CHAPTER 4

What’s a Reuben?

I was hoping to spend my last day of summer vacation with Amber, Phoebe, and Eleanor, but now that they believe nothing weird is going on with my family, I don’t want to mess things up. If I ask them to meet me at the library, Mom might say something to give away my secret. If I bike to the park with them, or we meet up at Large Marge’s for ice cream, they might ask more questions that are hard to answer. Then I’ll have to think up more lies. It’s better to hang out alone.

While Mom gets the library in order the next morning, I start building a book nook out of chairs and carts. Book nook is what G-ma called the little shelters I built when I was staying at her house this summer. She let me drape blankets over tables and chairs, then I’d crawl inside and read books, or draw pictures, or just lie there with my eyes closed, and pretend it was a boat, or a cave, or a spaceship that could fly a million light-years away. Anything could happen. Storms. Creepy bug invasions. Alien attacks. But one thing never changed. I was always the girl who saved the day. Mom said I can build a book nook here as long as the library isn’t busy.

I settle in, pulling books and art supplies from my backpack. Just as I open my sketchpad to a blank page, the library’s front door opens. I look up, hoping to see Dad walk in. He’s always hanging around town, getting supplies or meeting with people who have broken windows and leaky roofs.

But it’s not Dad.

It’s that new girl. Marianna Van Den Whoville.

She pauses in the doorway and adjusts the tote bag that’s hanging from her elbow. “Oh. Em. Gee,” she says as she looks the place over. Based on the way she wrinkles up her nose, I’m guessing she isn’t impressed with the Oak Hill Public Library.

Good. Maybe she won’t stick around.

I duck down in my book nook, watching as she marches up to Mom’s desk, tote bag swinging. She rings the little bell, even though Mom is sitting right there. “Excuse me,” she says, tapping the bell again. “I am Marianna Van Den Heuval, and I would like to purchase a library card.”

Mom stops typing and looks up from her computer. “Good morning, Marianna Van Den Heuval,” she replies, propping her glasses on top of her head. “Welcome to the Oak Hill Public Library. I’m afraid we don’t sell library cards here.”

Marianna blinks. “What do you mean? I have plenty of money.” She opens her tote bag and pulls out a beaded coin purse. “If this isn’t enough, I can get more.”

She unzips the coin purse and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills. “You don’t understand, Marianna,” Mom says. “Library cards are free.”

Marianna crinkles her eyebrows. “Free? For reals?”

“I’m quite serious,” Mom says, opening a desk drawer. “All I need is a parent’s signature.” She takes out a form and looks toward the library entrance. “Are your parents here?”

Marianna shakes her head. “My parents are in Seattle. My stepdad is in charge of me until my mother gets here. We just moved into the ginormous house around the corner. The one that’s as big as a castle? I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s got a cul-de-sac and everything. Do you know what cul-de-sac means? It’s French for circle.”

“How nice,” Mom replies. “Take this form home and ask your stepfather to sign it. You’ll have to wait until he returns it to me, before you may check out books.”

“But I need a book about orcas now. I’m going to surprise my teacher with a book report on the first day of school, which, in case you haven’t heard, is tomorrow?” She lifts her tote bag and shows Mom a black-and-white whale printed on it. “Orcas are my best subject. But all my books are still in boxes, so I have to get one here.”

Mom smiles patiently. Then she calmly explains the rules about permission forms, and using our quiet voices in the library. She puts on her glasses again and brings up a new screen on her computer. “We have several books on orcas . . .”

While Mom searches the library’s catalog, and Marianna waits, I think about her plan to write a book report for the first day of school. Ms. Little might give Marianna extra credit for an unassigned book report. She might even tack the report to the blue bulletin board by her desk. I noticed it at Family Night. The words We’re Up to Something Big! were stapled across the top of it. Ms. Little might even nominate Marianna for Oak Hill Elementary’s Student of the Week! I’ve been nominated for Student of the Week four times so far, but never on the first day of school.

“. . . and here’s a happy coincidence,” Mom says, her crisp librarian voice skipping past Marianna’s wooden frown. “Wren is here too.”

“What’s a wren?”

“Wren is my daughter,” Mom replies, looking toward me.

I sink down.

But Marianna sees me anyway. “Oh,” she says, her voice as dull as safety scissors. “It’s you again. Hello, Tweety.”

I paste on a fake-friendly smile. “Hello, Mar-iguana,” I reply.

Marianna’s eyes flash at me.

So do Mom’s. She stands up, straightens her blazer, then steps out from behind her desk. “I’ll find a selection of orca books for you, Marianna,” she says, nudging her toward me. “You may read them here.” Then she disappears between the bookshelves.

Marianna stuffs her money back inside her tote bag. She gives my book nook the once-over. “What’s this supposed to be? Your playhouse?”

“No,” I reply. “It’s called a book nook.”

Marianna sniffs, unimpressed. She looks at the pile of chapter books sitting next to me. At my sketchpad. At the pens and markers scattered around. Sniff-sniff-sniff.

Maybe she has allergies. I hope she’s allergic to me.

She picks up my sketchpad and flips through a few pages before tossing it aside again. “I draw too,” she says, moving a book cart and sitting down across from me. “My mother is a real artist. As soon as she finishes her last big project in Seattle, she’s moving here with Reuben and me. It will be any day now.”

