How to Get Dirt Page 3

  “Lucky…” Miranda said.

  “Yep, I am.”

  With a grin, Pickles chomped on a bite of pizza. Sauce poured from her mouth and onto her chin. She giggled, her face heated with embarrassment. Miranda smiled then wiped the sauce with her napkin. For some reason, Pickles couldn’t stop laughing after that. She kept laughing until she felt her sides would explode. Soon Miranda laughed right along with her.

  Chapter Six

  Once again, the bed was too soft and Pickles couldn’t sleep. She struggled out of it with a frown. After glancing at the clock, she went down the stairs, but today she didn’t go outside because she knew the Harrises didn’t like it. She was shocked, though, when she went into the living room and saw she was not alone. David sat at the table eating some granola while reading a newspaper. He appeared tired, with half-moons bagging underneath his eyes. Pickles gazed at the clock above the stove. It was four-thirty in the morning. Her eyes felt itchy. She couldn’t imagine having to be up this early every day.

  Pickles climbed in the chair next to him, wondering whether she should say something. David didn’t appear to notice her. Instead he kept flipping the pages of his paper until, finally, he raised up his cup a coffee, took a sip, then lowered the paper. Their eyes met, and he jumped, spilling coffee all down his front. Then he said a word Mrs. Beazley told her to never say.

  “I am sorry,” Pickles said. “Are you okay?”

  “Pickles?” he asked. “What are you doing up so early? You scared me.”

  “I can’t sleep,” Pickles said. “The bed is too soft.”

  “Is it? I suppose we can replace the mattress.” David appeared thoughtful.

  “It’s okay,” Pickles said quickly, not wanting to make trouble. “I don’t mind it. I like being up early because it’s quiet. Last time I was up this early, nobody else was.”

  “I’ve never met a twelve-year-old who likes quiet,” David said, staring at her, wide-eyed. “What do you do when nobody is up?”

  She thought of her notebook upstairs and felt shy. Yet she wanted to include David and Miranda in her life. She had written stories about them. Maybe David would understand.

  “Can I show you?” she asked.

  David nodded, raising an eyebrow and dabbing at the coffee stain on his shirt.

  With a grin, Pickles hopped off the chair and ran up the stairs. She went straight to her backpack to pull out her notebook. Clutching it to her chest, she ran down the stairs and into the dining room. David smiled at her as she placed the notebook on the table and flipped it to the page where she’d started the story about her new foster parents. Pickles pushed the notebook over to him and David picked it up to begin to read it.

  The minutes ticking by felt like the longest in her entire life. She hadn’t realized giving somebody other than Prudence her stories could be so intimidating. She watched David’s face, looking for signs he either loved it or dislike it. None came. His face remained unchanging. Finally, he closed the notebook and placed it on the table.

  “You wrote that?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “Yes,” she said. “Did it sound okay?”

  “You are… quite a young woman.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not, so she fiddled with her fingers. David took a sip of coffee, but his eyes remained trained on her notebook. His lips were pursed.

  “Do you know what I do for a living?” he asked, turning around to look at her.

  Pickles shook her head.

  “I write and edit articles for a magazine,” David said. “I think it might be okay if I took you to work with me today. Would you like that?”

  A writer, a real writer. Pickles eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. How had she not known? Of course, she had never asked. Excitement filled her stomach.

  “Please.” Pickles grinned. “But is it okay?”

  “I work for a family magazine,” David said, “so the head editor should be okay with it. Plus, I’m not sure there’s a person alive who wouldn’t want you hanging around.”

  Then David poked her in the belly. Pickles giggled and clutched her stomach.

  “Let me leave Miranda a note, and then we’ll be on our way.” David stood up and placed his paper on the table. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. Having you at work with me is going to be a lot of fun.”

  ****

  David’s office had a lot of people in cubicles. His cubicle was in the middle. He sat down with Pickles next to him while she scribbled in her notebook. A copy of Family Issues Magazine — David’s magazine – sat on the chair next to her. Using it as a reference, she tried to imitate his writing style. He was a good writer. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t known what he did for a living. He was practically a celebrity.

