Me and Fat Glenda (12 page)

So I opened the note quickly, holding it flat on my lap. It was written in block letters in red ink, on graph paper.

It said: “To Sara Mayberry—this is to invite
you and Glenda W
. to my party tonight—Halloween. 9:30. Use basement entrance and come in a costume. Be seeing you.”

It was signed: “Roddy F.” The words “you,” “and,” and “Glenda W.” were underlined in black.

Well! The words really jolted me. Roddy Fenton certainly had a way of sending surprising notes to people. My first instinct was to write on it,
“No, thanks!,”
fold it up again, and pass it right back to Mary Lou.

When I glanced up, Mary Lou was smiling and still nodding and Glenda was just returning to her seat. I was about to shake my head from side to side to indicate “No” to Mary Lou, when I realized it wouldn't be right for me to refuse the invitation for Glenda without her knowing anything about it I'd have to talk to Glenda, of course.

So instead I just sort of shrugged at Mary Lou as if to say, “How should I know?”

It was hard to concentrate during my math and history classes that morning. I knew I wouldn't have the chance to speak to Glenda until lunchtime. Even without her knowing how Roddy had tried to break up our friendship, first by trying to put the blame on her for the dead cat and then by inviting me to his party without her, I figured she'd definitely say no.

And of course I'd have to say no, too.

There was one thing that kept nagging at me, though.
Even if Roddy was only inviting Glenda because he wanted me to come (which I guess he was), suppose I
did
get Glenda to go to the party? Mightn't that be a way of patching up the quarrel between Glenda and Roddy? Maybe everything would come out in the open at last. If they'd both done wrong and admitted it, then we could all be friends. And I'd be the one who brought them together.

Well, it was a nice thought, anyway.

Lunch time finally came around, and I met Glenda in the cafeteria. I had to be careful how I told her about the invitation. I couldn't show her the note. The underlining in black made it look very fishy. So I said that Roddy had asked me in the school corridor between math and history classes.

At first Glenda turned very pale and let her mouth hang open. Then she just kept saying she couldn't believe it. After a while she started shaking her head and didn't say anything at all. Her lunch was getting cold in front of her and she wasn't even eating. Which wasn't at all like Glenda.

“I was sure you wouldn't want to go,” I said. “Not after the way you feel about Roddy. So why don't you eat? Your chow mein is turning to glue right in front of you.”

Glenda took a gulp of gluey chow mein and sticky rice, and right away she started to cough and sputter. “If
only . . . I knew . . .
why
he asked us,” she stammered, still coughing.

“Well, he asked us. That's all I know. I figured you'd say no, but still I had to tell you about the invitation, didn't I?”

Glenda seemed to be thinking hard. “It's probably just a trick. You know, Sara. Halloween and all.”

“Ummm. Probably.” I didn't want to force Glenda into accepting because I still wasn't even sure of my own feelings. And trying to bring Glenda and Roddy together could easily bring on an explosion instead of what I had in mind.

“You don't think,” Glenda said after awhile, “that Roddy could have found out . . . no, he couldn't have. And even if he did, he wouldn't care.”

“Found out about what? Not care about what?”

“That time when he threw the airplane into the living room and I never even told on him.”

“Oh that.” I'd never talked to Glenda about my conversation with Roddy a few weeks back. He hadn't seemed impressed when I told him Glenda had protected him. But maybe, just maybe, that information
had
softened him toward her a little. Still, I doubted it.

“If I
had
told,” Glenda said, “you can be sure my mother would have sent the bill for the lamp over to the Fentons. She does things like that.”

“Look Glenda,” I said, “maybe we should just forget
about going to the party. We'll trick-or-treat and then we'll go over to your house or my house and eat the candy we collect.”

Glenda took a few more mouthfuls and choked some more. Finally she asked, “What do you think they'll do at the party?”

“Oh, I don't know. I suppose it'll probably just be a bunch of noisy kids eating popcorn and ducking for apples. I don't even know where Roddy lives.”

“It's not far,” Glenda said quickly. “I wonder who's going to be there.”

“He said Mary Lou for one.”

“She's not too bad,” Glenda said, looking more relaxed. “I sort of like Mary Lou, don't you?”

“I always said she was all right. You were the one who didn't seem to like her.”

“No. She's okay. It's kind of funny about Mary Lou going, though,” Glenda said. “I didn't want to say anything but I always thought it was Roddy who put the chicken-foot sandwich in Mary Lou's lunch bag.”

I didn't say anything. I couldn't tell Glenda about my telephone conversation with Mary Lou. And besides I still felt guilty for having suspected Glenda of having done it.

“Well, I don't know,” Glenda mumbled. “It might be fun.”

“Roddy did say to come in our costumes. Glenda,
imagine what they'd say if they saw you in that gorgeous blonde wig, and with the glitter-dust on your eyelids.”

Glenda beamed and stared off into space, across the noisy clatter of the school cafeteria. It was as though she wasn't thinking about herself at all but about somebody else, some distant and wonderful movie star.

Suddenly Glenda leaned across the table, nearly plopping her elbows into what was left of her chow mein. “Listen Sara, let's do it!”

“You really want to?” I said matter-of-factly, trying to sound surprised and not
too
pleased about it.

But, of course, I was pleased. I figured it was a chance for both me and Fat Glenda to break out of our tight little worlds. Maybe we weren't such a freaky pair after all!

When Glenda and I got home from school that afternoon, Toby was out in our yard working on “Stovepipes.” Pop had been on it for weeks, and now it was nearly completed—all fourteen feet of it, the tallest junk structure Drew had ever designed. There was also a car parked out in the street in front of our house, one of those souped-up jobs that a lot of the kids from Havenhurst High went ripping and zooming and throbbing and chugging around the neighborhood in. But I couldn't see anybody around who might be the owner.

