B, My Name Is Bunny Read online

  But even Emily reads me wrong sometimes. Today we were in the cafeteria, eating lunch, and I happened to ask her what her mother’s real name was. Right away, she wanted to know what was the joke.

  “No joke. What’s your mother’s real name?”

  “You know. Ann Boots.”

  “I said her real name.”

  “Is it a riddle?”

  “Emily, this is a question in the spirit of curiosity. Scholarship can’t flourish without curiosity,” I said, quoting my father. And I threw in a little nose snort, the way he does.

  Emily giggled.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now, don’t you know what your mama’s name was before she married your papa?”

  “Oh! That! Why didn’t you say so? Her name was Simpson.”

  “Well, that’s a perfectly lovely name. Why did she change it to Boots?”

  “Bunny, she got married!”

  “She didn’t have to marry your father’s name. She only had to marry him.”

  “Bunny, when you get married—”

  “IF I get married.”

  “—you can keep your name.”

  “That’s when I throw my name away, Emily. Good-bye, Bunny! But, I’ll keep Larrabee.”

  “Well, when I get married, I’m going to take my husband’s name.”

  “No! That’s so unliberated.”

  “Bunny, you can do things your way. I’ll do things my way!”

  Mom says the way Emily and I bicker, we are like an old married couple. One thing I know, we’ll never get a divorce. We are friends for life. I can’t even imagine life without Emily. It’s like trying to imagine life without my mom.

  Chapter 3

  “Hello, who’s this?”

  “This is Bunny. Is this Christopher? Is Emily there?”

  “This isn’t Christopher. It’s Wilma.”

  “Sorry, Wilma, I thought you were Chris. Will you get Emily for me?”

  “Who?”

  “Your sister.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who do you think it is, Wilma? I just told you. It’s me, Bunny.”

  “This isn’t Wilma, this is Christopher.”

  “Wilma!”

  “Don’t call me Wilma. That’s not my name. Who is this? Why do you sound so unfriendly? I don’t think this is Bunny.”

  “Take my word for it, this is Bunny Larrabee. Who is this, Wilma or Christopher?”

  Silence.

  “Christopher? Wilma? Whichever one you are, will you get your sister? I’m asking you nicely. Will you please call Emily to the phone?”

  Silence.

  “Christopher.”

  Silence.

  “Wilma.”

  Silence.

  I drummed my fingers on the table. I whistled. I hummed. I thought I could outwait whichever Boots twin it was. My guess, Wilma. She was always up to something. Chris was mostly her follower.

  “Wilma, want to hear a stupid joke? There are these two girls and their names are Fort and Snort.”

  I thought I heard a little giggle. “Snort ate Fort’s strawberry pie. Fort got mad and said, ‘Snort! You are the dumbest, most selfish, stingiest, greediest person in the world!’ ‘Well, SAME TO YOU,’ said Snort. ‘Oh,’ said Fort, ‘what a low-down thing to say to your best friend!’”

  I waited. Not even a snicker. “You’re right, it’s a crummy joke. But don’t blame me, I got it off a bubble gum wrapper. Now will you get Emily. PLEASE!”

  “Don’t yell! You’re hurting my ears.”

  “You know what, Chris Boots? Or Wilma Boots? Or whoever you are? If you don’t get Emily right away, and I mean pronto, I’m going to come over there and haunt you.”

  BANG! Down went the phone. She—or he—hung up on me. Poor Emily! She always gets stuck taking care of the twins. Her mom is a nurse, and her father lives in Chicago with his other family. I guess Mrs. Boots doesn’t have a lot of money and can’t afford baby-sitters too often.

  Sometimes I feel guilty thinking about how much Emily has to do and how I don’t have to do half as much. Sure, I take care of Shad, but he’s nine and that makes a big difference. He doesn’t even like the idea that I’m baby-sitting him.

  I waited a couple of minutes, then I dialed again. This time when the phone rang, Emily picked it up. “Who answered the phone before?” I said. “Was that Chris or Wilma?”

