Read Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) Online

Authors: Sandra Byrd

Tags: #JUVENILE FICTION / Religious / Christian

Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (16 page)

BOOK: Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential)
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Chapter 38

After I promised Mr. Thompson I wouldn’t chew gum in his class anymore, he let me out of detention ten minutes early to pick up the leftovers of that day’s WA
Times
. When I went from holder to holder, about half of the papers were gone. That was a good sign! Maybe the buzz had worked, and if so, we probably had Penny to thank. Or Jack and his tireless promotion with posters and flyers hung up around campus. Or the jock coming out of the gym or even the typesetters who had tried a younger, hipper font for the paper. Maybe that’s what it was all about—each of us doing our job.

I found one slightly soggy paper plastered to the side of the paper holder near the bus stop at the edge of campus. I opened it up and read my column
in the paper!
for the first time.

Dear Left Out,

I’m really sorry that you’re in this position. It never feels good when a friend moves on. But maybe that’s how you should look at it—moving on, and moving forward. If you want, you can talk with her directly and ask if anything is wrong or if you’ve offended her. If she reassures you that nothing is wrong, then perhaps distancing herself is her way of telling you, kindly, that she’s moving on to other friends. Part of having friends is learning to let them go sometimes too.

Go ahead and be sad for a few days. After that, though, consider that it might be a blessing. It makes more time for you to find a new friend. One who wants to get closer, and not more distant. Think about it for a minute. Who comes to mind?

I read the column again after I got over the initial tingle of seeing my words in print. I’d known from my last “good-bye” conversation with Jen what had happened between us.

I also kinda knew when I’d searched for a Bible verse to help me answer the question and found Philippians 3.

I’ve said good-bye, Lord. You showed me how. But will anyone answer when I say hello?

Chapter 39

I arrived home on Friday afternoon in a fairly good mood until Louanne met me at the door.

“Bad news. She’s here. And she’s our babysitter this weekend.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said. “Aunt Maude has arrived, and Mom and Dad are almost ready to leave.”

Okay, drop the good mood. I’d forgotten that Aunt Maude was coming today.

“Hi, Savvy,” my mom sang out from the kitchen. “Dad and I are just about to go. Aunt Maude has a wonderful weekend lined up for you.”

“Yes, and no telly,” Aunt Maude said, coming down the stairs. She must have put her things in the guest room. “A complete brain drain mixed with dodgy bits of nonsense. We’ll have healthy, educational fun. And maybe do some proper Christmas shopping.”

I had the suspicion that Aunt Maude’s idea of a good Christmas present was a gift certificate to the local after-school Learning Centre. So imagine my surprise when, at the supper table, she sprang Saturday’s plans on us.

“We’re going to London tomorrow,” she said. “To do some shopping for your mum and dad. However else will you buy them some gifts?”

Maybe Aunt Maude was okay after all!

Louanne and I sat in our regular chairs at the table. Growl was in the corner, behaving. Some sixth canine sense told him he’d better be on his best behavior with Aunt Maude or he’d find himself barking for his supper at the local dog pound.

“What are we having to eat?” I spoke up. I figured as the oldest I had a responsibility to make small talk.

“Toad in the hole,” Aunt Maude said as she pulled a casserole dish from the oven.

I swallowed hard. Louanne, the vegetarian, looked as if she might cry.

“Oh.” I tried to sound casual. “Is that like frogs’ legs?” I had never eaten frogs’ legs. I had never considered eating frogs’ legs. But I’d give it a try. If I had to.

“No, dear.” Aunt Maude set the casserole down on the table and then settled her plump self on one of the nearby cushioned seats. “It’s sausage baked in batter. And here. I’ve made one with veg sausages for you.” She pushed a small plate toward Louanne.

Louanne smiled gratefully. Not everyone was so willing to accommodate her vegetarian habits.

Aunt Maude poured a golden liquid over her portion. “It’s really good with loads of syrup,” she said. And it was!

The next morning we were up early. I mean, shopping in London! Who would have known? Aunt Maude was nearly done fixing breakfast.

“A proper English breakfast,” she pronounced. “Toast, eggs, tomatoes, and black pudding.”

“Ooh, chocolate pudding for breakfast,” I said.

“Whoever said anything about chocolate?” Aunt Maude tied her apron tighter around her waist, forcing a little roll of fat on top and beneath the tightened strings. “Black pudding is blood sausage, dear. Lots of iron.”

I hate to admit it. I really do. But I fed my sausage piece by piece to Growl when Aunt Maude wasn’t looking.

She drove us to London, having decided that it was entirely enough for us to go to one store—we could find everything we needed there. It was a large Marks & Spencer.