“Stovepipes” was the same construction that Mr. Creasey had admired when he came around early in
October about that petition that was being circulated against us. It really was made of stovepipes, the big black ones that Drew had picked up in September when we'd been driving around in the garbage truck looking for a house to live in. Lots of other things had gone into it, too—from old tin cans to automobile fenders.

Toby was way up near the top fastening some screws and bolts, or whatever it was that held Pop's junk constructions together.

Glenda nudged me. “Does he know what time we're going trick-or-treating tonight?”

“Toby,” I shouted. “We have to talk to you about tonight.”

Toby looked down. “Oh, say, about that . . . sorry, kids. No can do.”

Glenda made a face and looked at me.

I squinted up at him. “What do you mean? You said you'd come with us. Glenda and I were counting on it.”

Toby shook his head. “I didn't promise. I only said ‘maybe.' ”

“You said ‘maybe yes.' ”

“There was still a ‘maybe' in there somewhere.”

“Toby,” I said insistently, “can't you come down? I want to talk to you.”

“In a minute.” A few seconds later Toby began to wriggle down from the top of “Stovepipes.” He jumped the final three or four feet to the ground. “What's up?”

“Well, it's just that I can't see how you can disappoint Glenda and me like this. What
are
you doing tonight anyway?”

Toby put a hand on my shoulder, as a sort of limp apology, I suppose. “Going to a party with some of the kids from school.” Then he headed off across the yard toward the shed where Drew kept most of his junk piled.

I stamped my foot. “Oh, you're rotten!”

Toby turned around, wrinkling his brow and making flapping motions with his hands. “Take it easy. I'm sure you two can manage to go trick-or- treating on your own. Glenda's big and strong enough to protect both of you.”

I turned to look at Glenda. She was staring after Toby and her eyes were stormy. And then an odd expression came over her face. For a second I thought she was going to scream something terrible at Toby, and the next second I thought maybe she was going to cry, and right after that she looked scared. All she said was something that sounded like “Oooh,” and with that she turned and ran out of the yard.

I could have just killed Toby. Instead of following Glenda, I started toward the junk shed. Then I saw the other boy who was back there with Toby and whom Glenda must have seen, too, when she got that odd look on her face. But why?

He was tall and lean and very, very good-looking. About sixteen or seventeen, I guess, with a gorgeous
fading-gold suntan, the kind that lifeguards have after being at the beach all summer, and with thick brown hair that swept down low on his forehead. It seemed odd that Glenda would have run away, with any boy that good-looking around. But of course she was terribly angry at Toby. And so was I.

“Listen,” I said, going straight over to Toby and ignoring the other boy for the moment. “What did you mean by talking to Glenda like that? She's very sensitive about how big and fat she is. You're not supposed to refer to her size. Don't you realize you hurt her feelings?”

Toby looked surprised, which made me even angrier. “Did I? Okay, okay. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry's no good. You already said it.”

“Okay, okay. I'll apologize,” Toby said impatiently. “Oh, by the way, this is Bruce Fenton. Bruce, my sister Sara. Bruce is a pal of mine from school. He came over to scrounge around in the shed for some auto parts for his . . . hmmm, pardon the expression . . . vehicle. When I told him about some of the stuff Pop's been collecting, he nearly flipped.”

“Hi,” Bruce said. He had a perfect smile with a set of perfect, absolutely white teeth, which made his good looks so perfect it was almost blinding to look at him, and also it made me very uncomfortable.

“Oh,” I faltered, “then I guess that's your car out front.”

Bruce just grinned.

“Did Toby say your last name's Fenton? You wouldn't by any chance know a boy named Roddy Fenton?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

“Oh, I thought maybe . . .”

Bruce broke up into a falsetto laugh. I was glad to find out that at least there was one thing about him that wasn't perfect, because I thought boys with high-pitched laughs sounded just terrible.

“I was only kidding. Actually I do know the little guy,” he said. “Matter of fact, he's my brother.”

“I didn't even know Roddy had a brother . . . until now. Nobody ever mentioned it.”

“Oh sure,” Bruce said absently. He was holding up a couple of rusty, dented old hub caps that he seemed to be considering for the wheels of his car.

I could see Bruce and I were at the end of our conversation. And anyhow I still wanted to have it out with Toby about Glenda. “It's bad enough you broke your promise,” I said, talking to Toby's back as he combed through the junk looking for something for Bruce, “but saying that to Glenda when you know she's my best friend. I think she ran out of here crying.”

To my surprise it was Bruce who looked up. “Did I hear you say she's your best friend?”

“Yes, of course she is. Why shouldn't she be?”

Bruce glanced at Toby and then back to me. “I
probably shouldn't get into this.”

“No,” I said. “I want to know what you meant just now. Why shouldn't Glenda and I be best friends?”

Bruce's face began to redden a little under his fading tan. “Look, you got a right to be friends with anybody you like. It's just that personally I can't see being pals with somebody who's tried to make trouble for you?”

“What trouble?” Toby wanted to know.

“Didn't you people know there was a petition circulating to try to get you kicked out of the neighborhood?” Bruce looked around the yard. “On account of all this junk and that . . . that ‘Stovepipe' or whatever you call it.”

Bruce stopped to consider. “You know, I sort of like that thing, though. It gives me an idea. When I'm ready to junk my car and go for a new one, I'll make an artistic-looking monument out of the old one, and stick the whole thing on our front lawn. Let's see what old lady Waite'll do about that!”