The Friendship War Page 5

  And these girls? They absolutely have the condition—they’ve got button fever!

  I mean, I’ve got button fever, too. But here’s the thing: I know I’ve got it.

  Ellie, Taylor, Brooke, and Diana? They’re like those boys on the bus: They’ve got it, but they don’t really know it.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  —

  Once the day begins, I stay close to Ellie whenever we have classes together or when I see her in the halls and at lunch. Each time she shows her bracelet to someone, or each time someone notices it or asks about it, I make a detailed note.

  Ellie is never shy about showing off something new or special, and she has a lot of friends. By the time she steps onto her bus Thursday afternoon, I have observed thirty-nine girls and twelve boys in grades four, five, and six who each got an up-close look at Ellie’s bracelet—that’s fifty-one kids!

  Of course, there’s no quick way to know what those fifty-one kids thought about Ellie’s bracelet, or whether any of those kids might have told any other kids about it. And I’m sure Ellie showed her bracelet to some additional kids when I wasn’t around.

  Even so, I think I’ve got enough data to support a very simple theory: Avery Elementary School is going to see a dramatic increase of button fever.

  And it will probably happen soon.

  Before I even find a seat on the bus Friday morning, the boy from yesterday, the one with the phone, gets right up in my face, talking fast.

  “Those buttons? The red ones you gave me? You got any more of those? I found some really big green buttons, and I’ll trade ’em for some more of those red ones, if you want to. What do you say, huh? You want to trade?”

  “Um, let me sit down first, okay?”

  I live pretty close to school, so the bus is nearly full, and as I walk back to look for a seat, I’m in the middle of a massive swap session, with kids calling to each other.

  “I’ve got fifteen little white buttons here, perfect for making a bracelet or something, and I’m looking for buttons made of pewter. Anybody have any pewter?”

  “No pewter, but I’ve got a really nice brass one.”

  “Brass? Does it have an eagle on it?”

  “No, it has a globe.”

  “I’ll take it! What do you want for it?”

  “What’ve you got? I’m looking for some of those US Navy buttons, the kind with the anchor.”

  “Pewter? Who’s looking for pewter?”

  “I am!”

  Phone Boy is still with me when I sit down.

  “So, those red ones? You have any?”

  “First of all, my name is Grace—what’s yours?”

  “Chris.”

  “How come you want more red buttons?”

  “That color? It’s really rare. I’ve got my eye on a couple of Coast Guard buttons, but I’ve got to get some good ammo before I try to make a trade. So, I was thinking that these two big green guys ought to be worth about eight of your red ones—what do you say?”

  “Hey, I want some of those red ones! Look at these yellow buttons—fantastic color, right?”

  It’s the boy who was joking about the Button Police yesterday, and the four yellow buttons he’s offering to trade? They’re mine—some of the buttons I gave away from my tray at lunch on Wednesday! Which means he must have gotten them from someone who was at our table…except, really, those buttons could have already changed hands five or six times!

  The driver slams the bus to a stop and waves some cars past. Then she stands up and yells, “Get in your seats and stay there! Any more moving around when the bus is rolling, and I’ll call the school and have the principal meet us at the curb—you got that?”

  Everyone sits down fast, and there’s a lot of nodding, and it’s quiet. But the moment the bus moves, the yelling and the trading picks up again—with kids sitting now.

  The boy, Chris, hands me his two green buttons. “Nice, huh?”

  They’re very large, at least an inch and a half across, and there’s a carved design on each one, sort of a notch on the front that cuts across the two holes.

  “Hold them up,” he says. “See how the light comes right through? Almost like glass or something. Really great buttons!”

  Even though I have so, so many buttons, I haven’t seen any like this pair, not yet. And all of a sudden I really want them!

  But without even thinking, I pretend I don’t.

  “Yeah…I mean, they’re okay, I guess. But eight of my red ones? For two? I don’t think so.”

  “How about seven?”

  And now I know I’ve got him hooked.

  “I could trade six, I guess.”

  “Okay, six! Deal!”

  I dig around in the bottom of my book bag, and hand over six of my best blood-red buttons. Our deal is complete, and I have never felt like this, never in my whole life! Trading is so fun!

  I hear myself calling out, “Who’s got those pewter buttons?”

  “Back here—I’ve got three. Pass these up to her.”

  It’s a girl two rows behind me, and I think she’s a fifth grader.

  I study the buttons, and then I frown. “Oh—they’re not the same. That’s too bad.”

  “Right,” she says, “but they’re all snowflake designs…and every snowflake is different, right? So, they’re still pretty amazing.”

  I can tell this girl’s smart.

  I say, “Yeah, but I like it when buttons match. Like these cranberry-red buttons? I’ve got enough that somebody could actually sew them onto a sweater. Such a great color!” And I pass three of them back to her. “I think I’ve got six, maybe even seven…if you wanted to trade.”

  These pewter buttons in my hand have a very nice weight to them—so solid. And just like with the big green ones, I feel like I’ve got to own these buttons!

