Clementine, Friend of the Week Page 3

  I knew that all the kids were looking at me, so I tried to shine with valuableness. Since okay, fine, I didn’t exactly know how someone would look when they were shining with valuableness, I did holiness instead.

  Here is how you look holy: First—everyone knows this part—fold your hands like a steeple. Then roll your eyes up as far as they will go, cross them slightly, and let your lids flutter a little bit. Finally, imagine yourself doing something extra kind, like giving away your ice-cream cone to a really skinny dog even though nobody is watching.

  The kids brainstormed about my good qualities, and my teacher wrote their ideas on the board. I listened—it was the regular stuff, about what a good artist I am and how I notice interesting things—but I didn’t watch. Instead, I just sat there, steepling my hands, crossing my rolled-up eyes, fluttering my lids, and giving my ice cream to skinny dogs.

  “Clementine, are you all right?”

  I’d been concentrating so hard I hadn’t noticed my teacher sneaking up on me.

  “For a minute you looked like you were going to faint,” he said. “Would you like to visit the nurse?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. And I wasn’t even embarrassed, because while I was doing all the looking holy, I had decided to give up on giving compliments and try giving presents. And the Golden Rule good idea had come to me: Give tattoos unto others as you would have others give tattoos unto you!

  During geography, I made my sign: TATTOOS, FREE TODAY—USUALLY $40!! Then I added another zero so everyone would know this was a really great present.

  At recess, I tucked my markers into my pocket and went out with my sign. I stuck it into the fence far away from where the teachers patrolled to make sure the sixth graders didn’t murder each other in dodgeball, and waited.

  The first person to come over was Charlie. “Free tattoos,” I told him. “I usually charge four hundred dollars.”

  “My uncle has a naked lady on his arm,” Charlie said. “She’s sitting on an anchor.”

  “I don’t think I can draw a naked lady,” I told him. “I never did that before.”

  “That’s okay,” Charlie said. “I don’t want one. I just wanted to tell you that.” I thanked him and then drew an anchor on his arm. I added a fish sitting on the anchor.

  “It’s naked,” I told him.

  The next person to come over was Rasheed. He said he never thought about what he would like for a tattoo…did I have any suggestions?

  “Well,” I said, “I like to draw reminders to myself on my arm.” I showed him the one I’d added Monday.

  “‘M.V.P.’, Most Valuable Player,” Rasheed read.

  That Margaret.

  “That’s a good one, I’ll take it.” He rolled up his sleeve. “Never mind the question marks, though.”

  Lilly wanted her usual picture—a rainbow with three tulips under it. I sit next to Lilly in class, and I’m getting pretty tired of that rainbow and those tulips. I tried to talk her into something more interesting. “How about a plate of spaghetti and meatballs under that rainbow?” I suggested. “How about a zebra eating those tulips?”

  But Lilly doesn’t have much of an imagination. She shook her head. “I’ll stick with the rainbow. But I guess you could make it four tulips if you want to.”

  Lilly’s twin brother Willy wanted his usual, too. I didn’t argue with him, because I like drawing zombie sharks, even though he insists on lots of pointy teeth and I am not so fond of pointy things. I figured they were on his arm and not mine. I drew extra gently over his new bruise so the shark was all green and purple and black, and he loved it.

  Things kept going pretty well until Maria came up. “I want a baby goat,” she said. “We went to a petting zoo last summer and I saw one there.”

  Even though I am a really good artist, I was stumped. A baby goat was probably the one thing in the world I had never drawn—besides a naked lady—and here she was asking for it. Finally I had a solution.

  “What’s that?” Maria asked when I was finished. “What’s all that scribbling? What are all those dots?”

  “That’s a bush,” I explained. “The baby goat’s inside, eating berries.”

  “Wow,” Maria said. “You’re an even better artist than I thought!”

  Norris-Boris-Morris-Horace-Brontosaurus was next. His real name is Norris, but in the beginning of the year I couldn’t remember that, so I gave him all the “orris” names I could think of. He loved that. For a minute I was afraid he wanted me to tattoo them all on his arm, but nope.

