The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (3 page)

“Pass?” she asked.

“Yes, I'd like to pass, thank you.”

“That is not what I meant. I'm on hall duty. I need to see your pass.”

“Pass?”

“A note from the office that says you have permission to leave the building,” she explained.

“Oh, a
pass
,” I said, and started fumbling around in my pockets as if I had one. “I just had it. . . .”

“Your name is?”

“Frankie Wallop.”

“Wallop!” The Troll exclaimed. “I've heard about you.” From the way her face cracked into a smile, I knew that she had heard good things about me. Could I use my straight-A reputation to ditch school? What kind of person would that make me?

“Your father owns Heartstrings, that music shop, doesn't he?” She pressed her clipboard against her chest.

“Yes. He directs the Presbyterian Church choir, too,” I added. “And I sing in it, of course. Every Sunday.” I smiled angelically. “I'm supposed to go to the dentist, and I'm really late.” From the depths of my pocket, my fingers grabbed a piece of paper, the bathroom pass from Mr. Peter. I pulled it out and waved it with straight-A confidence.

“Fine,” she said, and opened the door.

Before she could look at the paper more closely, I stuffed it into my pocket and hustled out. What an amazing discovery. Somebody like Johnny Nye would need a letter signed by God to get out of school in the middle of the day, whereas I could probably waltz out by flashing a gum wrapper.

Still I wasn't home free. I had to get home without being seen by anyone who would tell Dad. I tried to make myself invisible as I walked past the gas station and the post office by looking straight ahead and taking smooth, steady steps. My town, Pepper Blossom, seems like a particularly small and very highly populated town when you're ditching school. I took the side road, avoiding Main Street where Dad would be working in the shop, and cut through the church lot. The minister's car was the only thing there. I walked quickly, feeling as naked as that emperor who had no clothes. It felt like every window had a face in it, staring at me as I walked by. This must be how criminals like Johnny Nye feel all the time. I couldn't believe I was actually doing it.

The hardest part would be getting past our next-door neighbor's house. Mrs. Holmes sees all and tells all. When I got to our street, I realized why I felt so naked. I had left my backpack at school. With my house key. There was only one way to get in: Ask Mrs. Holmes for our spare key.

As I walked up the path to her house, I reminded myself that the Frankie Wallop she knows would never lie, which meant that I could lie and she would believe me.

Knock. Knock
.

The door opened and there she was, short and round and cheery as a pumpkin. “Hi, Sweetheart. Something wrong?”

I smiled innocently. “Nothing's wrong. I just forgot my key.”

“But why aren't you in school, Sweetheart?”

“Well, Ms. Trolly let me come home because . . .”

Why? Why? While I was thinking of a reason, something Ms. Young used to say kept running through my mind: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. It's true. Once you get caught up in lying, it's hard to pull yourself out. “Ms. Trolly let me come home because I forgot my notebook,” I finally said, “and although they usually don't let kids come home in the middle of the day, she let me because . . . it's
my birthday.” Well that last part was stupid. But it was too late to take it back.

“Glory be!” Mrs. Holmes clapped her chubby hands together. “Your birthday!”

It worked. When I got home, the first thing I did was untangle the curlers from my hair and stick my head under the faucet again. Then I checked e-mail. Last night, I had sent a series of highly effective e-mails to Ratlady and deleted all the evidence. Did my lies convince her to back off, or did she sneak a reply to my father's ludicrous letter?

Nothing. No mail from Ratlady. And no more letters from Dad to her. Hurray. Hurrah. Hurroo.

Dad will assume that she doesn't want to return his e-mail. His feelings might be hurt, but he'll get over it and forget her soon enough. Now things can get back to normal.
I
can get back to normal. I'm not the type of person to lie and ditch school. I'm the type of person to succeed in everything I do, which is why it's dangerous for me to start breaking laws. I could become a highly successful criminal
if I wanted to. But I don't want to be a criminal. I want to be a miracle worker like Annie Sullivan. I want to be famous for doing good things for those less fortunate than myself.

