ALLY LOOKS miserable. I don’t blame her. It’s the Fourth of July—ninety degrees and humidity off the charts—and it’s before ten in the morning.
But it’s not the weather that’s got her down, nor the sore throat. That got better two days ago. It’s the convertible.
Joey Wachowski’s dad owns a chain of dry cleaning stores, and he always rents an old-fashioned 1950s convertible to ride in the parade. It’s decorated in red, white, and blue tassels and streamers with signs on each side that read: WACHOWSKI CLEANERS. Sometimes Mr. Wachowski rides in the convertible. Sometimes it’s a local celebrity. Today, it’s Ally.
The pool parking lot is a line of convertibles and parade floats. At the front, little kids on bikes are waiting to start. They always lead the parade around the circle of Queen’s Way, to Chancery Lane, to Gainsborough Drive, and finally back to the pool.
It doesn’t take long to spot Zora. She’s to the side of the other bike riders, Dad close by. Last night, we decorated Zora’s bike with red, white, and blue crepe paper, stickers, and flags. This is her first year to ride in the parade. I can’t believe she’s going to do it. But she and Dad have been practicing almost every night, so I’m hoping she won’t run into anyone and bring the whole parade to a standstill.
Ally, Rose, and I are standing beside the Wachowski convertible when we see Joey coming our way. Flanked by Connor and Romeo, he’s smiling so hard his mouth must hurt. They’re all wearing their Broncos jerseys. “Blondie!” he yells.
“This sucks so hard,” Ally mutters.
They walk up to us and stop. Three across from three. “Good to see you girls,” Joey says, then aims his sights on Ally. “I thought you might not show up. But then I thought, Ally’s cool. She’ll be there.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asks.
Joey shrugs. “Yeah. Kind of.” He points to the big jersey he’s wearing with pride. “You’re going to look awesome in this, Blondie!”
“I’m wearing that one?!”
“Of course. What else would you be wearing?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Rose says. “She’s not wearing your stinky, gross jersey.”
Joey lifts his arm and sniffs his armpit. “Smells clean enough.”
Rose, Ally, and I groan. “She’s not doing this,” Rose says.
“Yes, I am,” Ally says. “Hand it over.” Because that’s how Ally does it. She knows in the world of baseball there is no crying and no welshing on bets. You do what you say you’re going to do. Joey takes off his big Broncos jersey (thankfully, he’s wearing a T-shirt underneath) and gives it to Ally. She pulls her enemy’s blue shirt over her head and it completely swallows her. “Let’s get this over with,” she says miserably.
I pull her blond braids out from under the jersey, then we watch her climb into the backseat of the convertible.
“No, up there!” Joey points to the top edge of the backseat, where the convertible top accordions onto the back of the car. “That’s where you sit in a parade!”
Ally’s jaw clenches as she slowly lifts herself onto the perch.
“And don’t forget to wave,” Joey adds happily.
“I feel so bad about this,” Rose whispers in my ear.
“Me too,” I say.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t your big idea.”
A whistle blows. Any moment, the parade will start moving.
I look up at Ally, her hands folded in her lap, her face so resolute. If it hadn’t been for Ally, the three of us might not have even become friends.
Three weeks after Rose arrived from England, we weren’t friends yet. Ally sat at the desk on my left and Rose had been assigned to the one on my right.
I didn’t have any real friends in first grade. I knew some kids from kindergarten but I still felt like some dorky loner. Not a good feeling. Sometimes I wonder if Zora feels that way.
It was February and Bethany Hopkins passed a note back to Rose. Rose stared at that little note like it might be on fire and didn’t move until Bethany whispered loudly, “Take it!”
As Rose grabbed the note, I recognized the handwriting on the outside of it—the unmistakable scrawl of Billy Jones. Billy Jones was weird and sometimes mean. His notes had a reputation for bad words and getting the recipient in trouble.
While Ms. Hillbrook was writing on the blackboard, I found myself staring at Rose. She wasn’t wearing her weird school uniform anymore. She looked pretty normal in a sweater and jeans, but the expression on her face told a different story. Like she was one kind of fish that got dumped into the tank of another kind of fish and she hadn’t been able to breathe right ever since.
Whatever was in Billy Jones’s note would have only made it worse.