  “Wilma. Was that you calling? What’d you say to her, Bunny? She was yelling, ‘Don’t let her! Don’t let her!’ What’d you tell her you were going to do?”

  “Haunt her.”

  “Bunny! That’s mean.”

  “Em-ily, you don’t even know what happened. I was provoked. She wouldn’t get you, just hung on the line, breathing. You know I like Wilma, but she can be a real brat sometimes.”

  Emily didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, very quietly, she said, “Well, don’t you think it was kind of bratty of you to scare her, Bunny?”

  I hate it when Emily gets that quiet, quiet voice. It always makes me feel stupid and in the wrong. “It was just a little joke.”

  “Not a very funny one.”

  “How did I know she was going to get spooked?”

  “She’s only a little kid.” Emily still had her quiet voice.

  I started to feel really punk. I was mad, and my thoughts were mean thoughts. Emily was so righteous. I couldn’t even make a small mistake without her getting on my case. What would she say if Wilma hit me over the head with a shovel? There’d be blood dripping down my face and Emily would say in her quiet voice, “Well, Bunny, we have to understand that she’s just a curious child.”

  One of my Personality Ripples is a tendency to act first and think later. I said, “If that’s the way you feel, why don’t we just forget it!” And I did to Emily what Wilma had done to me—hung up on her.

  The phone rang again about two minutes later. I was sure it was Emily. I let it ring three times before I picked it up. “Hello, Emily,” I said, “do you have something to tell me?”

  “Bun?” It was my sister.

  “Star! Hi! Where are you? You sound like you’re right across the street. Are you here?”

  “No, I’m in Rhode Island. What would I be doing there? Is Mom home? I want to talk to her.”

  “Star, what are you doing? I mean, how’s school? Are you doing a lot of painting?” When Star graduated high school she got a medal for being the best all-around artist.

  “Everything’s okay,” she said. “Is Mom around? Will you get her for me?”

  She didn’t ask me anything, not one thing about myself. On top of Emily, that was too much. I called Mom to the phone, then I went into the kitchen and attacked a carton of Heavenly Hash. Here’s where it’s a real drag to have a father who’s a psychologist. I can’t pig out without G-U-I-L-T, because I know what Dad thinks of eating to make yourself feel better. With every delicious spoonful, I could hear his grave voice in my head, “Sublimating your negative feelings with food.… Using food as a substitute for affection.…”

  I pretty much demolished the carton. Suddenly, just as I gulped down the last ice-cold spoonful, I got this really vicious throbbing over my right eye. Maybe I had a brain tumor. They’d have to operate, open up my skull, dig out the tumor with sharp knives. With my luck, the operation would be a failure. Sudden death on the operating table. Or maybe I’d live, but my mind would be affected permanently. My brains would be scrambled, my memory gone. I could see myself in the hospital, my head covered in a white bandage. I was all alone. Oh, of course Mom and Dad would come to see me—Shad, too—but no one else.

  Shad came into the kitchen. “What’re you eating?”

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even answer an obvious question like that. But since Shad was visiting me in the hospital when I was on my death bed, I felt kindly disposed toward him. “I’m sorry, there’s hardly any left. Here.” I held out the carton. “Take the rest.”

  He looked in the carton. “The rest of what?”
/>   “Shad,” I said in my sweetest voice, “had I known you desired some Heavenly Hash, believe me, I would have left you a large portion.”

  Shad pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Did you and Emily fight again?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “What’d you fight about this time?”

  “Shut up, please. It’s none of your business.”

  “Make me some cinnamon toast.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t leave me any ice cream.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Shad!”

  “It does to me.” He sat down at the table. “I’ll explain it to you, Bunny. See, there are some things in the house that just belong to one person, like my animals belong to me. And there are some things that don’t belong to just one person, like tv and ice cream. And when someone hogs them—”

  See what I mean about being relentless? I know Shad. He would sit right there and talk the ears off me until I did what he wanted. I made cinnamon toast.

