Ann Martin: Mallory On Strike

erty continued. "But one story seemed to stand above the others — "

My heart was pounding so hard it sounded like a freight train in my ears. My stomach did flip-flops as I thought about Rebecca Mason, one of the girls in my creative writing class. She had turned in her story early, and then sat around all week looking smug while the rest of us frantically tried to get ours finished in time. Her cover looked as though it had been done by a professional illustrator. I had been the last student in my class to turn in a story. And my cover looked really homemade next to hers.

Suddenly it came to me like a flash. Of course! Rebecca was going to win. How could I even think I had a chance?

Mr. Dougherty was, still talking, but his words sounded like a tape being played too slowly and I could barely understand him.

"That story was written by — "

I heard thunderous applause and I tried to put on a congratulatory face for Rebecca Mason. I turned in my seat, with a forced smile on my face, and watched for her to come down the aisle.

But no one was there. And suddenly Jessi threw her arms around my neck.

"You did it!" she squealed. "You did it!"

"I did?" I blinked uncomprehendingly at my friend. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

I didn't know what to say. I just sat in my seat, unable to move. It was really strange. For four weeks all I could think about was winning the award for Best Overall Fiction for the Sixth Grade, and now that I had won it, I was numb with shock.

"Hurry up," Jessi urged me. "Go get your award."

She practically had to push me out of my seat and point me toward the stage.

I stumbled up the steps, unaware of what my feet were doing. Then Mr, Taylor shook my hand, and Pamme Reed handed me the certificate herself. Mr. Dougherty was smiling from ear to ear. He leaned down and whispered, "I knew you could do it, Mallory! You're a real writer now."

I think hearing that was as great as winning the prize.

"Thank you." I turned to look at the crowd in the auditorium. Little flashes of light were popping like fireworks as people snapped pictures. My family was standing near the back with all my friends, cheering and waving. Even Benny Ott and several of his pals were clapping their hands above their heads and

whistling. (Maybe Benny's not so bad after all.)

I was grinning so hard that my face hurt. I felt the way those women look when they win the Miss America pageant. You know, when they're smiling, and their faces are shining, but tears are streaming down their cheeks? I think I'll remember that moment for as long as I live.

Jessi met me on the other side of the stage, and the two of us raced up the aisle to show my family the award. Dad took about a hundred pictures of me with my certificate.

Then it was time for the workshops, which were really interesting. The first was called, "A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words." It was offered by an illustrator who showed us how words and drawings can make a story progress.

The second workshop was about what happens to a book when it is published. I never dreamed how many steps a book had to go through before it got to me. The woman giving the workshop, who's an editor at a big publishing company in New York City, told us it usually takes a year from the time an author sells the book to a publisher until it ends up in bookstores.

While we were in the workshops, the school had opened the cafeteria, where the work of

every student who participated in Young Authors Day was on display. The stories ranged in length from just a few pages to a short novel. All of them had brightly colored covers. The judges had given many of the booklets blue stickers for honorable mention. There were red stickers for third-place winners, silver stickers for second-place, and beautiful shiny gold stickers for the first-place winners.

My family found my book displayed on a far table by the window. "Look," my sister Vanessa cried, when I joined them later. "I think thousands of people have already read your story."

"Vanessa, there aren't a thousand people here," I said. But I was glowing inside because the book really did look like a lot of people had read it.

The day ended perfectly. First, Pamme Reed autographed my copy of her new book and then wrote a note of congratulation on my story. She wished me luck in my career as a writer. We talked about how difficult it is to find just the right words to fit your thoughts and feelings. She treated me like I was a real author!

When the day was over, and my family was back home, I gathered my brothers and sisters in the living room and said, "It's time for me to tell you about my surprise."

"Oh, goody!" cried Claire.

"I've had my special day," I said, "and it was wonderful, but next weekend, Jessi and I are going to take you out for your very own special day!"

"Our own day?" Margo repeated.

"Yes. And it's going to be packed with fun things to do. I want each of you to dress in clothes you might wear if you were an explorer."

"You mean, like jeans and stuff?" Jordan asked.

"Right. You never know what kind of terrain we'll be covering. Wear a jacket and comfortable shoes. Also I want you each to carry a knapsack."

"What should we put in our snapsack?" Claire asked.

"A newspaper, a paper bag, and something you can make music with."

"Like what?" Margo asked.

I smiled mysteriously. "Use your imagination."

Chapter 15.

Exploring we will go! Exploring we will go! Hi, ho, the derry-oh, exploring we will go!"

Jessi and I led my seven brothers and sisters down the sidewalk in front of our house, singing at the top of our lungs. In fact, we were so loud that some of the neighbors peered out their front doors to see what the racket was. But as soon as they recognized us, marching in single file down the street like a band of explorers, they smiled and ducked back inside their homes.

I guess it was my fault that we were making so much noise, but I couldn't help it. I felt wonderful. I had just spent one of the best weeks of my life. For five whole days, teachers and kids, some of whom I'd never met before, stopped me in the halls at school to congratulate me on my award. Mr. Dougherty even asked the writing class to give me a special

round of applause when I entered the classroom. But, best of all, I was back in the BSC.

"We sure missed you, Mal," Kristy said, when I arrived for the Monday meeting at Claud's house.

"I missed you guys, too." I sat down in my old spot on the floor next to Jessi. "And I want to apologize to everyone for being such a grouch. I guess I was a little touchy there for awhile."

"Don't ever let it happen again," Kristy teased, shaking her finger at me sternly, "or we'll make you stand on your head and eat live worms — "

"Or roasted eels," Dawn said, looking at Claud. "From Maurice's."

"Ew, ew, ew, ew!" Claudia cried, squinch-ing up her nose.

We all began describing the most disgusting things we could think of to eat. Within minutes we were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down our cheeks. Then the phone rang and we fell back into our comfortable routine. I leaned against the bed and smiled at my friends, just happy to be back in the club.

Things may have been the same with the BSC, but they had sure changed at home. After my talk with Mom and Dad, they got together and decided that from now on, if I

needed private time for my homework or my writing, I could use the desk in their bedroom. Can you believe it? On top of that, they said I could put a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob while I'm working, and that everyone has to honor it. Dad made the official announcement to the family at dinner on Monday. "Whenever that sign is out, no one is to bother Mallory."

Then my mom said that, of course, she and Dad will still expect me to help out with my brothers and sisters and do chores around the house, but they'll only ask for big favors if I'm free. That means that if I have another writing project and really need some private time, I can have it. Isn't that great?