Cora asked for her signatures very sweetly and got lots of them, especially from the teachers, who cannot resist her. By the time her turn was over, she had gotten seventeen signatures.
Then it was Minnie’s turn, and she did a good job, too. She got fifteen signatures.
“I would have gotten more, but my piano lesson last night was extra long,” she said. “I have a really big recital in a few days. I have to play allegro!”
“Hey! That’s not Spanish; that’s Italian!” I said. “It means ‘happy.’ My grandmother says it sometimes.”
“Well, in music it means you have to play really fast, which is really hard,” she said. “And right now, it does not make me happy! It makes me stressed out! So I have to have extra lessons to get ready, and I only got fifteen signatures.” She stuck the end of her braid in her mouth.
“Minerva Ramos!” I exclaimed. “¡Comer cabello humano es malo para la digestión!”
She burst out giggling.
“Don’t worry!” Cora said. “We have tons of signatures—thirty-two all together.”
Next, it was my turn. I don’t mean to brag, but you will never guess how many signatures I got.
Sixty-six.
Yep, that’s right.
Sixty-six!
Want to know my secret? It’s easy. Just ask absolutely everyone. Also, don’t take “no” for an answer. Also, give away free doughnuts.
I got a bunch of signatures during math time, at recess, and during lunch, too—until Miss Tibbs noticed what I was doing. As soon as she saw my petition, she rolled it right up and put it in her pocket. She said it was “not an appropriate lunchtime activity.” Big surprise! According to Miss Tibbs, even laughing is “not an appropriate lunchtime activity.” She doesn’t know the meaning of fun.
I used to think Miss Tibbs was an evil witch like in The Wizard of Oz because she wears all black and frowns all the time. Then she gave me a homework pass for helping out a friend who has trouble reading, and I decided she’s probably not a witch. But, even so, she is the strictest teacher I’ve ever met and definitely a party pooper.
So I was not surprised when she snatched up my petition at lunch. But I was surprised when she gave it back to me after lunch, and I noticed she had signed it. Yippee-ki-yay!
On Saturday, Nana and Nonno and Jude and Mom and Dad signed. Even Pearl wanted to sign!
“She can’t even write yet!” protested Jude.
I glared at him. “Toddlers are people, too, you know.”
Then I put my hand on top of Pearl’s hand to help her write her name. It looked pretty messy, but you could still sort of read it.
Right after she finished her signature, she went potty. Except she didn’t go in the potty. She went on the floor. Right next to my feet!
“Pearly Pie,” I said. “You really have to remember to go into the bathroom.”
“When you weally have to go—” she started singing.
We all yelled, “No! Please!” but it was too late. I had that dumb tune stuck in my head all day, and even all night. Dad said he heard me singing “So don’t forget to wipe when you don’t wear a diape-rrrrrrrrr” in my sleep.
On Sunday, Dad had to go into work. He’s a super in a big apartment building close to my school called the Monroe. His job is to fix stuff that breaks. Not stuff that belongs to people, like a teapot or a saxophone or someone’s tooth. Stuff that belongs to the building, like heaters and doorbells and windows.
The elevator in the Monroe stopped working on Sunday, so Dad had to go check things out. I begged him to let me come. Here’s why: The Monroe has ten floors, with a whole bunch of apartments on each floor. I don’t know multiplication yet, but what I do know is that adds up to tons of people, which adds up to tons of signatures.
Dad has worked in the Monroe ever since I can remember. So I have gone there a lot, and I have been banned from doing a lot of things there, including:
1. Pretending to be the elevator operator.
2. Doing headstands in the lobby.
3. Filming horror movies in the staircase.
4. Entering the gym. At all. Who knew ten-pound weights were so heavy? Who knew a running machine could go so fast?
But I was not banned from collecting signatures near the mailboxes.
While Dad was busy working on the elevator, I went into his little office and dragged out a tiny card table, which I put by the mailboxes. Then I dragged out a folding chair. I put the petition on the table, next to a sign that said:
HELP A KID!
TAKE A DOUGHNUT!
Then I put out the box of powdered mini doughnuts Dad had brought home the day before. He always says that powdered doughnuts are his kryptonite. He cannot resist their tempting tastiness. You can always tell when he’s eaten one because the white powder gets on his brown mustache.
Maybe it was the doughnuts or maybe it was my charm, but either way, after just one hour, our petition had ninety-five signatures. I was starting to run low on doughnuts when Ezra and his mom, Principal Powell, passed by. They live in the Monroe, so I had been expecting them.
