Blow Out the Moon (2 page)

“Lib, help!” Kenny shouted (between laughs). “Two girls and a dog against me!”

“Neighborly love, neighborly love, “Pat sang (she always sings this when two friends are fighting — when two sisters are fighting, she sings, “sisterly love, sisterly love”).

Finally the twins were ready and we ran out and Mrs. Tampone closed the door and I could say, “Guess what? — Emmy, don’t tell!”

“You’re going to be allowed to play outside after dinner,” Kenny said. All the other guesses were just as wrong and I didn’t waste much time on that.

“We’re moving to England for six months! Our whole family! And we’re going over on an ocean liner called the
Liberté
— on one of the last voyages that ship will ever make.”

“And we’ll go to an English school where we might have to wear a uniform because all the English kids will wear one,” Emmy said.

“Do you think they’ll like you?” Pat said.

“Why wouldn’t they?” I said.

“Maybe they’ll say” (here, she kind of stuck her nose in the air and made a face), “ ‘Uh, American girls!’ ”

“They’ll probably like us,” I said. “And if they don’t, who cares? Come on — let’s run!”

I wanted to tell Henry.

At the playground, we split up as usual (at school, we play with kids in our own classes). I looked around the playground for Henry: The paved part was full of little kids and girls. Two in my class were turning a long jump rope and shouting:

“All in toGETHER girls!

How do you like the WEATHer girls!

JANuary! FEBruary …” while other girls jumped into the game.

I like some of the rhymes, but I don’t play much jump rope. At school, I usually play with the boys. I ran to the back of the playground, where most of them were, and that’s where Henry was — he gave me a huge wave. I waved back as hard as I could (I really, really like Henry) and ran over.

He was in the middle of a fast dodgeball game. When no one caught it, the ball hit the fence really hard: so hard that the old metal fence shook and squeaked. I watched until the ball came close enough, then jumped up and got it. I threw it to Henry and said, “Can I play?”

“Sure,” Henry said (to me). And then to the others: “She can be on my team.”

“Girls don’t play dodgeball!” a boy I’d never seen before said.

“
She
does; she’s good,” Henry said.

I ran in next to him, and when that boy threw the ball straight at me, hard (it hurt my stomach), I caught it and held it and he was out. I threw low and hard, but I didn’t get anyone else out until just before the bell rang and we had to go in. Henry and I walked together.

“I saw that last catch you made,” he said, smiling.

“My family is moving to England,” I said. “We’re going on an ocean liner — for six months.”

His smile went away fast and he didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Six months,” he said, frowning. “That means you’ll be gone until almost the end of the year.”

When he said that, it felt like we would be GONE. That sounds silly. (It IS silly: Of course, if we were going, we would be gone!) But it was still surprising: Before, I hadn’t thought much about being gone, just about
going
— the adventure of it.

“That is a pretty long time,” I said.

I thought about what it would be like to be away from him and everyone else (like The Gang!) while we walked into the school and up the stairs and to our desks — in opposite corners of the classroom.

They were in opposite corners because the teacher separated us at the very beginning of the year: She put him at the front left desk and me at the back right one. But we can still tell each other things. Once, when the teacher said everyone would have partners for a class trip, Henry turned around in his seat and eagerly stretched out his hand to me with a big smile. I knew that meant, “Will you be my partner?” and of course, I nodded.

I was thinking about that when the final bell rang. Miss Jessup stood up and looked at all of us. She has a puffy face like the kind of dog that has drooping flaps for cheeks and sad eyes. When everyone was looking at her, she said, “Good morning, class. I will now call the roll.”

Just as she finished, I thought of something — and since she was already facing the flag, and we were pushing our chairs back to stand up, I could signal it to Henry right away, if he looked back at me. He did, but before I could act it out, we had to look serious for the Pledge of Allegiance.

It IS kind of serious, to me. I looked at the flag, put my right hand over my heart, and said:

I pledge allegiance

to the flag

of the United States of America.

And to the Republic

for which it stands,

one nation

under God,

indivisible,

with liberty and justice for all.

Liberty! I like saying that. I wish Libby were short for “liberty” instead of Elizabeth. And it was a great name for a ship, too.

The morning went by even more slowly than usual: She passed out workbooks, snapping each one down as though it was a card she was dealing in an exciting hand, and while we worked, she watched us. She said, “Libby, I don’t see you marking your paper.”

Someone else wasn’t doing his work, either — Miss Jessup said, “David, you won’t find any answers staring out that window.”

I looked out — the windows went all the way up to the ceiling, but there was nothing to see: just blank blue sky, and the blinds. The blinds were rolled up, flapping (they sounded like sails) in the same little wind that rustled the papers on Miss Jessup’s desk and lifted some of the girls’ hair.

At school, time goes by
so
slowly! I looked up at the clock: It’s very old-fashioned. The numbers are Roman numerals, and the hands have pointed tips like valentine arrows. The minute hand doesn’t move invisibly, as it does on most clocks — it stays still and then every few minutes jumps ahead (to the new time) with a low whirring sound.

Morse code translates the alphabet into these dots and dashes, which you can send as long and short sounds or flashes of light. Henry and I used to tap it on our desks to each other, before the teacher moved us.

It was only 10:10. I was waiting for the hand to jump to 10:12 or 10:13 (sometimes it jumps two minutes, sometimes three) when she told me again to get to work, so I did.

Finally it was lunchtime. We had to walk down the stairs, without talking (that’s a rule); as soon as we got outside, we could run. I did — I was BURSTING with energy. I jumped down the steps and ran to the corner. Henry did, too. Then we had to wait for the policeman to cross us.