I reached out my hand. “Give it to me,” I whispered. She looked at me with her big blue eyes, confused, then relieved. She handed me the note.
“Passing notes is against the rules in this class!” Ms. Hillbrook had turned from the blackboard just in time to see us. “You know the rule.”
I knew the rule. Whoever was associated with the note would have to miss recess and stay together in the classroom during that time. I had never been punished. Not ever in school or kindergarten. Frozen, I stared at Ms. Hillbrook as she approached.
Rose would get recess detention and so would I. And since Billy wrote the note, he would be there with us. Forty minutes in a room with Billy Jones! That was the worst punishment of all.
I heard a quiet whistle to my left and saw Ally’s opened hand reach out. I didn’t know what she was doing and I don’t know why I gave her the note. But I did. And she ate it. Right in front of Ms. Hillbrook. It was the first of many times when Ally would save the day.
Instead of being stuck with Billy Jones in recess detention, I was stuck with Rose and Ally. As it would be from that day forward.
Now there’s Ally, all alone on that convertible, and it just isn’t right. The bikes start rolling out of the parking lot and the convertible begins to move. Ally would do anything for Rose or me. It was time for us to do something for her.
“Romeo! Give me your shirt!”
At first, he looks confused but then he grins and takes off his jersey. I turn to Connor and use my most compelling teacher/librarian voice. “You too, Gomez.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not—”
“Give Birdie your shirt, Connor!” Romeo says.
“What? I don’t get it. Why does she—”
“Just do it!”
“Okay, okay, Rome … but you can’t tell me what to do.” But apparently Romeo can, because Connor takes off his jersey and gives it to me.
“What’s going on?” Joey asks, alarmed. “Better not be messing with our bet!”
“Nobody’s messing with your bet,” I say. Romeo hands me his jersey and in return gets a genuine smile from me. I pass it to Rose.
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Just put it on, Rose!” It’s Romeo’s jersey so she does. I pull Connor’s jersey over my head, then turn back to the boys. “See ya, fellas!” Then I grab Rose by the arm and say, “Come on!”
“Ally, stop the car!” I yell as we run after the moving vehicle. As she looks back and sees us, her face goes from night to day. The car stops just long enough for Rose and me to slither into the backseat and take our places on each side of our friend. The three of us, all in blue Broncos jerseys. In the parade together.
There’s a crowd lined up along the street and in the pool courtyard the middle school band has begun playing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Ally beams. “What are you guys doing?!”
“Being patriotic!” I yell.
“Yeah,” Rose shouts. “America rules!” She says this extra loud as we pass her house, her parents standing out front, the FOR SALE sign looming in the background.
We laugh and look back to see Joey Wachowski running behind us. His eyes say it all. Turns out, he’s the loser today.
We ride through the neighborhood in the awesome convertible, dodging water guns and waving little American flags. The neighborhood is lined with hundreds of people. Not just from here, but from everywhere. Thomas Jefferson stands on the Declaration of Independence float behind us, shooting a water cannon into the crowd. It’s so hot all the kids yell, “Hit me! Hit me!” As we crest the top of Queen’s Way, I wave to Mr. and Mrs. Gates and look back to be sure trigger-happy Thomas J. doesn’t hit them. And like a good founding father, he doesn’t.
“Look!” Rose points toward Mrs. Franklin’s yard. The boys—Joey, Romeo, and Connor—are running along, keeping up with us. “Romeo!” Rose yells. She starts waving madly, and Ally and I join in.
As Queen’s Way curves into Chancery Lane, the steep street that dead-ends in front of our house, I see Zora’s bike stall near the side of the road. Her anxious eyes look into the crowd. Even though the parade is moving at about three miles per hour, I know she’s afraid of riding her bike down the hill. But she’s holding up traffic, and some of the bigger kids start yelling. She’s alone for what must be a heartbreaking moment for Zora, and I’m ready to jump out of the car to rescue her, when I see Dad. He appears out of the crowd like a superhero, grabs Zora and her bike, and pulls them to safety.
As we pass, I wave at them and smirk at their surprised faces. Ally leans into me and says, “Thanks, Birdie. This turned out great.”
“Wait!” Rose shouts, and reaches into her pocket. We lean together and Rose takes our selfie. Us three, smiling, laughing, the queens of Queen’s Way.