  After she had been sitting by David for some time, a bald man with a long beard peered over the cubicle and did a double-take when he saw Pickles sitting at the desk.

  “David, who is this?” the man asked, rounding the cubicle.

  “This would be Pickles,” David said, patting her head.

  Pickles stared up at the balding man and found herself smiling. The man wore a bright red tie with smiley faces on it.

  “So this is the gorgeous Pickles I have been hearing so much about,” the man said, picking up her hand and then kissing it. Heat filled her face. “She’s as lovely as you said. My name is Jerry Newton. I’m the editor in chief and owner of this magazine.”

  Pickles glanced from David to Mr. Newton.

  “He’s my boss,” David said, winking at Pickles, “though most of the time, he doesn’t act like it.”

  Did David normally talk this way to his manager? Pickles wouldn’t have spoken that way to her old foster parents. In a way, they had been her boss. She peered nervously at Jerry and wondered whether David was about to be in trouble.

  “So what brings you here, Pickles?” Jerry asked, grinning at her. Pickles blinked. Had he not heard what David said at all?

  “Um, I like to write, so David said he’d bring me here,” Pickles replied. “He was showing me articles, too, sir.”

  “Sir?” Jerry raised an eyebrow. “Nobody calls me sir.”

  A moment of silence went by. Jerry struck her as nice, but he was also the editor in chief. She didn’t know what else to say. A little frightened, she stole a look at David.

  “Say, David,” Jerry said, when Pickles didn’t say anything, “don’t we have an area in the magazine for articles written by young people?”

  David grinned. “Well, I say we do, Jerry.”

  “Isn’t there an opening this issue?”

  Her heart pounded. Did Jerry mean what she thought he did? Jerry turned to look at Pickles.

  “How about it, Pickles, my dear?” He grinned at her. “Would you like to write an article for Family Issues? You would get your name in the magazine and everything.”

  Excitement filled her. That would make her a real journalist, just like David. She grinned.

  “I would love to, Mr. Newton.” Excitement made her squirm in her seat.

  “Mr. Newton…” Jerry chuckled, then winked at David. “Where did you find this polite young lady? Mr. Newton is my father, Pickles. You can call me Jerry.”

  With a grin, Pickles stuck out her hand to shake his. She was starting to feel like a real live business woman, and at the age of twelve too.

  “Jerry, it’s a deal,” she said, as Jerry picked up her hand and shook it.

  David chuckled.

  Chapter Seven

  Pickles had to wear a plaid skirt and a white button-up shirt. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She had never gone to a private school before, but she was going to have to now. I wonder if the other kids will like me. From what I’ve heard of private schools, everybody is pretty rich. She frowned at the mirror and smoothed down her hair.

  Pickles wanted to show her foster parents, who were in their bedroom, her uniform, but when she opened her door, she heard them discussing something. S
he wasn’t sure she wanted to interrupt.

  “David, it’s late,” Miranda said.

  “Are you sure?” David asked. “You know what it was like before. Real sporadic. What if this isn’t…”

  “But I’ve been feeling sick all the time,” Miranda said. “Plus, now I’m three weeks off.”

  “Let’s not jump any guns here, sweetheart,” David said. “Remember what happened last time when you ended up so disappointed?”

  “I know. I’m just excited. It’s what we’ve wanted for so long.”

  Nobody spoke again but Pickles heard movement. She pressed herself harder against the door, her heart pounding. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but judging by the way her stomach sunk, she knew it wasn’t good. After years of seeing bad things happen one after the other, she knew all about that.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda said.

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  Then the sound of rustling fabric was all Pickles could hear.

  Pickles took a step forward and rammed her foot into the dresser. She let out a loud cry of pain before falling over. Miranda gasped while David yelped. A moment later, they were both hovering over her, their eyes wide with concern. Oh, no. I ruined it. Now I’m not going to know what’s going on or what’s late. She ground her teeth.