  He rolled up his jeans. “Make my legs trees,” he said. “With bark and leaves and stuff. And put some acorns in, too. So when my grandmother makes me go to the park and sit with her while she knits, squirrels might run up my legs.”

  I thought that was a good idea. But now there were a lot of kids lined up behind him. “Sorry, Norris-Boris,” I said. “Tree legs would take too long.”

  He sighed and rolled up his sleeve. “I don’t care, then,” he said. “Draw whatever you want.”

  I drew some peanuts on his arm. “When you’re at the park, lie down on the sidewalk,” I explained. “Pigeons will land on your arm and peck.”

  Norris-Boris-Morris-Horace-Brontosaurus went away smiling, and I started smiling, too. That was going to look pretty good in my booklet: Clementine is a good friend because she helped me get pigeons to land on my arm.

  Margaret didn’t have anything like that in her booklet, that was for sure.

  As soon as recess was over, my teacher sent me down to the principal’s office with a note.

  Mrs. Rice read the note and shook her head. “Didn’t we just go through this, Clementine?”

  “No. The thing with Margaret’s head was a long time ago—at the beginning of the year. Besides, this is different. For one thing, the kids wanted me to draw on them. For another thing, none of them has Margaret’s mother for a mother. So it’s going to be fine.”

  Mrs. Rice sighed. “How about this. How about, the next time you decide to share your artistic talents with your friends, you do it on paper?”

  I didn’t want to embarrass Mrs. Rice by pointing out that tattoos don’t work very well on paper, so I just said, “Sure, next time I will. Thanks for the great idea.” Then I told her the great idea I’d had.

  “You think students should have professional-development days, the way the teachers do?” she asked, even though I had just said exactly that.

  “Right. Some extra days off to get better at stuff. So if anybody wants to do a biography about us, they’ll have something to write about.”

  “And you would come to school to do it, the way the teachers do?”

  “Well,” I said—slowly, because I had forgotten to think about this part. “Maybe not. Maybe we’d go to Jack’s Joke Shop. Or a casino. Someplace where we could learn some interesting things.”

  “Well, Clementine,” said Mrs. Rice, “I could run that by the school board. But I think I already know what they’d say.”

  “What?”

  “I think they’d say you students already have professional development days. Two of them a week. They’re called Saturday and Sunday.”

  Then Mrs. Rice swiveled her chair away from me and clutched the top of her head, with her shoulders shaking. I knew she was secretly laughing, so I said I was all done visiting her, and I left.

  One thing they do not teach in principal school: what is funny and what is not.

  After school on Wednesday, my mom walked me over to Maria’s apartment to play, because she was working on a big illustration job. Inside, she thanked Maria’s mother for having me. “Next time, bring Maria over to our place,” she said.

  Maria’s mother said, “That would be lovely; next time for sure, the girls can play at your place.”

  Maria and I made faces at each other under our mothers’ arms, because both of us knew that was never going to happen in a million years. This is because Maria’s mother doesn’t allow Maria any place where there’s a te
levision set she might get a glimpse of.

  “For Pete’s sake,” I once heard my mother complain to my father. “What does she think we’re watching over here, Forbidden Secrets of Juvenile Delinquents?”

  “That’s ridiculous, we would never watch that,” my dad said. “Because Trashy Tales of Hollywood Hoodlums is on at the same time.”

  My mother laughed and tossed her paint rag at him, but then she said, “Really, though. What’s the problem?”

  I knew what the problem was. Maria’s mother thinks watching any television at all, even PBS, rots your brain for life, so it’s no TV for Maria.

  The good news, though, is that they let her do lots of other things instead. As long as it isn’t watching television, they are yes-saying parents.

  Maria took me into her room and pointed to an aquarium. “Look! There’s my new lizard! My parents let me have him because nobody mentioned the head lice time in my Friend of the Week booklet last week. Isn’t he great?”