  I went up to my room, but I didn’t feel like doing homework. I was just thinking about Emily. When you’ve been friends as long as Emily and I have been, it makes you feel really strange to not be friends, even for an hour.

  I decided to call her. I wasn’t going to be humble, but if she wanted to make up, I would, too. I picked up the phone. Mom and Star were still on! I heard Star saying, “But, Mom, I don’t fit into—Is somebody on? I heard a click.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “I just wanted to see if the phone was free.”

  “It’s not, so please get off. Mom and I are still talking.”

  “Well, excuse me, my beloved older sister. Pardon me for taking up your precious time.”

  “Bunny, what’s your problem? I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “Don’t give it a thought. I know you won’t.” I hung up.

  Later, when I called Emily, she said she’d been trying to call me, but our phone was busy every time. “I guess you were right about Wilma,” she said.

  “No, you’re right, she’s a little kid. I shouldn’t have teased her.”

  “Mom left me a note, saying I should make tuna cheese casserole for supper,” Emily said. “I must have used the wrong cheese. It was one of those strong cheeses. You know what Wilma said when she tasted it?”

  “Let me guess. She said, ‘This casserole tastes like dirty socks! And I ain’t eating it.’”

  “I hate to tell you how close you are,” Emily said.

  Chapter 4

  On Thursdays, Emily doesn’t have to go straight home. The twins have swimming practice. So we always go to my house. I knocked on Shad’s door. I’m supposed to check up that he’s okay. “What’re you doing?”

  He opened the door. He had a white rat on each shoulder.

  “I’ll be in my room if you want anything, Shad.”

  “Hi, Shad,” Emily said.

  He petted his rats and didn’t say anything. Emily and I went to my room. “Is he mad at me or something?” she asked.

  “No. I think he likes you.”

  “Well, I didn’t think he hated me.”

  “No, I mean, he likes you.”

  “Oh!” She blushed.

  That’s typical of Emily. I mean, most girls our age wouldn’t blush if a nine-year-old boy had a crush on them. A lot of boys, not just Shad, like Emily. She doesn’t even realize it. She doesn’t even know how pretty she is. She has long dark hair, brown eyes, and freckles across her cheeks. And she has an excellent personality, except that she doesn’t have a lot of self-confidence. Sometimes I’m very sympathetic about it and try to build her up. But sometimes, I just get annoyed.

  We sat down on my bed and showed each other our books. It’s something we do all the time. She gave me her book first. “As soon as you get done reading it, give it back, because I’m going to read it again.”

  I looked at the cover. It showed this cute girl in a swimming pool. And a very cute boy, sitting at a table under an awning and looking at her. They were both in swimsuits. I read the back of the book, then I looked inside and then at the author’s name. “Oh, I know her! Didn’t she write—”

  “Uh huh, the story about the boy who was so—”

  “—mixed up,” I said. Emily nodded. We do that sometimes. We finish each other’s sentences.

  “Wait till you read it,” she said. “This is a great book.”

  Then I showed her my book. I think we started this in fourth grade. It was Emily’s idea. She really likes reading more than I do.

  “Is this good?” Emily said.

  “Very good book,” I said. “Funny. But never mind that. Look at the cover. Don’t you want to die?”

  On the cover was a picture of a guy. You didn’t see all of him. You didn’t have to! Just his face was enough. He had thick, wavy dark hair; incredible eyelashes; and a look in his eyes that made you want to drop dead on the spot.

  “Wouldn’t you like to meet him?” I said.

  “What if you did? What would you say?” Emily brought the book right up to her nose. She’s nearsighted. “I thought maybe they’d have his name on the cover.”

  “I’m going to write to the author,” I said, “and ask for his name.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  She laughed and put the book in her purse. I don’t think she believed me. “Bunny, Mom and I were talking about the twins’ birthday party, and I had this idea about you.”

  “What idea?”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you. You won’t like it.”

  “What is it?”

  She rolled over on the bed. “No, now that I think about it, it’s probably a really dumb idea. Just forget I said anything.”

