a baby,” Penny told us when we walked into her room. “Bruce is.”

  “I can’t believe you really stomped on his foot,” I said.

  “I don’t want to talk about him!” Penny yelled.

  “I’m not the one who brought him up,” I said.

  “Hey, darling,” Dad said. I knew he was talking to me and not Penny, since I’m the one he calls darling. “Why don’t you finish up your homework, and let me chat with Penny?”

  That’s the kind of question called rhetorical. You say it like this: reh-tor-i-cul. It means you don’t really have to answer the question, just do what I say.

  It was his idea for me to even be in Penny’s room, but I left the two of them alone, picked up my backpack from the front hall, and sat down at my desk.

  I had two different things to do for homework—the story list and the second half of a math worksheet.

  I pulled my list from my backpack and set it on my desk. Maybe if I stared at it long enough I’d be inspired.

  Stare. Stare. Stare.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Fine, I’d do the math sheet first.

  It was easy peasy lemon squeezy. So I was back to list-staring. Characters. Setting. Plot.

  It was fine the way it was. Mrs. Finkel didn’t know anything about writing books. I bet she hadn’t written three by the time she was eight years old. Maybe she hasn’t even written three books now, and she’s … well, I don’t know how old she is. That’s not something teachers tell you. But she’s definitely way older than eight!