London was decked out in Christmas finery—pretend-snow spray framed each window, and there were lots of red and green bow ties on the ancient lampstands. Christmas lights shone like tiny crown jewels from each storefront. Louanne and I put our heads, and our savings, together and bought Mom some brand-new cookie sheets and some scented hot pads—they smelled like cinnamon sugar when warmed up. Amazing!

We found a book explaining English sports for Dad. Hopefully that would chase away his sports blues.

Louanne insisted on a new leather leash for Giggle.

“But he doesn’t go anywhere,” I said.

“He will when I start training him for the junior sportsmanship,” she said.

I sighed but didn’t let her see my face. Might as well not kill off her dream. I was betting Mom and Dad hadn’t given it another thought.

Aunt Maude bought a few things too. “We’ll take them to the village post this afternoon when we get home,” she said. “I want to send them off straightaway. Only two weeks till Christmas. But first, time for a nice jam butty.”

Chapter 40

It turns out a jam butty is a jelly sandwich, but I didn’t think I’d be sending a big package of them to my family in Seattle.

“Come along to the post,” Aunt Maude said after we’d returned to Wexburg. “Everyone who lives in a village should know the postman.”

I’d forgotten that she’d lived in Wexburg—in our very house, actually—for a long time before she’d moved to the country.

We walked to the center of the village and into the post office. It was kind of like a drugstore. To my surprise, it even had some candy and gum. I picked through the candy bars looking for something to replace my beloved Hershey Kisses now that I was a proper Londoner. I was deciding between a Cadbury Chomp and a Cadbury Flake, but the Flake won out.

Then we went to the back, and a teenager was working the post window.

“I want to see Tom,” Aunt Maude insisted.

“Mr. Tom, he don’t come to the window no more,” the kid said. “I do all the package and posting while he’s managing.”

“Tell him Maude’s here,” she insisted.

A tall man with a jiggly stomach came around the corner. His hair was neatly cropped to his head, almost military short. “Maude!” he said and gave her a hug.

“New glasses?” she asked.

He nodded. “That time of life, you know.” His glasses slid down his nose a bit, and he pushed them back up. “Need to get me one of those screws to fix them. A little to the right, back a bit off to the left, and Bob’s your uncle!”

I’d been looking at a selection of Christmas cards, but when I heard that, my neck snapped around. Something about him was gnawing at me. I couldn’t figure out what it was. He looked and sounded familiar.

Aunt Maude chatted with him, and he kept looking at me nervously. Which made me look away at first . . . and then I looked back.

Yes, there it was. Right next to his eye. The tiniest little bruise, almost gone. He’d had a black eye! And the “Bob’s your uncle” phrase. The only other person I’d heard say that was . . .

The postmaster was the same person as Father Christmas!

I caught his eye and he caught mine and, he knew that I knew. I almost fainted.

I wandered back to the candy aisle and pretended to browse. What a scoop! If I wrote this up in the paper, everyone would know who Father Christmas was. Then it wouldn’t matter if my columns did well or not, because even if they tanked, I’d have proven myself as a real reporter.

Except that I’d be scooping Melissa, my only real friend. And it was her story.

And Father Christmas had obviously worked very hard to keep his secret, which was, after all, really his to divulge or not.

Aunt Maude, Louanne, and I walked back to our house. “What does ‘Bob’s your uncle’ mean?” I asked Aunt Maude.

“Oh, it means, well, ‘just so,’ or ‘just like that,’ or ‘then all is right.’ Something like that.”

“Do many people say it?”

Maude smiled. “Not many young people, that’s for sure. Perhaps a few in my generation, though I don’t hear it much anymore. Why?”

“The postman said it,” I replied.

“Oh, him. I hadn’t noticed. But I suppose you would, being American and all.”

I’d never heard it before I talked with Father Christmas.

“So, do you know much about Father Christmas?” I continued fishing with Aunt Maude. After all, I was a journalist! I watched her face closely, to see if her response revealed that she knew Tom the postman’s secret.

“What do you mean?” she responded. “He’ll be at the town center, as always, the week before Christmas.”

“Ooh! Father Christmas. He’s like Santa Claus,” Louanne said.

“He’s vastly superior, dear,” Aunt Maude informed her. “He’s British, after all. Not a Johnny-come-lately in a ridiculous red velvet suit.”

I hid my grin.
No, he was in ridiculous green and blue velour robes instead.

“Do I have to sit on his lap if I want to give him my present list?” Louanne asked.

“Of course you do, dear. No one else is going to sit on his lap for you.” Aunt Maude pulled out a hanky and delicately wiped her nose.

“Can I send him a letter?”

“I don’t know where you’d send it,” she said. “No, you’ll just have to go to the town center if you want to talk with him.”

But I knew where I could send the letter. And if I chose to write about it, all of Wexburg could too. It would make my career.

BOOK: Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential)
6.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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