Whew! I have to stop writing now. The bell is about to ring. The good news is that I'm feeling better. Writing helps. Thank you, dear Diary.

Now I must get psyched up for the audition. On my way to the drama room, I shall pretend to be a teacher walking to my first day on the job. I will be nervous, yet confident. Spunky, yet mature. Very Annie Sullivan. Wish me luck.

At last a chance to write!

The audition was terrifying—all the eighth-graders looked down their noses at us seventh-graders. It wasn't anything like Ms. Young's auditions back in elementary school. Mr. Haxer is the director. His first name is Justin,
and he looks like a movie star. Beth and I agreed to always refer to him as Justin Haxer when we talk about him. He wears this black leather jacket all the time, and I noticed that he smiled more at me than anybody else, which probably made Beth jealous. Beth has a problem with jealousy. At the end of the audition he told us not to get our hopes up and reminded us that it was unusual for seventh-graders to get a lead or to even make the play; however a “star can rise up from any grade.” He looked right at me when he said that. I think he was preparing the eighth-graders for the fact that he is going to give the part of Annie Sullivan to me, a seventh-grader. He's going to post the cast list on Monday after school. Today is Friday. I'm going to fall into a comma (coma?) over the weekend.

I wanted to sit down right away and write about the audition, but I didn't have time. I had to hurry over to Mrs. Whitehead's house to pick up Nutter. Beth tagged along. Nutter is supposed to go to Mrs. Whitehead's whenever I have something after school—such as a highly important audition. The poor kid hates
it. I don't blame him. Skip is now old enough to walk home and stay home by himself. So he was already here when we arrived. He jumped on me before I could get through the door.

“Listen. . . .” He dragged me over to the answering machine and pushed the button.

“Mr. Wallop, this is Ms. Trolly, the new counselor at the junior high school. I'm calling to let you know your daughter, Francine, missed second period today. She said that she had a dentist's appointment. However the main office has no record of permission. I'm sure this is a mistake on our part, but please call me on Monday to confirm. My number is . . .”

“You're in big trouble.” Skip was drooling, he was so excited. Skip's main idea of fun is seeing other people get into trouble.

Beth was so shocked that she couldn't even talk.

“I had to get the curlers out of my hair,” I whispered to her. “And check e-mail, if you know what I mean.”

Nutter didn't get it. He just looked at me and asked, “Do you have cavities?”

“Yes,” I said to Nutter. “Seventeen cavities. But I went to the dentist. And I'm not going to get into trouble.” I glared at Skip.

“How are you going to get out of this?” he asked.

How indeed? I pressed the
DELETE
button on the machine.

Beep
. No more trouble.

“What if I tell?” Skip asked.

“You won't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'll give you a dollar if you don't. And if you do, I'll take it back.” The one thing Skip likes more than seeing people get into trouble is making money.

I gave him a dollar.

“My lips are sealed,” Skip said. “But the school will just keep calling.”

I got out a piece of paper, surprised at how natural all these criminal activities felt to me.

October 17


Dear Ms. Trolly:


Thank you for the phone call. Sorry, I forgot to send a note in with Frankie. Please excuse her. She had to go to the dentist.


Sincerely,


Robert Wallop


“Frankie, what are you doing?” Beth looked at me like I was robbing a bank. “You can't do this!”

“I'll turn it in on Monday, and everything will be fine.”

“What does the note say?” Nutter asked.

The front door opened. “Hey, kids!” Dad called out.

I handed Nutter a dollar and whispered, “It says, Don't say anything about this to Dad.”

Nutter grinned. Then he turned around and ran into Dad's arms. “Look what Frankie just gave me!”

Dad picked him up. “A whole dollar. How come?”

“Because she's got seventeen cavities.” He
clapped his hand over his mouth. “But she doesn't want you to know.”

Beth looked at me, panicking. She is definitely not a good person to have around at times like this. If Dad took one look at her face, he'd know everything.

