Ms. Zephyr's Notebook (7 page)

Return address: [email protected]

Logan's heart gave a little flip in his chest. Her e-mail address! But why would she give it to the kid and not to him?

“Geez, Kip, you've got to be joking. You've been talking to her by e-mail tonight?”

Kip closed the computer again and pulled it protectively onto his lap. “Not tonight, actually. She isn't on-line right now. But I know what she's doing and why she's doing it. And she promised to keep in touch with me so I would know she was all right.”

Logan jammed his hands in his pockets and tried to think. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought. Maybe Cleo had just bolted for a day or two, and she'd be back soon and everything would go back to normal. And yet…

His fingers tested the pill bottle in his pocket. She left without her meds. But worse — she left without taking any of her stuff, which meant that she knew she wouldn't need any of it ever again. Any way he looked at it, Cleo was in trouble. And he was sitting in here, wasting time, trying to keep this little kid from talking.

“She probably only gave you the address because you're too young to do anything about it,” he muttered to himself. He lifted his head and looked at Kip as though he'd never seen him before. “How old are you, Kip? Like nine or something?”

For the first time in Logan's memory Kip looked really annoyed. He drew himself up in bed. “I'm eleven, Logan. Nearly eleven and a half, actually. I'm just small for my age because… well, just because.” He looked up and Logan could see he was close to tears. “We can't all be giants, you know.”

Suddenly, Logan felt terrible. Here was this little kid who probably cared about Cleo as much as he did, or even more, truth be told, and he was a computer whiz. New possibilities clicked through his brain. Keeping carefully away from any of Kip's equipment, Logan began to pace the floor at the end of the bed.

“Listen, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say you were small — only that for a kid so small you have a really big brain.”

Kip's eyes welled up again.

“Wait, that didn't come out right. I just mean … don't be upset. This is a chance for us to work together, y'know?”

“Like that time you said we could work together on the TV, but I ended up missing my show 'cause you wanted to play Xbox? I don't want to work together like that.”

“Nah, forget about that time. That was the old Logan, kid. Things are different now. At least, I'm trying to make them different. And right now, the biggest problem we have is time. We need to find out where she's going now. And since she's not going to tell us, we've got to figure it out ourselves.”

“Do you think she'd just go home, you know, to be in her own bed?” said Kip. “I really miss my own bed. That's what I'd do.”

Logan bit back a sharp retort. He had to remember the kid was only trying to help.

“Not a chance, buddy. I think you're right that she's looking for something that's important to her. I mean, it's a big risk to run away, especially when…”

“When what?”

“When you… uh… know what big trouble you are going to get in if you are caught.” Logan grabbed the notebook and stuck it into the tiny circle of light made by the chart lamp. “I just need some kind of clue as to where she's going. It's got to be in here.”

Kip lay back against his pillow, and yawned cavernously. “Well, I still think she'd want to go where somebody loves her,” he said sleepily.

Logan nearly dropped Abbie's notebook. He reached over and grabbed one of Kip's feet under the covers.

Kip's eyes flew open. “Hey!” he said indignantly.

“Listen, kid, I think you've got something. Who is the one person Cleo loves most in the world?”

“Her grandma,” Kip said promptly. “And her dog, Zoë.”

Logan rapidly flipped through the notebook. “She wrote something about her grandma, Kip. I know it's in here somewhere…”

November 14

Kip G.

Dear Abbie,

You said my journal entry for today should be about my friends. At school I don't have too many friends. Sometimes the other kids don't get why I can't play rocket dodgeball or anything, and it's hard to hang out with kids if you want to play rocket dodgeball but you can't. So, today I'm writing about the kids at the hospital here who are my friends.

The best thing about this place is that there are other kids around. Some aren't very friendly, but some are. Like Spencer from last year. He was pretty friendly. Except that time he punched me for talking too much. But mostly he was friendly.

There are two other kids in here right now, plus a baby in ICU, but that isn't our ward so it doesn't count. I tried to talk to the girl yesterday but I think she was sleepy. She doesn't like poker, that's for sure. I checked her door again. It says her name is Cleopatra, but she said that for the last time didn't I know that almost everyone here is an idiot and they got her name wrong and would I get lost. So I tried to talk to the other guy, but he was busy with the janitor patching the big hole he kicked in the wall of your office.

At least I can tell you what he looks like. He's a bit
scary looking. His name is Logan. He had white dust in his hair from the work he and the janitor were doing, and he is at least seven feet tall, so he must be a teenager. He seems cool, but he was very mad about having to fix the wall, so I left. I hate getting punched.

And that's it. Two kids plus me.

From, Kip.

November 14

Jacqueline H-M.

5:17 p.m.

Dear Ms. Zephyr,

For my journal entry today I am writing to protest the withholding of my homework. I assure you, three days is more than enough recovery time from a minor fainting spell. As you know, it was NOT a heart attack. I am very ready to get back to work. Please relent.

