Ann Martin: Mallory On Strike

Mallory on Strike

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

Today — at exactly2:15 PM — my entire life changed. That was when Mr. Dougherty, my creative writing teacher, told my class about Young Authors Day.

I'm Mallory Pike. Most people call me Mal. I'm eleven years old, and I want to be a writer. Correction. I am going to be a writer. And I am going to write about everything. And illustrate my books, too.

Anyway, Mr. Dougherty announced the event to my creative writing class, which is a special one that I was invited to join because of my writing talent. (Does that sound too conceited? I hope not.) I was so thrilled when I was picked for his class because not only is Mr. Dougherty the coolest, funniest, smartest teacher I have ever had, but he has actually had a book published. He's a real author like I want to be. The kids in my class call him Mr. D. He seems to like it, too. He's kind of round

and jolly, with a big, bushy mustache that he twirls around his finger whenever he's pleased with something. He always twirls it when we call him Mr. D.

Now, where was I? Oh, right. Young Authors Day. Mr. D told us that it is a special day celebrating future writers. A famous author is going to talk to the whole school about writing and how to get a book published, and then a contest is going to be held, with prizes going to the best writers inStoneybrookMiddle School . There are lots of categories that we can enter: Best Poem, Best Short Story, Best Mystery, Best Illustration of a Story, and (the one I hope to win) Best Overall Fiction for the Sixth Grade. When I told Mr. D that was the category I wanted to enter, his eyes twinkled and he twirled the ends of his mustache. (So I know he was pleased.)

I couldn't wait to tell Jessi about it. She's my best friend. Jessica Ramsey is her full name, but no one ever calls her that, except maybe her parents when they're mad at her. Jessi is beautiful. She's tall and thin, with wonderful long legs that are just right for a ballerina, which is what she is. And not just any ballerirta, either, but one of the best at this really good ballet school she goes to inStamford . Just to show you how great a dancer she is, Jessi's had the lead in several major pro-

ductions recently, including Coppelia, in which she played Swanilda. I go to every one of her performances, and so do the rest of my friends in the Baby-sitters Club —but I'll tell you about them later.

Jessi is the same age as me, eleven. We're both junior officers in the BSC (Baby-sitters Club). We're a lot alike except for a few things. First, I come from a huge family with eight kids. And guess what. Three of them are identical triplets. But even though they look alike,Byron,Jordan , and Adam have very different personalities — especially Byron, who's quieter and more sensitive than his brothers.

People often say we're stair-step kids, which means that we were born one after the other. And they're right. You see, I'm the oldest. The triplets, who are ten, are right behind me. My sister Vanessa is nine, Nicky is eight, Margo is seven, and last but not least is Claire. She's five. Can you imagine eating dinner with that many people every night? It can be a zoo, sometimes. But Mom and Dad don't seem to be bothered by it. They're great.

Everyone in my family has chestnut brown hair and blue eyes. And out of all ten of us, Nicky and I are the ones who wear glasses. Which I hate. I've begged my parents for contacts, but they say I have to wait until I'm older. I also wear braces. (The clear plastic

kind.) And as long as we're on the subject of things I hate, let's talk about my nose. I got it from my grandfather. If I could get rid of it, I would.

Jessi doesn't wear braces or glasses, and her family is regular-sized (two parents and three kids, plus her Aunt Cecelia). Jessi's eight-year-old sister is named Becca (short for Rebecca), and her baby brother is nicknamed Squirt. His real name is John Philip Ramsey, Jr., which is a very big name for such a little guy.

Another difference between Jessi and me is that she's black and I'm white. In fact, Jessi is the only black student in the entire sixth grade. It doesn't mean anything to me, but it did to a lot of people when the Ramseys first moved toStoneybrook,Connecticut . (That's where we live.) I'm ashamed to say that some of the people in Stoneybrook were pretty rotten to them at first. But things have gotten much better for the Ramseys.

I told Jessi my news about Young Authors Day and the writing contest as we headed home after school. Since it was Friday, we were feeling pretty great. When I told her that I had a chance at winning the Best Overall Fiction award for the entire sixth grade, Jessi gave me a hug. The two of us stood on the street corner, where we usually go our separate ways, squealing with excitement. We

didn't even care that Justin Forbes and Howie Johnson, two eighth-graders, heard us. I was too happy to be embarrassed. And Jessi, my best friend, was happy for me.

"Just think!" I said, pushing my glasses up on my nose. "I have the whole weekend to work on my prize-winning short story."

"Do you have any idea what you're going to write about?" Jessi asked.

I shook my head. "I'm planning to hole up in my room and use the next two days to come up with the perfect award-winning idea."

"You could write a horse story," Jessi suggested. "Everyone loves them, especially the ones by — "

"Marguerite Henry!" we both said at the same time. She's our favorite author.

"I'm going to have to check my journal," I said after we stopped giggling. (I'm not sure why we were giggling so much. Maybe just because it was Friday and we were happy.) "I've written a lot of ideas in there. I think I'll take a look at it and then decide."

I keep my journal under my mattress in my bedroom, which I share with Vanessa. Not that I need to hide it from her. She's a poet and understands a writer's need for privacy.

"First I am going to finish all my homework this afternoon, so I can focus my complete attention on my story." Then I groaned when

I realized my homework was mostly math and science, my two hardest subjects. That was going to take a lot of concentration, which was hard because I was feeling so excited.

Jessi checked the little gold watch she was wearing and reminded me, "You better get started on your homework right away. We have a BSC meeting in exactly two hours."

"Two hours? Yikes!" I waved good-bye to Jessi and shouted, "See you at Claud's!" (Claudia Kishi is the vice-president of the BSC, and we hold our meetings at her house.)

Then I hurried home. Our house is medium-sized for such a big family. In fact, sometimes it seems tiny. My brothers, Nicky and the triplets, have one bedroom (two sets of bunk beds); my two youngest sisters, Claire and Margo, share another; and Vanessa and I share a third. My parents have the master bedroom. You can imagine with that many people in such a small space, something's always happening. Today was no exception.

I opened the front door and was about to hang my jacket in the hall closet when Claire wrapped her arms around my legs and shrieked, "The boogiemen are after me!"

"Boogiemen?" I repeated. (Usually there is only one boogieman, and he lives in a closet. Everybody knows that.)

Claire pointed at the living room, where the

triplets were crouched like cats ready to pounce. Byron was wearing a catcher's mask; Adam was wearing a diving mask, with big flippers on his feet; andJordan was carrying Dad's tennis racquet in his hand, a ski mask pulled over his face. At first glance they really were kind of scary.

"Moozie is gone," Claire cried, her lower lip quivering. (That's what Claire sometimes calls Mom — Moozie.) "They napped her."

"Napped?" I repeated. "You mean, kidnapped?"

Claire let out a sob. "Yes."