Ann Martin - Claudia And The Terrible Truth

Kristy took one look and cracked up. 'Another pterodactyl," she said. "Glad I'm not the only one around here who can't draw." Mary Anne looked hurt for a second. Then she cracked up too.

Claire, meanwhile, was working hard on her own piece of cardboard. Tongue between her teeth, she labored carefully, ignoring everyone else as she concentrated. On her way to help Marilyn and Carolyn cut out their twin shamrocks, Stacey glanced at Claire's drawing. "Very nice, Claire," she commented. "But — um — what is it?" “An eye!" Claire pronounced proudly.

“An eye?" Claire nodded. "See, here's the middle part, and here's the eyelashes, and here's the eyebrow —" "I see, I see," said Stacey. "But why are you drawing an eye?" "Because we're supposed to," said Claire. "Mal said we're making Irish things." Stacey looked confused. Then she smiled. "Now I understand,” she told Claire. "Here, let me show you something." She grabbed a piece of paper. "This is how 'eye' is spelled,” she said patiently, writing out the word in capital letters. 'And this is how you spell 'Irish/ The two words sound alike, but they're very different. 'Irish' means from Ireland." She was trying to be gentle with the news, since Claire is sensitive and can throw an excellent tantrum when she wants to.

But Claire just nodded. "Okay," she said cheerfully.

"You could make a shamrock," Stacey suggested, "or a leprechaun hat." (We'd decided by then that hats would be a lot easier than entire leprechauns.) "That's okay," Said Claire. "I like my eye. I'm going to finish it anyway, even if it isn't Irish." She picked up her pencil again and added another eyelash.

At that, Stacey shrugged and gave up, moving on to help the twins.

Over at the other table, Jessi and Mal were already opening paint for Shea, Andrew, and David Michael. 'All set already?" asked Kristy, cruising by. "What did you guys decide to make?" She glanced over Jessi's shoulder. "Nice," she commented. "Nice — uh — shape." "You don't know what it is, do you?" asked Mal.

"We'll give you a hint," said Jessi. "It's a rock." "A rock?" Kristy guessed.

“A big Irish one," Mal said, grinning.

Kristy still looked confused.

"Ready, guys?" asked Jessi, coaching the three kids. "Let's tell Kristy what it is. All together, one, two, three —" "The Blarney Stone!" they chorused.

Kristy cracked up. "That's great!" she said. "Good choice," she whispered to Jessi. "You thought of something easy to draw." By then, almost all the kids had finished drawing and cutting out their Irish symbols.

"Keep a close eye on Jackie," Kristy whispered to Abby (who'd returned from the house). "Now that he's ready to paint, you can bet he'll find a way to make a mess." Jackie's a terrific kid, but he does have a habit of making messes and breaking things, including his own bones. (That's why we call him the Walking Disaster.) He can't help it. He's just accident-prone.

"No problem," Abby whispered back. "He's on his way to the bathroom. He won't be anywhere near the paint for awhile." Kristy nodded. "Great. Did you remind him not to let Pow out?" Abby gulped. "Oops," she said.

Just then, Pow came galumphing out of the back door, barking his head off. Bo jumped up, instantly breaking the shoelace leash, and took off, with Pow behind him. The dogs raced around the yard,, taking turns chasing each other.

"Catch them!" yelled Kristy.

Every last kid jumped up and began to run after the dogs. "Oh, no." Mary Anne groaned.

"Cover the paint!" Kristy called to Mal, who was still standing near the table. "Before the dogs-" "Ohhhh," moaned everyone at once. Pow had just run headlong into the first table, spilling three jars of green paint onto Bo, who was behind him.

Jackie had done it again.

It took at least half an hour to clean up and start over again. This time, Bo was tied up more securely, with a clothesline "borrowed" from between two trees. He was still green, since Kristy figured the poster paint wouldn't hurt him. His bath could wait until later. . By the time I arrived, panting, most of the work was done and the kids were cleaning up for the second time.

"What do you think?" Kristy asked proudly, gesturing at a row of drying cardboard figures.

I didn't even glance at them. "We have to have an emergency meeting!" I blurted out.

"Now?" asked Kristy, studying my face.

I nodded. Kristy must have seen how serious I was. "We'll meet you at your house in" — she glanced at her watch — "fifteen minutes," she said. 'As soon as we make sure these kids are all home safely." A safe home. Every other kid in that yard had one. But Nate and Joey didn't. What were we going to do about it?

Chapter 9.

I sat on my bed, waiting for everyone else to arrive. My mind was spinning. I looked around my room at all the familiar objects: the art on the walls, my overstuffed bookshelf, my collection of sea glass found on the beach. I felt so comfortable here, so sure of my place in the world. How would it feel to be Nate or Joey or any of the thousands of kids who couldn't feel secure in their own homes?

I couldn't imagine.

I didn't want to imagine.

But I knew I would never forget the sound of that slap, or the image of those two little boys standing behind their father, afraid of him.

I felt tears spring to my eyes, thinking of Nate and Joey, always worried about keeping things "just so." What kind of childhood was that?

I jumped when Kristy burst into my room. I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't even heard her come up the stairs. "What happened?" she demanded.

"I heard—" I started to tell her, but then I thought better of it. I didn't want to have to repeat the horrible story more than I had to. "Let's wait until everyone's here," I said.

Kristy, who's not usually known as Ms. Sensitive, put a hand on my shoulder. "We'll help you work it out, whatever it is," she said softly.

I nearly began crying. Instead, trying to control my feelings, I said, "Have a Milky Way while you wait," and shoved a bag full of miniature chocolate bars into her hands.

Within a few minutes, all the other BSC members were on hand. Stacey and Mary Anne joined me on the bed, one on each side. Jessi, Mal, and Abby sprawled on the floor. Everyone looked at me expectantly. But I couldn't seem to speak the words I had to say.

"What is it, Claud?" asked Mary Anne gently after a few silent moments had passed.

"I heard — I think Mr. Nicholls — he hit one of the boys!" I blurted out. 'And I don't mean a little spank." "What?" Everyone gasped at once.

"Oh, no." Mary Anne put her hand over her mouth. "It can't be." "Sure it can," said Kristy grimly. "Do you know how many abused children there are in this country?" She shook her head in disgust.

"I did a report on it for social studies last fall. It's unbelievable." "But in Stoneybrook?" asked Mal.

"Everywhere," Kristy answered. "Rich people, poor people, people of all colors, shapes, and sizes hurt their kids." She turned back to me. "Tell us exactly what happened," she said. "Every detail. It's important." I began my story with my arrival at the Nichollses' house that afternoon. I threw in a couple of things I hadn't had a chance to tell my friends before, such as the way the kids became so upset when I spilled my juice.

Then I explained why the boys hadn't been allowed to come to the St. Patrick's Day preparations.

"Because Joey did what!" asked Abby. "He touched his father's briefcase. Since when is that a crime?" I shook my head. "Mr. Nicholls has a lot of rules," I said. "Now I know why the boys are so careful about following them." "It's so awful," said Mary Anne.

"I know," I answered. "I thought his rules and his yelling were bad enough. But this —" "Explain 'this,’ " Kristy said. "We need to hear the rest." So I told them about Mr. Nicholls coming home, and how he seemed to be in a terrible mood. "He was still acting nice to me," I said, remembering his fake smile, "but I was already starting to worry about the boys. I had a feeling he was going to yell at them no matter what they did,” I paused. "But he did more than just yell." I told them the rest of the story. How Mr. Nicholls had paid me and told me to leave. How I'd gone upstairs to find my jacket. How he'd started yelling about his paper.