“What’s a reuben?” I ask.

Marianna purses her lips. “Reuben is my stepdad.”

“Oh,” I say. “I thought it was a sandwich.”

Marianna rolls her eyes at my joke, then takes one of my purple gel pens and starts doodling on her hand. “He and my mom got married this spring. Are your parents still married?”

I stiffen.

Marianna looks up.

“Mmm-hmm,” I say, which feels like a smaller lie than Yes.

“My parents got divorced ages ago,” Marianna says, going back to her doodle. She blows on the purple ink, then switches to orange.

I stretch my neck, trying to see the design that’s taking shape on her hand. It looks like two tadpoles—one purple, one orange—curled up together inside a circle. But they don’t look like real tadpoles, which are a muddy brown color and shaped like a blob. Her tadpoles are more like commas in a story. She’s really good at decorating them with tiny swirls and delicate curlicues, like lace, or window frost in the winter.

“It’s called yin-yang,” Marianna says, glancing up.

I sit back.

“Ever heard of it?”

“No,” I say truthfully.

Marianna sniffs. “I didn’t think so. No offense, but you don’t seem like the kind of girl who would know much about balance and wholeness and stuff. My friends and I draw yin-yang all the time.” She drops the gel pen and leans against a book cart, stretching out her legs. “I have five best friends in Seattle. How many do you have?”

“Just one,” I reply. “Amber.”

Marianna sits up again. “For reals? Am is your BFF?”

“Yes,” I reply, even though it doesn’t feel exactly true. Since getting back home, everything feels different with my family and with Amber. “We’ve been best friends forever.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“Why is that weird?”

Marianna shrugs. “It’s just, Am didn’t say anything about you being best friends. Where I come from, that’s the first thing we tell people. What about that other girl? The one who almost spilled punch on me.”

“Ruby Olson? She’s just in my class.”

Marianna frowns. “Huh. Weird,” she says again.

“Now what?” I ask.

“Calm down, Tweety,” Marianna says. “It’s just, if I had to friend you with someone, it would be Ruby Red Punch, not Am.”

The way Marianna says it makes my arm hairs bristle. We only met yesterday. She doesn’t know anything about me or my friends. “No offense, but the French word for circle is cercle, not cul-de-sac.”

Marianna narrows her eyes. “How would you know?”

“I read books,” I say. “Have you ever read an actual book?”

Her nostrils flare. She flicks back her ponytail. “I was the best reader at my old school.”

I smile. “The best reader at your new school is me.”

Marianna smirks. “Prove it.”

“I won the Old Hill Public Library reading trophy two summers in a row. I would have won this summer too, if I hadn’t had to stay with my grandpar—if I hadn’t gone on vacation.”

Marianna barks a laugh. “Of course you won! Your mother is the librarian.”

I squint. “I won fair and square.”

Marianna sniffs.

Mom returns with a bunch of books in the crook of her arm. She crouches down, showing them to Marianna. “This one has exceptional photographs,” Mom says, holding out a picture book about whales to Marianna.

Marianna purses her lips like a sea turtle. “I read novels now.”

Mom nudges the picture book into Marianna’s hands. “Big things come in small packages,” she tells her. It makes me think of the last time Amber and I played birthday party. We wrapped up presents for each other in little boxes. Amber gave me her best bracelet. The one she made out of bright blue gum wrappers. I wore it every day until it finally fell apart. And I gave her my favorite eraser—a little bird that was just as blue as the bracelet. I wonder if she still has it.

Mom talks on and on about each book, but all I can think about is what Marianna said earlier.

I’m not the only one.

“I’ll get that form for you to bring home,” Mom says, standing up again. “If your stepfather could drop it off later today, that would be convenient. I need to speak with him about something.”

Marianna nods, paging through one of the books.

Mom heads back to her desk.

I hurry after her.

“Why do you need to talk to Marianna’s stepdad?” I ask in a low voice. “Are you going to warn him about the stinkbugs crawling out of her ears?”

Mom makes a face. “Very funny. I’m going to ask him if Marianna can walk here with you after school. I’d feel better knowing you’re walking here with a friend. Her house is just around the corner.”

My eyes go wide. “That girl is not my friend, Mom.”

“She’s in your class,” Mom says, picking up the form from her desk. “You both have two functioning legs. She can be your friend for ten minutes every Monday through Thursday from three thirty to three forty p.m.”

“But that’s why you and Dad gave me a phone!” I shout.

Marianna glances over. I swallow down the loudness in my voice and start again. “Oak Hill isn’t big, Mom. I can go places By. My. Self!”

Mom smiles in a this-conversation-is-over way. Then she hands the form to me. “Please give this to Marianna. Quietly.”

I give Mom the stink eye. But I take the form from her.

Marianna is rearranging my book nook as I trudge back to her. Turning chairs and moving carts. “There, that’s better,” she says, stretching out her legs again. “Sit down, Tweety.” She picks up my sketchpad and a pen. “I’ll teach you how to do real art.”

I grip the form until it crumples.

Mom can make me walk here with that girl, I say to myself. But she can’t make me be her friend.