Ann Martin - Mallory On Strike

"I had a great time today," I began. "But something was missing."

"Your mittens?" Claire suggested helpfully. She is always losing hers.

"No." I gave her a squeeze. "What I missed was all of you."

A funny look crossed Jordan's face. "Us?"

"Really?" Byron asked.

"Yup."

"We missed you, too!" Nicky said, resting his chin on top of my head.

I took a deep breath and said, "So I planned a surprise for you — "

"What is it?" Margo said, bouncing up and down. "Tell me, tell me, please!"

I ruffled her hair playfully. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise. Just trust me that it will be lots of fun."

"When's the surprise going to happen?" Adam asked.

"I can't tell you that, either," I said in my most mysterious voice. "Just know that it will happen ..." I paused, then whispered, "soon!"

Chapter 14.

Young Authors Day. At last! I woke up Saturday morning feeling tingly. I was excited, scared, nervous, and happy all at once.

My story, "Caught in the Middle," was lying on a display table at Stoneybrook Middle School. In just a few hours I would find out what the judges thought of it. After four weeks of hard work and frustration, I would finally find out who was the sixth-grade's best overall fiction writer. Believe me, it was agony not knowing. As I dressed, I made myself concentrate on something besides the competition. Mr. Dougherty had planned a day of exciting activities, so I tried to keep my mind on them.

Getting dressed and eating breakfast was just a blur. About the only part of me working normally was my mouth. By the time my family piled into our station wagon to drive to the school, I was chattering away nonstop.

"Pamme Reed, the author of Bradley and the Great Chase, is going to talk to the assembly first/' I announced to anyone who'd listen.

Margo and Nicky were pinching each other, and the triplets were making faces at some kids in the car driving next to us, but Vanessa and my parents seemed to be paying attention.

"After that comes the awards portion of the program." (My voice wobbled a bit when I said that. I hoped nobody noticed.) "After that, people can look at all of the entries on display, while some of us take the afternoon workshops." (I had signed up for both of them.) "Then Pamme Reed will be autographing her books in the library. Isn't that exciting?" I had brought along my copy of her newest book for her to sign.

"Look, it's Jessi!" Nicky shouted as my father pulled into the school parking lot. She was standing on the curb, waiting for me.

"Let me out here, Dad," I called over the shouts of hello from my brothers and sisters. Dad brought the car to a stop and I opened the door. Jessi ran to me.

"Mal, the auditorium is packed!" she reported. "Every kid in school must've brought their entire family!"

That was not exactly what I needed to hear. "Great!" I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Mr. D will be thrilled."

"I saved a seat for us in the first row." Jessi grabbed my arm. "Come on!"

"We'll find a place in back so we can watch you get your award/' my mother called from the car.

"Go get 'em, honey!" my father added.

Boy, I wished I felt half as confident as my parents sounded. When we reached the auditorium, I realized Jessi hadn't been exaggerating. (I almost turned around and ran.) As Jessi and I made our way down the aisle, several kids said hi to me, but I was too nervous to stop and chat.

The lights dimmed a few minutes after we took our seats. A couple of boys cheered and whistled. (One of them was probably Benny Ott. He can be such a show-off.) Then our principal walked onto the stage, followed by Mr. Dougherty and the rest of the English teachers at school. They sat down in a row of chairs behind the principal, Mr. Taylor, who stood at the podium.

"Welcome to Young Authors Day," Mr. Taylor announced, and everyone applauded. I slumped down in my seat and tried to stop my heart from pounding. It felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.

Mr. Taylor made some general welcoming statements, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Dougherty was at the podium. "I have been

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given the great privilege of introducing our guest speaker/' he said. "She has received many awards for her work in children's literature. I would like to say that besides being a terrific writer, Pamme Reed is also a wonderful person."

"It sounds like Mr. Dougherty knows her personally," Jessi whispered into my ear.

"I bet he does," I said proudly. "He's a very good writer himself." I beamed up at my teacher and tried to imagine how it would feel to be a famous writer and be introduced in such glowing terms.

"So without further ado," Mr. Dougherty continued, "let's give a big hand for Ms. Pamme Reed!"

Everyone cheered this time, and a few more boys whistled. (This time I was certain the loudest one was Benny Ott.) Then the famous writer stepped onto the stage from the wings.

Pamme Reed looked like an artist in her Indian-print skirt, brushed leather vest, white blouse with puffed sleeves, and sleek boots. She had shoulder-length red hair, which fell about her shoulders in thick, beautiful waves. I decided then and there that, if by some miracle I survived the next half hour and didn't keel over from nerves, I would try to look and dress just like Pamme Reed.

I have to admit it was hard for me to con-

centrate on her speech. Ms. Reed was saying some really interesting things about writing and about how she first got published, but all I could think about was my story and the awards ceremony.

"How are you doing?" Jessi whispered halfway through Ms. Reed's speech.

"Fine," I murmured back. "Why?"

"Um . . . you look kind of tense." She pointed to my hands, which were folded in my lap. I was gripping them so hard that my knuckles had turned white. I tried to force myself to take a deep breath and relax. It didn't work.

Ms. Reed finished her speech by encouraging us to keep writing. "I look forward to talking to you this afternoon at the book signing," she added.

We applauded loudly as she sat down beside Mr. Dougherty. Then Mr. Taylor introduced Hand Jive, a puppet group from New York City. The group presented a short show about how reading can stimulate the imagination. I think I may have laughed harder than some of the other kids because I was so nervous, but the show really was funny.

When the show was over, Mr. Dougherty stepped up to the podium once more. He unfolded a piece of paper and adjusted his glasses, while a couple of the teachers set a

small table beside him. Some rolled-up papers tied with ribbons were piled on the table. Jessi took hold of my hand and squeezed it hard. "This is it, Mal."

I could only nod and stare straight ahead. Mr. Dougherty started by announcing the winners from selected catagories, like Best Poem, Best Illustration, Best Science Fiction Story, and Best Short Play. Each winner ran down the aisle right beside me and climbed the stairs to the stage. The girl who won Best Mystery tripped going up and almost fell on her face. Some people laughed, and I was seized with a new fear. What if I won and then embarrassed myself by doing the same thing?

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Dougherty announced the category of Best Overall Fiction for the Sixth Grade. He smiled at the assembled students. "It was particularly difficult to pick a winner for this category," he said. "The judges said they received quite a few excellent stories/'

"Uh-oh," I mumbled, sliding down in my seat again. Jessi was still clutching my hand, but I could no longer bear to watch Mr. Dougherty. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to listen to the rest of his speech.

"All of us agreed that the stories were very original and quite well written," Mr. Dough-135