color, purple.”
Her mother leaned against the doorjamb.
“How on earth do you live in the rest of our house?” she asked softly, shaking her
head.
Beatrice didn’t hear her. She was carefully shutting her closet door.
“Well, kiddo, your room looks great. Perfect, in fact,” her mom said. “I guess I
better start on the rest of this house. Why don’t you see how Sophie’s doing with
her new room?”
“Good idea,” Beatrice said.
Her little sister should have unpacked at least some of her boxes by now. But Beatrice
didn’t expect much. Sophie was only four years old, after all. Four years younger
than Beatrice.
Beatrice looked over at Sophie’s room. There was a torn scrap of paper taped crookedly
to the door.
Sophie had taped the paper to the door first, then written on it. The long tail of
the y went down off the paper onto the white door.
Beatrice licked her finger and scrubbed at the smudge on the door. And scrubbed.
And scrubbed. It didn’t come off.
“Permanent marker,” Beatrice said through gritted teeth. She made a mental note to
include Sophie’s door on her list of Things That Are Annoyingly Hard to Clean .
She sighed and knocked at the door.
“Sophie? Are you in there? Are you all right?”
There was a muffled giggle and some shuffly sounds. Beatrice tried to open the door.
It opened a tiny bit, then stopped.
It was stuck.
Stuck , Beatrice thought grimly, in a huge pile of Sophie-mess.
Chapter Two
Beatrice pushed and pushed at the door. It opened just a little bit more. Enough
for her to squeeze her arm through.
She waved her arm into the room.
“Sophie, SOPHIE! The door’s stuck!”
Beatrice heard a crash and more muffled giggling and shuffling.
Well, she’s alive, Beatrice thought . She’s hopelessly messy , but she’s alive .
Beatrice pushed at the door. She opened and closed it. She pushed some more. She
backed up a few steps, then ran at the door. She thumped it hard with her shoulder.
More giggles from inside the room.
“I’m trying to rescue you, Sophie!” shouted Beatrice, rubbing her shoulder.
Inch by inch, Beatrice pushed the door. And inch by inch, the mess on the other side
of the door moved back. Finally, there was just enough room, if Beatrice sucked in
her breath very hard, for her to slide in sideways.
“This better not mess up my ponytail,” Beatrice said.
She kicked away the boxes that had fallen in front of the door, opened the door wide
and looked around.
Her heart sank. The room was a complete disaster. There were mountains of toys. There
were piles of clothes. There were heaps of stuffed animals. There were empty boxes
littering the floor.
Beatrice crossed her arms.
Her left eye twitched.
This family is hopeless , she thought. We’ve only been in our new house for a few
hours, and it’s already a dump .
“Sophie? Where are you?” called Beatrice sharply.
“Dat you, Bee? I’m unner here!” called Sophie.
Beatrice turned and tripped over a half-unrolled carpet. She got up and stubbed her
toe hard against a plastic bin of toys.
“ Ahhhhh! ” she cried. She hopped on one foot and rubbed her toe.
“Here I am!” shrieked Sophie, throwing back the blanket on the bed. She sat up with
a huge smile on her face. Some of her curly red hair stuck to her face. The rest
of it stood straight up from her head in a bushy mess.
“Aha, there you are,” said Beatrice, trying to smooth and pat down Sophie’s hair.
It wouldn’t go down. It never did. SOPHIE’S HAIR was in capital letters on Beatrice’s
list of Things I Cannot Control (But Wish I Could) . The list also included Time , The ocean and The smell in our car.
Beatrice slid a hand over her own brown hair, relieved to find her ponytail was as
neat as ever. Her hair was much neater than Sophie’s, but there were waves in it,
which annoyed her. She wanted perfectly straight hair. So Beatrice brushed her hair
a lot, one hundred brush strokes every night.
“What have you
Her mother leaned against the doorjamb.
“How on earth do you live in the rest of our house?” she asked softly, shaking her
head.
Beatrice didn’t hear her. She was carefully shutting her closet door.
“Well, kiddo, your room looks great. Perfect, in fact,” her mom said. “I guess I
better start on the rest of this house. Why don’t you see how Sophie’s doing with
her new room?”
“Good idea,” Beatrice said.
Her little sister should have unpacked at least some of her boxes by now. But Beatrice
didn’t expect much. Sophie was only four years old, after all. Four years younger
than Beatrice.
Beatrice looked over at Sophie’s room. There was a torn scrap of paper taped crookedly
to the door.
Sophie had taped the paper to the door first, then written on it. The long tail of
the y went down off the paper onto the white door.
Beatrice licked her finger and scrubbed at the smudge on the door. And scrubbed.
And scrubbed. It didn’t come off.
“Permanent marker,” Beatrice said through gritted teeth. She made a mental note to
include Sophie’s door on her list of Things That Are Annoyingly Hard to Clean .
She sighed and knocked at the door.
“Sophie? Are you in there? Are you all right?”
There was a muffled giggle and some shuffly sounds. Beatrice tried to open the door.
It opened a tiny bit, then stopped.
It was stuck.
Stuck , Beatrice thought grimly, in a huge pile of Sophie-mess.
Chapter Two
Beatrice pushed and pushed at the door. It opened just a little bit more. Enough
for her to squeeze her arm through.
She waved her arm into the room.
“Sophie, SOPHIE! The door’s stuck!”
Beatrice heard a crash and more muffled giggling and shuffling.
Well, she’s alive, Beatrice thought . She’s hopelessly messy , but she’s alive .
Beatrice pushed at the door. She opened and closed it. She pushed some more. She
backed up a few steps, then ran at the door. She thumped it hard with her shoulder.
More giggles from inside the room.
“I’m trying to rescue you, Sophie!” shouted Beatrice, rubbing her shoulder.
Inch by inch, Beatrice pushed the door. And inch by inch, the mess on the other side
of the door moved back. Finally, there was just enough room, if Beatrice sucked in
her breath very hard, for her to slide in sideways.
“This better not mess up my ponytail,” Beatrice said.
She kicked away the boxes that had fallen in front of the door, opened the door wide
and looked around.
Her heart sank. The room was a complete disaster. There were mountains of toys. There
were piles of clothes. There were heaps of stuffed animals. There were empty boxes
littering the floor.
Beatrice crossed her arms.
Her left eye twitched.
This family is hopeless , she thought. We’ve only been in our new house for a few
hours, and it’s already a dump .
“Sophie? Where are you?” called Beatrice sharply.
“Dat you, Bee? I’m unner here!” called Sophie.
Beatrice turned and tripped over a half-unrolled carpet. She got up and stubbed her
toe hard against a plastic bin of toys.
“ Ahhhhh! ” she cried. She hopped on one foot and rubbed her toe.
“Here I am!” shrieked Sophie, throwing back the blanket on the bed. She sat up with
a huge smile on her face. Some of her curly red hair stuck to her face. The rest
of it stood straight up from her head in a bushy mess.
“Aha, there you are,” said Beatrice, trying to smooth and pat down Sophie’s hair.
It wouldn’t go down. It never did. SOPHIE’S HAIR was in capital letters on Beatrice’s
list of Things I Cannot Control (But Wish I Could) . The list also included Time , The ocean and The smell in our car.
Beatrice slid a hand over her own brown hair, relieved to find her ponytail was as
neat as ever. Her hair was much neater than Sophie’s, but there were waves in it,
which annoyed her. She wanted perfectly straight hair. So Beatrice brushed her hair
a lot, one hundred brush strokes every night.
“What have you
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