  “Emily! Tell me what your idea is.” This was one of those times when her low self-esteem was really annoying.

  “I thought maybe you could be—this is kind of a goofy idea, Bunny, but what if you dressed up as a clown and—”

  “You mean, be a clown for the twins’ party?”

  “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “I like that, Em. That’s a good idea.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. It sounds like fun.”

  “You’d really like to do it?”

  “It’ll be a blast. I’ve got to get a good costume.”

  “You could wear bunny ears.”

  “No! What a stupid idea.”

  Her face got red again, and she looked sort of miserable. I always feel like a huge, gross beast when I hurt her feelings, but she ought to know how I feel about bunny jokes by this time.

  “You said a clown. Maybe I’ll do baggy pants. What else?”

  “A wig?” Emily said.

  “Does your mother have one?”

  “No! Why would you say that, Bunny? My mother’s not bald.”

  We stared at each other. Were we fighting? I fanned my hands out behind my ears and crossed my eyes. No reason. Just a funny face. Emily started laughing, so that was okay again.

  “What about whiteface makeup?” I said. “Where can I get that?”

  “On Richmond Street, there’s a theatrical store, they sell costumes and stuff. I bet they’ll have it.”

  That’s just the way Emily is. She knows a lot of things, and it’s rare when she doesn’t have good ideas.

  April 10

  Dear Mr. Diment,

  My name is Bunny Larrabee. I’m 13 years old and in the seventh grade in Drumlins Middle School. I like to read, ski, skate, cook (somewhat), swim, and (you may think this is sort of strange), I also REALLY like to make people laugh. In fact, someday, I hope to be a famous comedy star.

  Well, the reason I wrote is that I just read your book, Paris Plus, and it’s very good. On a scale of one to ten, I would definitely rate it as a nine and a half. One of the things I liked about your book is that there were jokes and other humerous remarks in it.

  Another thing I was most interested in was the main charac
ter. Where did you ever get the name Paris? That’s a pretty strange name. But even with that name, Paris was somebody I would like to meet. He was a very sensitive and interesting person. One of the things I liked about Paris was the way he would only wear white tennies, even when he went to a formal dance! I recommended this book to my girl friend.

  I congratulate you on your great talent in writing. I hope you continue to write such good books. I do have one question to ask you. Could you please send me the name and address of the guy on the cover? I’d also like his telephone number and the date of his birthday. He looks very interesting, just the way Paris should look, and I think it might be fun to be pen pals with him. I hope this is not too much trouble for you!

  Sincerely, A Lifetime Fan,

  B. Larrabee

  Chapter 5

  The first thing Emily and I noticed when we got together in the cafeteria for lunch was that we were both wearing red shirts and dark blue pants. This kind of thing happens to us all the time. We wear the same kind of clothes or the same colors, without ever checking with each other.

  We sat down. I was so hungry I wolfed down my food in record seconds, while Emily was still working on the first half of her sandwich. “Anything you don’t want to eat,” I said, “pass this way.” I leaned close and talked in her ear. The cafeteria is a zoo at lunchtime. “I’ve been working on my clown routine.”

  Emily nodded. She didn’t say anything, just nibbled at her sandwich.

  I should have noticed that she seemed extra quiet, but I didn’t. I told her about the letter I wrote to Mr. Diment. “Do you think he’ll write back to me?”

  “Mr. Diment, or the guy on the cover?”

  “Either one! When I get Paris’s address, I’m going to write to him. I’ll send him my gorgeous picture. No, I better not do that. I’ll send him your gorgeous picture.”

  “I wouldn’t have the nerve to write him.”

  “We’ll write him together. We’ll tell him we’re his fans and admirers. We’ll tell him his eyes are dark, mysterious pools and his lips are beautiful fruit. We’ll write to him that his teeth are like pearly shells and his eyelashes alone drive us crazy. Emily, how will we sign our letter to our hero?”

  She shrugged and half smiled.