  He was great all right! He was climbing the glass wall so you could see all the little suction cups on the bottom of his feet. His tongue was darting in and out, tasting the glass, about a hundred times a second.

  “Wow! That’s a wonderful pet!” I said, and I wasn’t even trying to compliment her. “What’s his name?”

  Maria bent down and pressed her face against the glass where her lizard was sticking. She stuck her tongue in and out really fast, too. “He likes that,” she told me. “We’re talking. I don’t know what his name is…I haven’t figured it out yet.” Maria began blinking her eyes fast, and her lizard did the same. He was a really good pet, all right.

  “Oh, I can help you with that!” I cried. “I’m an expert at picking pet names.”

  And it wasn’t just bragging either. Because I have discovered something—the best names in the world are on labels in bathrooms. I took the most beautiful word ever invented for my own kitten’s name, but there are plenty of good ones left.

  So I said, “Show me to the bathroom, Maria.” And I guess it was a lucky day for all three of us—me, Maria, and her lizard—because right away my eyeballs snapped over to the perfect word as if they were suddenly made of steel and the jar on the top shelf was a magnet.

  “Maria,” I said, “your lizard’s name is Flomax.”

  Was she ever happy! She could hardly stop thanking me!

  “No problem,” I said. And then I added, “It was just one of the unique and valuable contributions I like to make!”

  I was in for at least one good page in my Friend of the Week booklet.

  Which wasn’t the reason I helped her.

  Okay, fine, it wasn’t the only reason I helped her.

  Next, Maria took me out to see her bike.

  “How are you going to decorate it for the rally?” I asked.

  Maria laughed. “You’re funny, Clementine! It is decorated!” She made Tada!-arms over her bike, and I looked closer. There were a few playing cards stuck in the wheel spokes and some crepe-paper streamers hung from the handlebars. That was all.

  Maria got on and rode around me a couple of times. “How’d it look?” she asked when she got off. “Great, huh?”

  Maria feels bad enough being the only kid in our class who can’t watch television, so I didn’t tell her that the only thing that looked great to me was the baby goat eating berries in a bush on her arm as she whizzed by.

  This made me feel really happy about how wonderful my bike was going to look at the rally. But it also made me feel a little bit sad about that, too.

  And that’s when it hit me—an idea for an even better present than tattoos to give everybody!

  It was a good thing I’d had my spectacularful idea, because Thursday morning nobody even mentioned my tattoo presents.

  “I forgot about it,” Lilly said at recess. “I guess it washed off.”

  “Mine too,” Willy agreed. “You should have used permanent markers.”

  And that is how unfair the world is. When I colored on some hair for Margaret and me, I was in trouble because I used permanent markers. Now here I was in trouble because I didn’t use them. Although…

  “Um… Nobody is mad at me, right?” I asked.

  “My uncle might be,” Charlie said after a minute. “I showed my mom how my tattoo was like his, and she called him up in Ohio and hollered at him so loud she didn’t even need the phone. He can never come for a visit again unless he wears long sleeves, taped down at the cuffs.”

  I figured Charlie’s uncle didn’t count, since he wasn’t going to write in my booklet. The important thing was that none of my classmates was mad at me. Norris-Boris was a little disappointed because his tattoo hadn’t worked, but that was all.

  “Two hours and fifteen minutes lying on the sidewalk in the park yesterday afternoon,” he sighed.

  “And no pigeons?”

  He shook his head. “Not even one. Three ants, though—big ones. So it wasn’t a total waste.”

  After that, nobody even talked about my tattoos because they were too busy talking about their bike decorations for Saturday, which were all as boring as Maria’s—playing cards, streamers, and a couple of balloons.

  So it was the perfect time to tell them all about my new present idea!

  “Come to the rally early,” I said. “Don’t bother decorating your bikes at home.” And then I explained about my dad’s stuff and how I would bring it all to the Common.

  That got their attention, all right. They glued all thirty-six of their eyes on me like they were seals at the aquarium, just waiting to see where the trainer was going to toss that fish.