  I can tell the girl’s not sold yet, so I say, “I’ll tell you what. How about I give you three of my red ones for each one of these. Deal?”

  And now this girl knows that she’s got me on the hook! And she knows that I know that she knows.

  “Hmm…I think maybe four of your red ones for each of mine would be better—twelve total. How about that?”

  “Twelve for three? Okay…but you’re getting a really good deal!”

  I hunt around to find nine more red buttons, and I pass them back. Even though I feel like I got beat on this deal, I don’t care. These pewter buttons feel so heavy, so real!

  I’m getting low on my red buttons, so I’m done trading—for now. But I’ve got seven other little sandwich bags of buttons in my locker, the ones I didn’t show at lunch on Wednesday! I must have a couple thousand buttons there, all kinds! If I’m careful, I could probably get my hands on every single pewter button at school today, probably even get—

  My mind screeches to a halt.

  What is wrong with me?

  I’ve been hearing this hyper little voice inside my head, and it’s like I don’t know who’s talking!

  Because standing at the bus stop five minutes ago? I was Grace Hamlin, the careful scientist. I was all set to observe and analyze and take some notes. I was going to see if there were any new cases of button fever today. Then I got on the bus, and in ten seconds I morphed into a wild button zombie—Must get more buttons!

  A sudden sharp stillness fills my thinking. I look around me on the bus, and now I can see what’s going on here.

  It’s clear that not everybody has buttons—probably only about fifteen kids are actually trading. But every kid on the bus is totally tuned in, following each transaction and choosing sides, too—there’s a cheering section for every trade.

  “Don’t do it! Your button is way better than that piece of junk he’s trying to give you!”

  And something else: The ki
ds who don’t have any buttons? They wish they did. And by Monday morning, my theory is that most of them will.

  That thought I had a minute ago, that I should rush to my locker and grab some button bags, and keep on trading like mad?

  I can’t do that—no way!

  Because if I did, everyone would figure out that I’ve got a massive supply of amazing buttons. They would see that I have this huge advantage.

  And they would probably think it wasn’t fair.

  Which is true…I guess.

  So I’d better just be an observer here, a scientist. Which is not the same as being in the action. It feels more like being a spy.

  I tell myself that I can do this, that I can stay outside the flow. I’m going to be scientific: I’m going to watch the events and keep trying to understand what’s going on.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  But as I get off the bus with three pewter buttons in my right hand and the two big green ones in my left hand? I am so glad that these buttons are mine!

  And I admit that it might be tough to stay true to my scientific goals.

  Because that feeling of making a great trade? It’s a hard thing to forget.

  When I get to homeroom and look around, buttons are everywhere.

  But this is not like the wild scene on the bus, because our teacher is sitting at her desk typing on her laptop, and even before the day officially begins, Mrs. Lang expects everyone to be well behaved and orderly.

  Still, there are several pockets of intense activity. And who’s in the middle of the action? Ellie.

  Which doesn’t surprise me.

  When Ellie sees me, she waves for me to come over, a huge smile on her face. She’s wearing her new button bracelet for the second day in a row.

  “Guess what: A lot of kids asked me about my bracelet yesterday, so I made some more last night!”

  Again, not a surprise.

  “First, I sorted all my buttons, that big batch my mom gave me. I did colors and then size. I mean, I love this first bracelet, but it used up way too many buttons. So I had to figure out how to make them last, you know? And look, I made five of these!”

  She hands me a piece of thin red ribbon. It’s about half an inch wide and about six inches long, and it’s made of cloth—like a hair ribbon. Eight small white buttons are sewn onto it, spaced evenly along the length. At one end of the ribbon there’s a short loop of heavy white thread.

  “You put it on this way, see?”

  Ellie wraps the ribbon around my wrist, and then fastens it by putting the last button on one end through the white loop on the other. And now I’m wearing a red- ribbon-button bracelet.

  Ellie’s sewing isn’t going to win any prizes, but this bracelet? It’s sweet and simple, and very cute!

  As she helps me take it off my wrist, she keeps talking.

  “So, I decided that my goal for today is to trade my bracelets for as many really big buttons as I can get. And so far, I’ve got these seven—with three bracelets still left to trade! Pretty good, huh?”

  She holds out her hand and shows me seven gorgeous buttons, each about the size of the green ones I got on the bus. Three of them are made from some kind of pale blue seashell. One is bright orange plastic, two are speckled like a brownish bird’s egg, and the last button looks like it’s made of pale yellow glass with bubbles in it—but it’s plastic.

  So Ellie’s plan? It’s working really, really well!

  But she’s not the only one with ideas. Because this morning? Buttons are the new fashion accessory.

  Following Ellie’s lead, five other girls have some kind of a button bracelet—I think Ellie’s new one is still the best. Three girls have a fancy button or two strung onto a cord or a chain and worn as a necklace. One girl has sewn a bright yellow button onto each belt loop of her jeans! And Taylor? She’s got one little blue button on each of her white sneakers, sewn onto the laces somehow, and centered about halfway up—it’s an interesting look.