  “Are you okay, Pickles?” David asked, patting her head.

  “Yeah,” Pickles said, “I’m alright.”

  “Thank heavens,” Miranda said. “What happened?”

  Heat filled her face. She didn’t want to tell them she had been listening in on their conversation and had stepped forward to eavesdrop. She knew parents didn’t like it when she did that.

  “I just was about to tell you I finished trying on my outfit, but then I ran into the dresser,” Pickles lied. “I hurt my foot and then fell over.”

  “You’re sure your foot is okay?” Miranda asked, kneeling and touching her leg gently. “Is it broken?”

  “My foot is fine,” Pickles said, flexing her toes.

  Miranda straightened and offered her a helping hand. Pickles took it.

  It’s losing my new parents I’m worried about. Pickles frowned and then shook her head. She was being silly. One conversation wasn’t cause to worry. Not at all.

  She grinned at Miranda and spun around to show off her new outfit. Miranda stopped talking about her fall.

  ****

  The school was smaller than any she had attended before, but it was twice as intimidating. Girls in identical uniforms swarmed the front steps, and a teacher or an administrator stood at the school gates in a business suit of all black. The school itself was dark brown with the feel of a mansion instead of that of a school.

  As Pickles studied it, Miranda grabbed her hand. Her palm felt hot.

  “You scared?” Miranda asked.

  “A little,” Pickles said. “I’ve never been to a private school before.”

  “I thought it might be a good place to enroll you,” Miranda said. “You like writing so much, and this place has the best arts program around. You’ll be taught things way above what a public school would teach you. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Pickles nodded. It was pretty amazing, and she did like to learn. Maybe she would be able to write more in David’s magazine that way.

  Miranda began to pull her forward, toward the school. The two of them walked hand-in-hand, so some of the girls turned to gawk at them. Pickles knew right then she wasn’t going to fit in. Most of these girls had already gathered in groups. Pickles didn’t know anyone.

  Shaking it off, Pickles stared straight ahead and tried to ignore the gazes of the other girls. They came to a large flight of stairs and began to walk up them. After they passed through a pair of wooden doors, Pickles and Miranda headed to the right. Finally, she spotted an office, which they entered. Five women in identical black business suits lingered.

  “Ah, here’s Mrs. Barnaby,” Miranda said. “Hello.”

  The woman sitting at the desk directly in front of them smiled and nodded at Miranda, but Pickles thought she appeared formidable with her tight dark brown bun and black glasses.

  “Hi, Miranda,” Mrs. Barnaby said, hugging her. Mrs. Barnaby then stepped away to stare down at Pickles. “So this is the little girl you were talking about. What’s your name, honey?”

  Pickles grimaced. She couldn’t help it.

  “Pickles,” Miranda said without hesitation. “Her name is Pickles.”

  “Pickles?” Mrs. Barnaby asked, raising her eyebrow at Miranda. “Her name is truly Pickles?”

  “Yes.” Miranda smiled. “Unusual, isn’t it? I think it’s nice, though.”

  “Right.” Mrs. Barnaby’s smile did not light up her eyes in the way it had before. “I’ll go get Mrs. Turner. I swear I’ve never seen a principal who spends more time online. I’ll be right back. I’m sure she’ll be happy to meet with the two of you.”

  After giving Pickles one last fleeting look, as if being a girl named Pickles was a dangerous thing, Mrs. Barnaby turned around then headed out of sight. She reappeared with a plump, kind faced woman with auburn hair which stuck straight out of her head. Pickles stared. She had no idea why Mrs. Barnaby appeared so shocked at the name Pickles when the principle looked like she had just gotten into a wild fight with a hedgehog and lost.