  “So I can have anything I want on my bike?” asked Joe. “What does he have?”

  “Anything. Whatever you can think of, he’s got it.”

  “How about tulips and a rainbow?” Lilly asked.

  “Spring decorations,” I answered. “No problem, Lilly.”

  “How about a zombie shark?” Willy asked.

  “That’s harder,” I admitted. “There is no National Zombie Shark Day. But for National Fishing Week, my dad hangs big rubber trout from the ceiling. We can tape some sharp teeth to one of them.”

  That made Willy really happy. As we lined up, I told the kids about more of the great stuff my dad had, they told me what they wanted, and by the time we got back into the classroom, everybody was happy.

  Especially me.

  As soon as I got home, I found my dad in the basement. “Did you really mean it, I could use all your decorations for the rally?”

  He nodded. “Sure. But it will be a little hard to fit them all on one bicycle, Sport.”

  “How about nineteen bicycles?” And then I told my dad the plan.

  Which he loved. He got as excited as I did, pulling out all the things we could use.

  When I told my dad about Norris-Boris’s wanting to be a tree, he said, “Piece of cake. Squirrel Appreciation Day,” and he pulled out some oak branches and a stuffed squirrel. And that was just the beginning—we went right down the list like that, taking care of everyone in my class.

  Pretty soon, Mom came in with Yam and a load of laundry.

  “Free…two…ONE!!!” my brother shrieked when he caught sight of the washing machine. He climbed up onto the dryer and pulled down the rocket-fuel detergent.

  My mom put the clothes in the washing machine and then looked over at all the boxes. “What’s up?”

  So I explained the plan to her, too.

  “Free…two…ONE!!!” Chili Pepper hollered as he leaned over and cranked the dial.

  “That’s so nice of you, Clementine!” Mom said. “To share your artistic talents with your classmates like that.”

  “And to share all these valuable resources, too,” my dad said. “Let’s not forget them! And, you”—he turned to point at me—“don’t you forget to get all this stuff back.”

  “Now, Bill,” my mom said. “What would be the harm if a few things got lost?”

  My mom is the only person i
n our building who does not enjoy my dad’s decorations. This is because they are plastic—because of fire codes—and plastic is like kryptonite to all-natural people like my mother. She practically has a heart attack if she just hears the word “artificial.” She swept her hand over the tulips we’d pulled out for Lilly, then squeezed her eyes shut as if it hurt to look at them.

  My dad threw his hands out over the tulips as if he were showcasing the top prize on a game show. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Just look at these colors!”

  “Exactly,” my mom said. “Look at them! These colors do not exist in nature. How about, if just for once, we had real flowers in the lobby?”

  “Fire codes,” my dad said with a pretend-sorry face. “What can we do?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” my mom said. “Give me one example of a pot of daisies bursting into flame and burning down a building!”

  My dad spread his arms out to show how helpless he was, and my mom rolled her eyes. And then they both started laughing, which made me start to laugh, and then Turnip joined in from the top of the washing machine. Suddenly Moisturizer appeared, and I think he was laughing, too.

  I scooped him up. “Hey, you’re back out here? Didn’t want to miss any fun?” I asked him. “Well, you can help me decorate my bike, I guess.”

  Mom and Mung Bean left, and I was just about to ask my dad about blood for my neck, when Roberta the delivery woman stuck her head in. “Hey, hi, Pony Express!” she said to me. Then she nodded to my dad. “Four packages, supposed to be on the loading dock. You know anything about that?”

  My dad left to help her look for the packages, and I finished draping my bike with cobwebs. My dad came back in, but before I could show him, Franklin the electrician showed up. “Hi, Sparky,” he said. “I need your dad. Got a call about a short circuit up on the sixth floor.” And then my dad was gone with him.

  Next to come in was George the plumber. “Hey, Squirt,” he said. He put down his tool bag and told me plumbing stories until my dad came back to take him up to the fourth floor for a leaking dishwasher.