Ann Martin - Shannon's Story

It was a look we all recognized. Conversation slowed down. Stopped.

Mary Anne said, "Kristy?"

"Hmmmmm," said Kristy slowly, staring at the wall.

We paused expectantly.

Then Kristy said, "Soooo. What about . . . what about a mother-kid softball game? Just for Mother's Day."

"Super!" Claudia was immediately and totally into the idea. She went on, "Now that Stacey and I know all about softball, we could really organize this in a big way."

Claudia was referring to the time she and Stacey took on the job of coaching Kristy's Krushers while Kristy played on the SMS soft-ball team. It had been, well, a learning experience for everyone. And Claudia and Stacey had definitely raised the sense of style for Krushers' softball to a new level.

"Not on Mother's Day," said Jessi. "People should be with their families then. How about sometime after that?"

"Right," said Kristy.

Mary Anne flipped the BSC schedule open again. But the only time that everyone could get together was several weeks later.

"After Mother's Day is fine," Stacey said. "After all, it'll be even warmer and nicer. And we'll need good weather for the game."

"Wait a minute," I said. "I can't make it. I'll be in Paris. Of course, I could cancel my trip, but. ..."

"Oooh, poor Shannon," teased Stacey. I grabbed a pillow and threw it at Stacey.

Stacey was about to retaliate when the doorbell rang.

"Saved by the bell," I crowed.

"Saved by the pizza," retorted Stacey.

When we'd gotten the pizza and settled down around the big table in Kristy's kitchen, we talked some more about the softball game

idea. Claudia suggested we get some white T-shirts and maybe tie-dye them a special color for the mothers' team.

"And the kids can wear their Krushers shirts. We've got a few extras, too, for the kids who aren't on the team," Kristy said.

"What about the kids who are too little to play?" asked Mallory.

"We could make them special cheerleaders," suggested Jessi. "Or offer free babysitting services."

The plans went as fast as the pizza. It sounded like so much fun, I really did almost regret I'd have to be in Paris.

Well, okay, I didn't regret that! But I did wish I could be there to see the game.

"I know!" I said. "Maybe someone could videotape the game and then the parents could get copies made. A special Mother's Day memento."

"Super. Absolutely a super idea," cried Kristy, and Mary Anne made another note in the club notebook.

We'd just finished most of the pizza and most of the planning when the doorbell rang.

"More pizza?" cried Claudia happily.

"Claud, you're a bottomless pit," said Stacey.

"Who're you calling a pit?" Claudia made a face as Kristy got up to answer the door.

A moment later I froze, my pizza halfway to my mouth.

"Helllooo," called a familiar voice.

My mother's voice. What was she doing here?

"Oh, look, pizza!" said my mom brightly, following Kristy into the kitchen.

"Would you like some?" asked Kristy politely.

Silently I willed my mom to say no.

"Well," said my mother, hesitating.

"Come on," said Kristy, pulling up a chair.

I was doomed.

My mom sat down at the table and took a slice of pizza..

I pushed my pizza away. Suddenly, I wasn't hungry anymore.

"Uh, Mom?" I said.

"This is delicious," said my mom.

"It's the black olives and green olives," said Jessi. "That's key."

"And no anchovies," said Mallory.

"Uh, Mom?" I tried again.

"Yes?"

"What's going on, Mom?"

"Going on? Oh!" My mom threw back her head and laughed.

I frowned. "Is something wrong? Is that why you're here?" I asked pointedly. And yes, I know, a little rudely.

My mom didn't seem to notice. "No, nothing's wrong. I just need you to come home and watch Tiffany and Maria for an hour or so. I've got to go do some errands and I hate to drag them along with me." My mom made a face. "In fact, I don't think I could drag Tiffany away from her garden."

"Why didn't you just call?" I asked, exasperated. The old feeling of being trapped returned.

"Oh, it was no problem." My mom polished off the last of her piece of pizza, stood up, and smiled at everyone. "Thanks for the pizza."

"You're welcome," said Kristy politely.

We sat in silence for a moment. Then I said, not quite looking at Mom, "I'll be home in just a minute, okay?"

At last Mom got that hint. "Okay, Shanny," she said. " 'Bye, guys." She left.

Shanny.

"Shanny?" Kristy gasped.

"Listen, I know my friends are much too sophisticated and kind to go around teasing a person about something like the nickname her mother uses for her," I said.

It didn't work.

"Of course not. Shanny," crooned Stacey.

"Boontsie!" I shot back. That's a name Sta-cey's father called her when she was a baby.

Stacey clutched her heart. "I'm wounded!"

We all laughed. I looked around the table. We're a great club, if I do say so myself. Even if I was now going to have to hear them use my baby name at probably all the most embarrassing times in my life. Of course, they'd get no mercy back from me.

I stood up reluctantly. "Gotta go," I said. "See you later."

I was almost out the door when they all called out in unison: " 'Bye, Shannnnnnnnnnny."

In spite of the bad mood my mother's visit had put me in, I grinned all the way home.

Chapter 6.

"Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb," I sang under my breath as I hurried down the hall of SDS on the way to the bus after my last class. Only I was trying to sing it in French. But what was the French word for lamb?

"Bah!" I said aloud, and then laughed at my own joke. I'd have to tell that one to Greer.

I raced around the corner, not quite running (running in the halls is frowned on), and skidded to a stop. I reversed and took another look in Dr. Patek's office.

My mother was just inside the door, talking to Dr. Patek.

Huh? Maria's swim meet schedule again? Or had Tiffany had some kind of doctor's appointment I'd forgotten about?

I looked around, but I didn't see Tiff anywhere.

Mary had a little lamb. The words came back

into my head. What was the French word for lamb?

Lapin? No, that was rabbit. Mary had a little rabbit?

I was doing that more and more lately. Trying to remember the French words for everything. Even in math, I made myself count as much as possible in French. I wanted to be ready for Paris. It was much nicer to think about Paris than ma mere (my mother) so I put her out of my mind as I got on the bus.

Instead I concentrated on practicing my French conversational skills with my friends.

Have you ever tried to gossip in French? When riding a school bus?

"Hey," whispered Meg. She leaned forward. "Un petit beurre ..."

"A little butter?" said Polly.

We went off into gales of laughter. Then we started playing our own version of that road trip game you play when you're a kid: we called our version, "I'm packing for Paris." The way we played was this: Someone started by saying, "I'm packing for Paris and I'm taking an . . ." and she'd name something that began with "a" (in French). The next person had to say the same sentence and word, then add another item. Only this item had to begin with a "b." You just kept going until you got through the alphabet.

Of course, we usually didn't get anywhere near the letter "z," but the game was pretty funny.

This time, we'd made it to a world record — h — when the bus reached my stop.

I was in a great mood. "Hey, I'm home!" I cried as I hit the front door.

Mom had beat me home. She was waiting for me.

"Hey, Mom!" I practically danced into the house. Soon I'd be climbing the Eiffel Tower. Drinking cafe au lait in un petit bistro. Wearing a beret bought in Paris.