Ezra is Jude’s best friend. Sometimes I tell people he is my best friend, too, but Jude gets angry and jealous and tells me to knock it off. He says that Ezra only hangs out with me because I’m Jude’s little sister and he has to. But I know that’s not true.
Ezra and I have lots in common. I love to sing, and Ezra loves to record music. He has been recording my demo album called One Tough Cookie on his computer. I already have two and a half songs finished. Sometimes Minnie plays the piano while I sing, but if she doesn’t, it’s okay because Ezra can make music on his computer. He can make it sound like there’s a whole band playing for me.
One day, when I’m older, I will walk down the red carpet and win a big music award, and Ezra is going to be the first person I thank in my acceptance speech. Do you know who I will not thank? People who always doubted me. People named Jude B. Conti.
You know what else Ezra and I have in common? Our love of powdered mini doughnuts.
I handed him and his mom doughnuts as I told them all about our 100 Days project and how I was dying to win the trophy.
“Veronica, this is a fantastic project,” said Principal Powell as Ezra signed his name. “Whether or not you get a trophy, you’ve done excellent work. And that’s really what matters, isn’t it?”
She said it like she was warning me not to get my hopes up … which made me feel a little disappointed.
“Yeah, Ronny, trophies are overrated—trust me,” said Ezra. He knows because he has a bunch of them, for his super-cool robotics creations. He should have a trophy for speed talking because he is the fastest talker I’ve ever heard in all my life. “Most of the time, the trophies you win are flimsy and they break. Especially if you have a crazy kitten that knocks them over when he runs back and forth on your shelves like a lunatic.”
Just then something started beeping, and Ezra looked down at his watch. Ezra’s watch looks like it could belong to James Bond. It glows in the dark and has a timer on it, and you can wear it underwater. Plus, it beeps!
“Ez,” I said. “Your watch is trying to tell you something.”
“Oh, it’s just a reminder. I programmed it to remind me when I’m supposed to do something because otherwise I’d totally forget.” Ezra cracked his knuckles. He has a habit of doing this, and I have told him and told him not to because Nana says it’s bad for you, but he never listens.
“That beep is reminding me I have to finish my social studies project,” he said. “So I’d better go.”
They walked away, and I was admiring all the beautiful signatures on my petition when I heard a grumpy voice. It grumbled, “Young lady, you know perfectly well that loitering is not permitted by the mailboxes.”
I didn’t have to look up to know it was Mr. Luntzgarten, who lives on the fourth floor. He is the only person anywhere who calls me “young lady.”
“I’m not littering!” I protested. “I don’t even have any garbage.”
“I didn’t say littering,” he replied with a scowl. When he scowls, his humongous gray eyebrows get scrunched together. It makes them look like one big eyebrow, which is even creepier than normal. “Loitering. Hanging around without an official purpose. Don’t they teach vocabulary in school anymore?”
He leaned over my table and peered at the petition. I got a close-up look at the hat he always wears, which is brown and checkered and very old-fashioned. It’s the kind of hat people wear in the black-and-white movies that Ezra likes.
All of a sudden, Mr. Luntzgarten stood up straight. His enormous eyebrows were not in their scrunched-up-and-mad position. Instead, they were raised up in their surprised-and-very-curious position.
“I see Miss Tibbs signed your list,” he said.
I had totally forgotten that I introduced Miss Tibbs and Mr. Luntzgarten. We were at a party at Ezra’s house, and they both got very excited about fruitcake, which is how I knew they would be a match made in heaven.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “Miss Tibbs is a big fan of our petition.”
Mr. Luntzgarten was quiet for a second, like he was thinking about something. Then he picked up the pen and signed his name. After his name, he wrote his phone number.
“Just in case you need to contact me … to, uh … to follow up.” His cheeks got red. “I’ve signed many petitions. It’s standard.”
I was so grateful and surprised that Mr. Luntzgarten signed the petition. I grabbed the last mini doughnut in the box and jumped up to hand it to him. But when I jumped up, I accidentally knocked over the card table. The petition and pencils flew up in the air. So did the powdered doughnut box … and all the white powder at the bottom. It puffed up in the air like a big snow cloud and landed oh-so-gently all over Mr. Luntzgarten’s black coat.
The bad news: Now there is a fifth thing I am banned from doing at the Monroe.
The good news: I had ninety-eight signatures on our petition!