  Mrs. Turner smiled at them and relief warmed Pickles’ heart. As crazy as the principal’s hair was, she also appeared to be nice. Mrs. Turner offered her hand and Miranda shook it. She then offered her hand to Pickles, as if she was an adult. With a sense of pride, Pickles shook her hand. Mrs. Turner didn’t treat her like a little kid like some adults did. She liked that. At the last school she had attended, they had metal detectors. She hadn’t even been allowed to go to the bathroom without a lot of hassle.

  “Hello, Mrs. Harris, it’s nice to meet you in person. I am Mrs. Turner, the principal here at St. Anne’s Middle School. I was told this young woman is… um… Pickles Bartley?” She blinked twice. “Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” Miranda said, “she has never attended a private school before, so she’s a little nervous.”

  With a smile, Mrs. Turner gazed kindly down at Pickles.

  “Well, she looks like a together young woman.” Mrs. Turner beamed at her. “She’s got all the correct elements of her uniform, her transcripts show she has no bad record, and she’s had high marks in all of her classes, particularly in English.”

  “I’m going to get my article published in a magazine,” Pickles said, feeling her heart swell with pride.

  “Are you, now?” Mrs. Turner beamed at Miranda, who smiled and nodded. “Well, that’s just great. We like to nurture creative talent here. When you get the article, why don’t you bring it in here and I’ll make a copy to hang up so everybody can see it.”

  Her heart warmed. She couldn’t believe it. She had never felt more proud of anything in her entire life. Was this truly happening? She half expected to blink and be back in her bunk in the dorm room. Maybe she had hit her head and was living in one of her stories.

  “I would like that very much,” Pickles said, grinning broadly.

  “Good,” Mrs. Turner said. “Well, Miranda, you have two choices here. You can stay with Pickles while I give her a tour of the school and bring her to her classroom, or you can head home. Whatever would make Pickles more comfortable.”

  A worried look crossed Miranda’s face. She discretely checked her watch. Pickles knew Miranda worked at home on her laptop. She wasn’t sure what Miranda did, but she knew her new foster mom wanted to get back home.

  “It’s okay, Miranda,” Pickles said. “I’ll be fine here. I’ll see you at three-thirty, when school is over.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened in shock. “You sure you’ll be okay? Because I can stay. I can.”

  Forcing a smile, Pickles nodded.

  “Okay.” Miranda appeared relieved, because her eyes glowed. “I’ll be out front at three-thirty. Look for me in the front parking lot, okay?�
��

  “Yes. Thanks Miranda.”

  After checking her watch one last time, Miranda turned around and left the office, leaving her and Mrs. Turner alone. Mrs. Turner beamed at her, then began showing her around the school.

  Chapter Eight

  In English class, Pickles found herself ensconced between two girls. To her right sat a girl named Lily. Her long blonde hair had been caught up in a braid that ran down her back to her waist. Fine strands escaped to frame her heart-shaped face with golden curls. Mary Lou sat to the left. Ginger-colored hair seemed to float in a spiraling cascade over her shoulders. Pickles was surprised to note the pale blue eye shadow on Mary Lou’s eyelids and lashes that could only be so thick with the aid of mascara. Mary Lou sighed and tapped her professionally manicured nails against her desk top.

  The teacher, Mrs. Ballot, was reading them a chapter from a literary classic. Pickles was too nervous to focus, even though this was normally the type of subject which would have fascinated her.

  After what felt like ages, Mrs. Ballot closed the book and grinned at the class. Bells that announced class changes filled the air, marking the fact Mrs. Ballot was to switch with another teacher, to whom Pickles had yet to be introduced. Mrs. Turner had told her the teachers swapped classrooms six times a day according to the subject, which was different than at her old school where it was the students who did the classroom changing.

  As Pickles gazed around the room, she realized she had five whole minutes in which to introduce herself to the girls sitting next to her. The idea frightened her. She turned and glanced at Lily, who continued writing in her notebook with a purple, feather-topped pen.

  “Hello, my name is Pickles.”

  Saying nothing, Lily continued to scribble in her notebook.

  “Do you like to write?” Pickles asked. “I do. It looks like you’re doing something pretty serious.”