Oh, and while I am down on my metaphorical knees, could you also help arrange the return of my red sweater? It's always freezing in here. Thank you.

Yours impatiently,

Jacqueline

November 14

Jacqueline H-M.

6:04 p.m.

Dear Ms. Zephyr,

I have just completed the final page of
Moby Dick
and in addition to having no homework to work on, I now officially have nothing to read. As it seems you have gone home for the day, and I can't even locate an old Reader's Digest in this godforsaken place, I will be forced to read the contents of this notebook.

Jacqueline

November 15

Jacqueline H-M.

8:59 a.m.

Dearest Ms. Zephyr,

Thank you so much for relenting! I will start on the math that I have missed right away. Will have it in to you by this afternoon, a full day before it is due, I hope you note!

However, I have another request to make. Due to your slow acquiescence on the homework front, I read all the way through this notebook. I must say I am feeling quite hurt by Mr. Kemp's journal entries. Could
you please ask Mr. Kemp to cease referring to me as “the little weirdie”? First of all, “weirdie” is not a word. My name is Jacqueline Hornby-Moss. He may refer to me as Ms. Hornby-Moss or even Ms. Jacqueline if his tiny brain can't manage the whole thing.

And secondly, though I am indeed physically smaller than he is, I am most assuredly not little. Adine Terrepini at my school wears a size zero and I wear at least a size three — higher on my fat days. And not only that, I checked Mr. Kemp's chart when he was playing Xbox (as usual) and discovered that he is a mere fifteen months my senior. Less than a year and a half is hardly enough to give him such a superiority complex.

Thank you for allowing me to redress this misunderstanding.

~Jacqueline Hornby-Moss

Postscript: Ms. Zephyr, when you do have the opportunity to speak with Mr. Kemp, you might also mention to him that Carl Sagan would say no such thing as “I'm outta here”? I speak from experience as he was an acquaintance of our family and, according to my Nona, he was a deeply thoughtful man.

November 15

Logan K.

Noonish

Hey Abs,

Finally broke down and talked to the new kid with the kidney problem. Friendly little guy, but a bit of a pest. I hadn't known him sixty seconds before he was showing me his scar. I guess when it's emergency surgery they just slice your whole side open to get that thing out, huh?

I felt kinda sorry for the kid after that, plus I remembered I hadn't done my journal entry for today, so I took a few notes. (Hey, you can get back up off the floor, Abbie. I am only joking.)

Anyways, here's the scoop for you because we all know — repeat after me, children — a completed journal entry means unrestricted TV, right? Right.

Me:
What's your name, kid?

KK:
Kip. But around here, people call me the Kidney Kid.

Me:
That's pretty stupid.

KK:
I was born with only one kidney that didn't work so well. And I think it's because my name is Kip. It's like three Ks, right? Kip the Kidney Kid.

Me:
Oh, God.

KK:
Oh, sorry Logan, are you in pain?

Me:
Uh — it's okay. When you leave it'll pass.

KK:
You're pretty funny, Logan. How tall are you anyway? I guess seven feet. Want to see my scar?

Me:
That's too many questions, kid. And I'm only six foot one.

KK:
Wow. Six foot one is pretty tall. Do you call Jacqueline “kid” too?

Me:
No. Her I call “Weird.” Because she is. She's a little like you, kid.

KK:
Uh, thanks.

Me:
And I think I hear her calling you.

KK:
Really? Maybe she wants to play poker.

Me:
Oh yeah, I heard her say that. You'd better go see her right away.

KK:
Okay. Bye, Logan.

Me:
Nice scar, by the way.

KK:
Thanks, dude.

Me:
Don't call me dude. Get outta here.

And that's it, Abbie. Now you know all about the little pest. That I can sic him on the little weirdie is the best part. They're both irritating so they suit each other. And now… I do believe it's time for Sports Central on ESPN.

Logan

November 18

Jacqueline H.-M.

11:00 a.m.

Dear Ms. Zephyr,

Feeling much better today. I took the liberty of going back to change my signature from my November 12th journal entry. I must have still been under the effects of the medication after the fainting spell.

It was Remembrance Day on the 11th but I guess I didn't notice. In today's mail I received an interesting letter from my Nona. The two people I miss most in here are my dog Zoë and my Nona.

The letter was only a week late — not bad for Nona! She sent me a poppy. Not a real poppy — a plastic poppy. Nona was my age when World War II was on. She always says she has a soft spot for a man in uniform. Since you asked us to write our journal entry on the most influential person we know, I am working on the story of my Nona. I should have it completed by this afternoon, even though it is not due until tomorrow. This will be a first where my Nona is concerned. She is just about always late for everything. She says now that she's retired she'd rather have fun than always be on time.