ungraciousness.
“I had to talk to you,” she said, “after this morning and what Miss Crosno said about your poem. Before, I thought you were just unfriendly, but I didn’t know you were a poet. That makes it different. I mean, lots of poets don’t play jump rope and things.”
“I do play jump rope,” Andi said. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant by ‘Double Trouble.’“
“Why didn’t you say so?” Debbie sat down across from her and regarded her solemnly. “The thing I wanted to tell you is — now don’t repeat this to anybody, I don’t want the other kids to think I’m a nerd — but I write poetry, too.”
“You do!” Andi said. It never had occurred to her that other girls ever wrote poetry.
“I have a whole notebook of poems at home,” Debbie said. “I keep it hidden under my bed so my brother won’t see it. He says only dweebs write poetry.”
“That’s not so,” Andi said. “It takes very bright people to be poets. Think of Shakespeare and people like that. Besides, you’re not a dweeb. You’re very popular.”
“Well, yes,” Debbie admitted. “I guess you could say that. Still, I don’t have anybody I can talk to — I mean
really
talk to — about things that matter. Most of my friends feel just like my brother does. I don’t want people to think I’m weird.”
“I personally don’t mind it,” Andi said. Then she paused and added more honestly, “Well, yes, I do mind it some. It would be nice to be popular. Maybe I will be, now that I’ve stopped writing.”
“What do you write about?” Debbie asked. “I mean, what did you write about back when you were a poet?”
“Sad things mostly,” Andi said. “My last poem, the one I sent to the
Journal,
was about shipwrecks.” She drew a deep breath and quoted:
Death owns a ship that roams the seas,
A ship that the boldest seamen dread.
It’s made of the air and the clouds and the storm,
And its cargo is the dead.
“Wow!” Debbie’s eyes widened in admiration, and she gave a shudder. “That’s the goriest thingI’ve ever heard. I don’t see how any magazine could help but buy it!”
“Well, they didn’t,” Andi said. “I’m practically eleven now, and I can’t be spending all my time on something that isn’t bringing any success. Especially now when I’ve got to start finding ways to earn money, because Friday isn’t getting half the nice things Red Rover is getting and —”
She stopped herself in horror and clamped her mouth closed tight.
“Who is Friday?” Debbie asked, exactly as Tim had the first day he came to the hotel.
Perhaps it was the thought of Tim’s question that did it, Tim’s question and the memory of Bruce’s answer,
“Of course he won’t tell.”
What right had Bruce had to decide whether or not Tim could be trusted when she herself had not decided? Why should Bruce be able to pick out a friend and make him a member of the hotel staff when she, Andi, didn’t?
Two boys and one girl — it wasn’t a fair balance. How could the girl ever hope to have anything her way as long as the boys outnumbered her? But if there were
two
girls —
Thoughtfully, Andi regarded the girl across the table from her. Debbie was certainly not a blabbermouth. If she were, she never would have kept the fact that she was a poet from all of her friends.
“Can you keep a secret?” Andi asked.
“Of course.” Debbie’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned forward eagerly. “Is it about a poem?”
“No,” Andi said. “It’s Friday. She’s a dog, and Red Rover’s a dog, and there are three others who are just puppies. My brother and I are running a hotel for them.”
“A hotel!” Debbie exclaimed. “You mean you take homeless dogs off the streets and give them a place to stay?”
“Something like that,” Andi said.
Debbie’s face was aglow with excitement. “That’s awesome! Do you suppose — oh, Andi, does the hotel have an extra room for another
“I had to talk to you,” she said, “after this morning and what Miss Crosno said about your poem. Before, I thought you were just unfriendly, but I didn’t know you were a poet. That makes it different. I mean, lots of poets don’t play jump rope and things.”
“I do play jump rope,” Andi said. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant by ‘Double Trouble.’“
“Why didn’t you say so?” Debbie sat down across from her and regarded her solemnly. “The thing I wanted to tell you is — now don’t repeat this to anybody, I don’t want the other kids to think I’m a nerd — but I write poetry, too.”
“You do!” Andi said. It never had occurred to her that other girls ever wrote poetry.
“I have a whole notebook of poems at home,” Debbie said. “I keep it hidden under my bed so my brother won’t see it. He says only dweebs write poetry.”
“That’s not so,” Andi said. “It takes very bright people to be poets. Think of Shakespeare and people like that. Besides, you’re not a dweeb. You’re very popular.”
“Well, yes,” Debbie admitted. “I guess you could say that. Still, I don’t have anybody I can talk to — I mean
really
talk to — about things that matter. Most of my friends feel just like my brother does. I don’t want people to think I’m weird.”
“I personally don’t mind it,” Andi said. Then she paused and added more honestly, “Well, yes, I do mind it some. It would be nice to be popular. Maybe I will be, now that I’ve stopped writing.”
“What do you write about?” Debbie asked. “I mean, what did you write about back when you were a poet?”
“Sad things mostly,” Andi said. “My last poem, the one I sent to the
Journal,
was about shipwrecks.” She drew a deep breath and quoted:
Death owns a ship that roams the seas,
A ship that the boldest seamen dread.
It’s made of the air and the clouds and the storm,
And its cargo is the dead.
“Wow!” Debbie’s eyes widened in admiration, and she gave a shudder. “That’s the goriest thingI’ve ever heard. I don’t see how any magazine could help but buy it!”
“Well, they didn’t,” Andi said. “I’m practically eleven now, and I can’t be spending all my time on something that isn’t bringing any success. Especially now when I’ve got to start finding ways to earn money, because Friday isn’t getting half the nice things Red Rover is getting and —”
She stopped herself in horror and clamped her mouth closed tight.
“Who is Friday?” Debbie asked, exactly as Tim had the first day he came to the hotel.
Perhaps it was the thought of Tim’s question that did it, Tim’s question and the memory of Bruce’s answer,
“Of course he won’t tell.”
What right had Bruce had to decide whether or not Tim could be trusted when she herself had not decided? Why should Bruce be able to pick out a friend and make him a member of the hotel staff when she, Andi, didn’t?
Two boys and one girl — it wasn’t a fair balance. How could the girl ever hope to have anything her way as long as the boys outnumbered her? But if there were
two
girls —
Thoughtfully, Andi regarded the girl across the table from her. Debbie was certainly not a blabbermouth. If she were, she never would have kept the fact that she was a poet from all of her friends.
“Can you keep a secret?” Andi asked.
“Of course.” Debbie’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned forward eagerly. “Is it about a poem?”
“No,” Andi said. “It’s Friday. She’s a dog, and Red Rover’s a dog, and there are three others who are just puppies. My brother and I are running a hotel for them.”
“A hotel!” Debbie exclaimed. “You mean you take homeless dogs off the streets and give them a place to stay?”
“Something like that,” Andi said.
Debbie’s face was aglow with excitement. “That’s awesome! Do you suppose — oh, Andi, does the hotel have an extra room for another
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