studies on Friday nights. I've got a couple of other friends, though, who are coming with me.”
“Ah, Miss Sophie St. Popularity, never alone. Always draws a crowd.”
“So, am I going to see
you
there? Or are you too cool for that sort of thing?”
“Well, yeah, of course I'm too cool for it. But I'll be there.”
With that tantalizing nugget confirmed, I change the subject again. “Now, how are you at puzzles?”
“Like jigsaw puzzles?”
“More like word problems. Not crosswords, though. Remember those logic problems that Margaret used to torment us with?”
“Oh, yeah, those things. Like, Larry has threebrothers, Shemp is taller than Moe, but Moe is taller than Curly, so who's the tallest. That kind of thing?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, I'm actually pretty good at them. Why?”
“Meet me at Perkatory. Tomorrow, about four-thirty?”
“Wait. What's the big secret?”
“Just come. All will be revealed.” And I hang up.
Hey, hold on a second. Did I just ask a boy out?
In which Margaret reveals her human side
Since the clutter in my room is too much of a distraction for Margaret, I usually go to her apartment when we study together.
(Much
easier than cleaning.) It is a bit of a surprise, then, when she offers to come over that evening to study for a history test. I still have the phone in my hand when she plops down on my bed next to me.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Raf.”
“Ohhhh.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘ohhhh’?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Just ‘ohhhh?’”
“Yep.” She smiles. “Just ‘ohhhh.’”
“Ohhhh-kay What's up with you? You hate studying here.”
“I do not.” She glances around the room at my books, some neatly stacked, others distinctly
not
. “All right, the, uh, disorder does trigger my OCD, but I havea solution.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she closes her eyes and turns her palms upward, pretending to meditate. “Ohhmmmmm … Sophie's mess will not distract me … her ohmmmmess does not bother me … ohhhmmmmess …”
“We can go to your apartment,” I say.
“Ooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm—nope!”
I tackle her, pinning her shoulders to the bed. “Margaret Wrobel. What is going on with you?”
She tosses me off her. (For a skinny kid, she's freakishly strong.) “It's kind of nutty and crowded over there right now, with my grandmother, and my brother, and my parents. There's no privacy. It's more peaceful here.”
“Right, I completely forgot about your grandmother. You haven't said anything since she got here. Is she sleeping in your room?”
Margaret's grandmother, eighty-four or eighty-five or eighty-six (no one seemed to know exactly), had recently arrived from Poland and was staying with them for a few weeks.
“Yeah.”
“I thought she was your favorite. What did you call her?”
“My
babcia
. And she was my favorite. She
is
. I'm just…” Margaret rolls off the bed and starts to zip open her book bag. “Nothing. Forget it. Let's study. Where's your book?”
“Wait, for five years, all I've heard was Babcia this and Babcia that. About how
wonderful
and
amazing
she was, and about all the things you did together when you were back in Poland, and how much you missed her—and now she's here, and you haven't even introduced us yet.”
Margaret looks miserable. “I know, I'm sorry. When my mom and dad told me she was coming, I was
so
happy. When I was a little kid, Babcia and I did
everything
together. She gave me my first violin and paid for my first lessons. I used to sit on her lap and fall asleep while she read to me. I remember riding the bus with her into Warsaw, singing our favorite song, and sometimes the other people on the bus would sing along with us. Almost all of my best memories from Poland are connected to her.” She takes a deep breath and puts her head in her hands. “And now I just can't handle her.”
“Why? What is she doing?”
“Well, for one thing, she talks
nonstop
. Since my grandfather died, she lives
“Ah, Miss Sophie St. Popularity, never alone. Always draws a crowd.”
“So, am I going to see
you
there? Or are you too cool for that sort of thing?”
“Well, yeah, of course I'm too cool for it. But I'll be there.”
With that tantalizing nugget confirmed, I change the subject again. “Now, how are you at puzzles?”
“Like jigsaw puzzles?”
“More like word problems. Not crosswords, though. Remember those logic problems that Margaret used to torment us with?”
“Oh, yeah, those things. Like, Larry has threebrothers, Shemp is taller than Moe, but Moe is taller than Curly, so who's the tallest. That kind of thing?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, I'm actually pretty good at them. Why?”
“Meet me at Perkatory. Tomorrow, about four-thirty?”
“Wait. What's the big secret?”
“Just come. All will be revealed.” And I hang up.
Hey, hold on a second. Did I just ask a boy out?
In which Margaret reveals her human side
Since the clutter in my room is too much of a distraction for Margaret, I usually go to her apartment when we study together.
(Much
easier than cleaning.) It is a bit of a surprise, then, when she offers to come over that evening to study for a history test. I still have the phone in my hand when she plops down on my bed next to me.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Raf.”
“Ohhhh.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘ohhhh’?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Just ‘ohhhh?’”
“Yep.” She smiles. “Just ‘ohhhh.’”
“Ohhhh-kay What's up with you? You hate studying here.”
“I do not.” She glances around the room at my books, some neatly stacked, others distinctly
not
. “All right, the, uh, disorder does trigger my OCD, but I havea solution.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she closes her eyes and turns her palms upward, pretending to meditate. “Ohhmmmmm … Sophie's mess will not distract me … her ohmmmmess does not bother me … ohhhmmmmess …”
“We can go to your apartment,” I say.
“Ooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm—nope!”
I tackle her, pinning her shoulders to the bed. “Margaret Wrobel. What is going on with you?”
She tosses me off her. (For a skinny kid, she's freakishly strong.) “It's kind of nutty and crowded over there right now, with my grandmother, and my brother, and my parents. There's no privacy. It's more peaceful here.”
“Right, I completely forgot about your grandmother. You haven't said anything since she got here. Is she sleeping in your room?”
Margaret's grandmother, eighty-four or eighty-five or eighty-six (no one seemed to know exactly), had recently arrived from Poland and was staying with them for a few weeks.
“Yeah.”
“I thought she was your favorite. What did you call her?”
“My
babcia
. And she was my favorite. She
is
. I'm just…” Margaret rolls off the bed and starts to zip open her book bag. “Nothing. Forget it. Let's study. Where's your book?”
“Wait, for five years, all I've heard was Babcia this and Babcia that. About how
wonderful
and
amazing
she was, and about all the things you did together when you were back in Poland, and how much you missed her—and now she's here, and you haven't even introduced us yet.”
Margaret looks miserable. “I know, I'm sorry. When my mom and dad told me she was coming, I was
so
happy. When I was a little kid, Babcia and I did
everything
together. She gave me my first violin and paid for my first lessons. I used to sit on her lap and fall asleep while she read to me. I remember riding the bus with her into Warsaw, singing our favorite song, and sometimes the other people on the bus would sing along with us. Almost all of my best memories from Poland are connected to her.” She takes a deep breath and puts her head in her hands. “And now I just can't handle her.”
“Why? What is she doing?”
“Well, for one thing, she talks
nonstop
. Since my grandfather died, she lives
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