Ivy and Bean_ Books 4,5,6 - Annie Barrows [29]
TIGHT TENTACLES
Ivy and Bean worked so hard on their fish prints that they forgot about getting sick. It was only on the way home that they remembered. Ivy looked down Bean’s throat.
“It’s pink,” she said.
“It’s always pink,” said Bean. She felt her forehead. “I have a headache,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Ivy encouragingly.
But when they got to Bean’s house, Bean’s mother said that a person with a headache was too sick to eat an ice-cream bar, and that’s when Bean realized that she didn’t have a headache after all. She felt fine.
She still felt fine the next day.
And the day after that.
Ivy touched a kid with a rash. Nothing. Eric sneezed on Bean eight times. Nothing. Half the kids in the first grade had lice, but Ivy and Bean decided that lice wouldn’t help. Their mothers would make them be squids with lice.
By the end of the week, Ivy and Bean were completely unsick. They needed a new plan. But what? Usually Bean didn’t worry much. In fact, grown-ups sometimes said she didn’t worry enough. But that weekend, even while she was doing fun things like going to a fair that included a giant slide, Bean worried. Mostly it didn’t feel like worry. What it felt like was fun with a little bit missing. When Bean came whooshing to the bottom of the giant slide, she thought, Why don’t I feel totally great? And then she remembered. Because I have to be a squid in front of everyone.
Ivy worried, too. Ivy usually didn’t worry about real life. Ivy usually worried about things like the Permian extinction, when a whole lot of animals died. The Permian extinction was very upsetting, but it had happened 250 million years ago, so it wasn’t real life anymore.
This weekend Ivy didn’t think about the Permian extinction. She thought about how she would feel being a squid on a stage in front of a whole lot of people. She knew how she would feel. Stupid. She would probably trip, because she usually did. And even if she didn’t trip, she would be a squid. Everyone would know that Madame Joy had made her a squid because she was the worst dancer in the class. Too bad the Permian extinction didn’t wipe out squids, Ivy thought.
On Sunday afternoon, Ivy went over to Bean’s house to be measured for her squid costume. Bean’s mother had said she would make both squid costumes because Ivy’s mom didn’t like to sew. But it wasn’t even a real costume. Madame Joy’s picture showed a white leotard with a circle of droopy white tentacles hanging from the waist.
Madame Joy said that tentacles were a breeze to make. Bean’s mom didn’t think so.
“Who ever heard of squid costumes, anyway?” she muttered.
“No complaining,” said Bean.
“None of your lip there, missy,” her mother said.
That was grown-ups for you. They never followed their own rules.
“I suppose I could stuff a bunch of tights and sew them on,” Bean’s mother mumbled. Bean and Ivy exchanged looks.
“Tights?” Bean said. “Like the kind you wear on your legs?”
Her mother looked up. “Yes, tights. Stuffed tights. For the tentacles. Do you have a better idea?”
Bean thought of the Wilis in their long feathery dresses. She thought of herself with stuffed tights bouncing around her waist.
“Tights it is!” said her mother.
“We’re going to look like idiots,” said Bean.
“No complaining,” said her mother.
Monday started out badly. Ms. Aruba-Tate was at choking class. The Principal had told her to take choking class so she would know what to do if a student choked. Bean said if someone choked, you dangled them upside down by their ankles until whatever it was fell out. Ms. Aruba-Tate said she didn’t think so, but she would find out.
Ms. Aruba-Tate’s substitute was Teacher Star. Teacher Star wasn’t mean, but she never stopped singing. She sat on Ms. Aruba-Tate’s stool and strummed her guitar and sang. She told the second-graders to sing along, but they didn’t want to, so she sang alone. She sang and sang and sang some more.
Ivy read her book under her desk. Bean thought about choking.