Luckily Dad wasn't paying attention to Beth. He was busy having a little guilt trip of his own. “Oh, when was the last time I brought you guys to the dentist?” He set Nutter down. “Frankie, if you have a cavity, we'd better get you an appointment.”

“She already went to the dentist,” Nutter said.

I laughed. “Ha-ha. Just kidding, Dad. I don't have any cavities.”

“Let me see. Open up.”

He came toward me. I was trying to figure out a way to stuff the note into my pocket without seeming too obvious when the doorbell rang.

Dad opened the door.

“Surprise!” In walked Next-Door Nosy, Mrs. Holmes, with a fluffy, white angel food
cake dripping with gooey pink frosting and dotted with sugary gumdrops.

We were all speechless.

“Now I'm sure you already got a cake, Robert. But I couldn't resist.” She handed me the cake.

I turned as pink as the frosting. I should have said thank you, but I was too busy thinking,
Please don't tell him that I lied to you about my birthday when I should have been in class!

“Well, that looks delicious, Evelyn,” Dad said. “What a special treat. We didn't have anything planned for dessert tonight. Thank you!”

“Nothing planned for dessert?” She looked at us a little sadly and headed out the door. “Well I couldn't let the day go by—” Stopping halfway out, she turned and delivered her usual by-the-way question: “By the way, Robert, anyone special on the horizon?”

That's one thing about Mrs. Holmes that I can't stand. She asks Dad this every time she sees him, as if he doesn't already have us. Dad, by the way, always has the same, joking response: “There's so many, I can't keep up with them!”

But this time he paused and rubbed his beard and said, “One of these days, Evelyn, I'll surprise you and say yes.”

Mrs. Holmes thought this was hilarious and laughed all the way home.

I was trying to decide what he meant by this, but I couldn't concentrate. Nutter was jumping up and down. “Cake! Cake!”

“
After
dinner,” Dad said.

Beth left, and we sat down to dinner.

Although I felt a little guilty that Mrs. Holmes went to all that trouble when it wasn't my birthday, it didn't stop me from having a fat piece. Deeeeeelicious.

After dinner I checked e-mail again. No sign of Ratlady.

The need to lie is coming to a close. The e-mails took care of Ratlady. The note will take care of The Troll. No harm done in letting Mrs. Holmes think it's my birthday. All's well that ends well.

Methinks I shall go now to bed and dream of working with Justin Haxer . . . good night!

You will not believe what just happened.

I was half asleep and half practicing my Annie Sullivan lines when I noticed a soft hum coming from downstairs. It was Dad talking on the phone, which was odd. Dad's not a talker. Could it possibly be The Troll calling this late at night? I wondered. Could my little plan to send in the forged note be ruined before Monday rolled around?

Quietly I crept into the upstairs hallway and picked up the other phone.

“I thought you'd enjoy eating with your hands,” a woman was saying, and I had my final heart attack of the day. The caller was Ratlady! I could tell right away because her voice had a little accent; she didn't sound like anybody I'd ever met before. The Rat had phoned because she knew I'd delete her e-mails!

It's very hard to have a heart attack and remain perfectly quiet, but I struggled to control my breathing so that they wouldn't hear me on the line. “Next time,” she continued,
“give me a little warning, and I'll cook you a homemade vegetable curry.”

Dad laughed, but his voice was hushed. He didn't want us to hear. “Sounds exotic. We don't even have Chinese food here. We have two restaurants. There's the Hilltop when you want to go fancy. That's where the tourists go. And there's Mae's for everything else. Mae makes mashed potatoes that stick with you for a week.”

The woman laughed. “I'd like to try those.”

“You should! Maple County isn't exciting, but it has its own quiet charm. Like I said, people from all over Indiana come to Pepper Blossom this time of year just to see the trees and to come to the festival I told you about. Right now it's like the hills are on fire, there's so much color.”

“Maybe I'll surprise you and show up.”

Dad laughed. “
That
would really get the peppervine going!”

“What?”