“I had an idea,” I said. “We can write letters!”

I could tell he liked the idea (by the way his eyes changed) even before he said, “And we can use code for things that are really private!”

“You mean — make one up?” I said, walking backwards. “Or write the Morse code dots and dashes?”

“I was thinking — make one up.”

“That would be more private,” I said.

From across the street, a boy in our class yelled that I had told Miss Jessup on him. (Of course, I hadn’t.) Before I could answer, Henry shouted, really angrily: “She did not! I’ve known her since she was in kindergarten and she doesn’t snitch!”

Henry always sticks up for me.

We walked along, first scuffing, then kicking, the leaves up from the sidewalk.

“When are you leaving?” he said.

“In two weeks.”

“Then you can come over on Saturday!”

“I’ll ask,” I said. “Oh, I hope I can! We could play pioneers!”

“And finish our fort!” Henry said.

Above me, the leaves blazed yellow, as though the sun was coming right through them. Then one leaf fell down kind of slowly, twirling in the sun.

I ran to catch it — and I did catch it. Henry saw me and we both started laughing (it wasn’t funny, we were just happy). Then another leaf twirled down, slowly — it was yellow, too. We both ran for it, and I wished everything could stay just as it was at that moment forever and ever … that it could always be this sunny fall day and Henry and I could always be in it together.

Chapter Three:

Two Tea Parties

But on Saturday I couldn’t go to Henry’s, because an English boy and his mother were coming over for tea. My mother set everything up on the living room table (including the fat silver sugar bowl filled with sugar lumps — you take them out with silver tongs), and reminded us to pass things to the guests first. One good thing about our mother is that she never corrects our manners in front of other people. I wish everyone’s mother would do this. I hate it when parents say things like “What do you say?” or scold their children in front of you.

When the guests came, the mothers introduced themselves and said ladylike things like, “Please call me Sally.”

Then Mrs. Grant said, “And this is my son Neil.”

“And this is my oldest daughter, Libby.” My mother squeezed my shoulders and I knew she wanted me to say hello politely, so I did. Emmy did, too; Willy and Bubby just stood behind my mother, but they did stop giggling. Then we all sat down and the mothers talked.

We looked at Neil and he looked at us. Everything about him was light. His hair was yellow-white — more white than yellow — and his skin was pink and white, even more than ours, and his eyes were light blue and the whites were very white. He had bangs, which most boys don’t. Most boys I know have crew cuts.

Neil ate slowly and carefully, wiping his mouth after every bite. He sat up very straight — even his clothes were very straight — and he didn’t spill anything, not even his tea. He seemed like a real goody-goody. You probably have already figured out that I’m not. But I haven’t said what I look like yet, so I’ll describe myself now, too. I’m short for my age — everyone in my class is taller than I am. But I’m strong. I can beat Kenny at wrestling and most of the boys in my class, too.

My hair is as straight as hair can be, and it’s cut in a straight line across my forehead and straight along the sides. In pictures, my eyes look straight at the camera; they’re blue. I am not the kind of child grown-ups ever call “cute” or “just darling.”

Emmy can be that kind of child. She has curly blonde hair and she likes to be cuddled and to sit on grown-ups’ laps.

The mothers talked — it was pretty boring, except when Mrs. Grant said, “What is peanut butter?” I’d never met a mother who didn’t know that.

The cookies were gone, so I asked if I could be excused, and she said Emmy and I could take Neil upstairs. That really meant that we could only go if we brought him with us.

Neil was taller than I was, too; but I bet I was stronger. On the way up, I said, “It’s lucky that you or your mother didn’t pour the tea.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re English and we’re American. If you’d given me a cup of tea, I’d have had to dump it out — in honor of the Boston Tea Party.”

I was about to tell him what the Boston Tea Party was when he said, “Rubbish.”

I was too surprised to say anything. Then he said, “My mother has given tea to lots of Americans before and THEY never poured it on the floor.”

“Well, maybe other people don’t do it, but it’s what I would do if an English person offered ME tea,” I said.

Pouring the tea on the floor WOULD be like the Boston Tea Party. In case you haven’t heard of it: In Boston, at the beginning of the Revolution, a crowd of grown-ups disguised as Indians sneaked onto English ships and dumped all the tea into the harbor. I think it’s neat that our country had such a fun start — grown-ups dressing up like Indians and throwing things overboard! And I like the name Boston Tea Party, too. I didn’t say any of that to Neil, though.

We brought him into our room and he stood in the middle of it, with his back very straight, turning his chin around and looking at everything quite coolly.

I was looking out the window at the rain when the front doorbell rang. I ran down, and it was Henry!

“My mother said I could only come in if your mother said it was okay with her,” he said. “And she said to give your mother this note when you asked.”

“Okay,” I said.

I ran in. The two mothers were still just sitting there, talking — that’s all my mother ever does when her friends come over: talk.

“It’s Henry. Can he come in?”

I gave her the note.

“Excuse me,” she said to Mrs. Grant.

She read it quickly, and then the two mothers looked at each other — I don’t know if they used the secret code or whatever it is ladies use to tell each other things privately. I know they have one. (Once I called my mother and asked her to come get me at a friend’s house. I told her NOT to tell them why. When she came, I listened to every word my mother said, and she didn’t say anything about the reason; but at the end, the other mother said, looking relieved, “So THAT’s what it was!” So I knew my mother told her, but I’d heard every word she said and I don’t know
how
she told her.)

My mother said Henry was “a nice boy” and Mrs. Grant said Neil wasn’t shy and then she laughed and said something I didn’t quite understand.