  In the back corner, four boys have these strange bunches of buttons hanging from their belts. But I wouldn’t call this fashion—more like…advertising.

  And it’s working, because I walk right over for a closer look.

  “Hey, Cody, can I check out that bunch of black buttons?” And I point at a group on his left hip.

  “Sure.”

  He has to pull off three other bunches of buttons to get at the one I asked about—which is when I see what’s holding them all in place: one of those extra-big paper clips, bent into sort of an S shape. Clever.

  I do a quick count, and there are ten buttons in this bunch, and in the other bunches, too. And instead of stringing each bunch together with thread, Cody used a piece of thin wire.

  “How come you put ten buttons in each bunch?”

  “The wire is from those twist ties that come on bread and stuff, and ten is about all the buttons you can fit and still have room to twist the wire shut into a loop.”

  “So who got the idea to use the twist ties and the big paper clips?”

  “I don’t know—all the guys are doing it. It just happened.”

  Of course, that’s not true. Nothing just happens. But it might already be too late to figure out who did the twisty-clip thing first.

  Because it’s not like I’m studying some precise experiment in a tidy science lab. This buttons phenomenon has turned into a giant, sloppy, uncontrollable creature that’s galloping through the school!

  I hand Cody his button bunch, and he clips it back onto a belt loop and walks over to talk with Kevin and Noah. Altogether these guys have at least fifteen button clumps hanging at their waists. As I watch, they pull some off and begin comparing and arguing.

  I’ve got eight minutes before the bell, and I sit down at my desk and open a notebook. I need to record some of my observations while they’re still fresh in my mind.

  But out of the corner of my eye, I see Brooke come bursting into the room, and she makes a beeline for Ellie and then holds out her hand. So I drop my pencil and hurry over.

  Brooke has a beautiful button—it might be the prettiest one I’ve ever seen. The plastic is sort of a soft, creamy yellowish color, and it’s about an inch and a half in diameter—big, but not too big. There are no holes through the button, just one small metal loop on the back. And the best part? Cut into the face of the button there’s a pinwheel, with lines that swirl out from the center—at least a dozen—and each groove of the design is stained a rich, dark blue color. The button looks old, but it’s not worn or damaged.

  The size, the smooth rounded face, the pinwheel design, the strong contrast of the creamy color with the deep blue lines? It’s the kind of button that makes you say, I want it!

  And I know that is exactly what Ellie is thinking—even though she’s trying not to show it.

  Brooke is supposed to believe that Ellie gets to decide what happens next. Because that’s how it usually is: Ellie’s the boss.

  Except who owns that beautiful button? Brooke.

  So for the moment, she’s in charge, even if she doesn’t know it. In a weird kind of way, with that particular button in her hand, Brooke might be the most powerful kid in the room.

  In fact…that pretty pinwheel button might be more powerful than science itself—even more powerful than common sense. Because at this very moment? I can’t help it—I feel like I have to get that button!

  I hurry out to my locker in the hall, and I know I’m not being logical, but I don’t care. I want that pinwheel button!

  From my show-and-tell in social studies that day, I remember how Brooke really loved the specialty buttons, the ones in all the realistic shapes, especially the animals—she wants to become a veterinarian.

  So that’s the bag I grab from my locker. And it’s not like this is going to give away any secret
s either. Everyone already knows I have some buttons like this.

  Back in the room, Brooke is trying on one of Ellie’s ribbon bracelets. I can tell she really likes it.

  And Ellie already has the pinwheel button in her hand.

  So I might be too late.

  Five other girls are watching the action, but from a respectful distance. And usually I’d do the same. Like, whenever we watch a movie together, I always let Ellie pick the one she wants.

  But not this time. I move in close, almost between them. And then I say something, just an observation, as if I’m talking about the weather.

  “These are those fancy buttons I brought to social studies that day, the ones shaped like dogs and cats and horses and stuff. I’ve been thinking about how some of these would look on a bracelet.”

  “Oooh…that’s a great idea!”

  Brooke is studying my small plastic bag.

  And Ellie?

  Without even looking, I can tell that her mouth is hanging wide open. She’s speechless, but I know that won’t last for long.

  So I start pulling out buttons. “Yeah, like this kitten…and this robin…and this pony…and this Scottie dog, and then three or four more, maybe on a yellow ribbon? I think that might be really nice—almost like a charm bracelet!”

  Brooke is nodding. “So, do you want to trade some of those?”

  I say, “Maybe…but for what? I mean, these are pretty amazing buttons, and they’re almost antiques, too.”

  Like a cobra, Brooke snatches her pinwheel button right out of Ellie’s fingers and hands it to me!

  “I’ll trade you that for eight of yours—I get to pick. Deal?”

  The word Deal! is on my tongue, but before I can say it, Ellie finds her voice.

  “Actually, Brooke, you and I had already made a trade. You took my bracelet and put it on, and then you handed me that button. So, that’s a trade. Plus…I was kind of hoping that you’d come for a sleepover this weekend. I got a spool of this amazing stretchy cord, and I thought you could help me try out some new ideas for necklaces.”