Lois Lowry: The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline

"You know a funny thing?" Frederick Fiske went on. "Tonight was a big help to me."

"You have a scene where an electronics expert short-circuits a whole house?" asked J.P.

"One of your characters dumps a glass of milk on somebody's feet?" asked Caroline.

"No." He laughed. "I've had this odd problem with the writing. There are some kids in the novel—they're not major characters, but I liked having them in there. But I don't have any children myself. I don't know any children; at least, I didn't until tonight. And I just couldn't make those kids in the book come to life."

"So you killed them, right?" asked Stacy ominously.

"No." He chuckled again. "But Carl Broderick finally said I'd have to eliminate them. I've been going through the whole book, trying to take out the kids every place they appear. It's been driving me crazy."

"How did tonight help?" asked Caroline.

He thought for a moment. "Well, I was thinking of kids as some kind of separate creatures, as if they were different in some way from adults. Tonight, watching you three, listening to you, I realized that there isn't any difference."

"We're just shorter," said J.P.

"Right. But you think and joke and react and talk like ordinary people. Now I can go back upstairs to my typewriter and, with any luck and some hard work and long hours, rewrite those kids so they'll be real."

"Not if it's an electric typewriter, you can't," said J.P. in a discouraged voice. "We may never have juice in this building again."

Just then the lights came on. Everybody blinked.

Caroline blinked twice, after she had looked around the table. Next to her was Gregor Keretsky, relaxed and smiling, with his hand still cupped around hers. At the end of the table was Frederick Fiske, and beside him was her mother—and they were holding hands.

Across the table were Stacy and J.P., and both of them moved their hands quickly. Stacy began smoothing her hair, and J.P. folded his napkin, something he had never done before in his entire life. Caroline was almost positive that they, too, had been holding hands in the darkness.

I am going to have to have a very, very serious talk with Stacy Baurichter, thought Caroline.

From the hallway, Jason Carruthers called through the door. "I was able to do a temporary repair job," he said. "And the electricians are coming in the morning."

Stacy looked at her watch. "I have to go," she said. "It's past nine, and it's a school night. But listen, Mr. Fiske, before I go: Do you know the name Harrison Ledyard?"

"Of course," said Frederick Fiske. "He won a Pulitzer Prize last year."

"Well," said Stacy in a voice that Caroline recognized as her fake-sophisticated voice, "I was doing a journalism piece about him. But frankly, he was such a bore that I just dropped the whole idea. Maybe you noticed that People magazine ran an article last week on Harrison Ledyard?"

"Yes, I did see it, as a matter of fact," said Frederick Fiske with interest.

"My good friend at People magazine, Michael Small, took on the project after I decided that it was excruciatingly boring. But when your book comes out, and when Dustin Hoffman gets involved, well, I wonder if you and I could arrange a convenient time for an interview?"

Frederick Fiske grinned. "I'd be honored, Stacy," he said.

"Stacy," said J.P., "I'll go down with you and get you a taxi."

"How about you, Gregor?" asked Joanna Tate. "Do you need a taxi, too?"

"Oh, no," said Gregor Keretsky. "I live only a few short blocks away, down near the museum. I will walk. I don't mind the rain."

"I can loan you an umbrella," said Joanna Tate dubiously. "But the sidewalks and gutters are going to be flooded." She smiled. "I'd hate to see you ruin that extraordinary pair of socks."

"Wet socks aren't so bad," said Frederick Fiske, standing up gingerly, with a squishing sound.

Caroline blushed. "I'm sorry about the milk," she said. "I'm sorry about everything."

Joanna Tate stood up, too. She was looking thoughtfully at Gregor Keretsky's feet. "I just thought of something," she said, and started across the living room. "I used to know this revolting man who was a Scrabble champion. He knew every two-letter word in the dictionary. You couldn't have a conversation with him. He was always muttering, 'Ai, ay, ex, ax, eh, en.' I haven't seen him in months. But he left these here, and I'm sure he'll never be back for them. If they fit—" She headed for the closet.

Oh no, thought Caroline. Please, no.

"MOM," she said loudly, "DO NOT DO WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO DO."

Her mother grinned affectionately at her. "The one hundredth thing I love about you, Caroline," she said, "is that sometimes you're completely incomprehensible."

She opened the closet door. "Whew," she said, making a face, "it smells awful in here. I wonder why. Here you go, Gregor—" She reached behind the vacuum cleaner into the dark corner where the galoshes were.

And the rest is too horrible to tell. Horrible horrible horrible.