Friends & Belonging
We Used to Do That
The sign-up sheets went up on Monday and came down on Thursday at three-thirty. That was the whole system. THURSDAY MAKING CLUB on the left. GYM CLUB, brand new this year, on the right. One pen hung between them on a string that was a bit too short.
Romy had done Making Club every year since kindergarten. Her cardboard crane from last spring still sat on the shelf outside the gym. It had never once lifted anything. She and Effie always signed up together, one name under the other, first, every time. The first line was still empty. Romy had the pen.
On the right-hand sheet, third line down: EFFIE. In Effie’s writing. The E gone over twice, because the first one came out thin. It had been there since lunchtime. Romy read it. Then the two names above it. Then it again.
Effie was down at the far end by the doors, coat half on, one arm still wriggling into the sleeve. Not hurrying. Not waiting. She hadn’t said one word about Gym Club. Not at lunch. Not on the way to lunch. Not once in four whole days.
Tove from the other class stopped on her way past. Her name was already on the left sheet, in bubble letters two lines tall. “Mine needs someone to hold it,” she said. “It’s a bridge. It only stands up if two people hold it.” Then she dashed off. Her mom was outside.
Mrs. Carrick came down the hallway with a trash bag of gym pinnies over one arm. She took the sheets down at three-thirty every single week, and never said anything about them. It was one minute to three-thirty. The pen swung on its string. Romy was still holding it.
Effie was still by the doors. The pen was still in Romy’s hand. On the left sheet, the first line was empty. On the right sheet, Effie’s name sat third down, with its E gone over twice. And Mrs. Carrick was coming.
What does Romy do?
Every choice costs something. Let’s see what.
Join Effie at Gym Club
Romy leaned in, as far as the string would let her, and wrote ROMY on the fourth line of the right sheet. Right under Effie. Effie came back for her water bottle, saw it, and said, “Oh! You’re doing it too,” in a totally ordinary voice.
The gym smelled of feet and floor polish. Effie knew you kept your socks on. She knew the mats went along the wall, not across. She knew the two girls from Miss Ito’s class by name. Romy did the warm-up one beat behind everybody, copying the girl in front.
By the third Thursday, Romy could do the warm-up without copying anyone. But there was still the order for the bench: Effie, Amira, Sasha, then Romy. Nobody decided it that day. It got worked out in week one, while Romy was somewhere else. And it just stayed the order.
On the shelf outside the gym stood her cardboard crane, ROMY on a strip of masking tape gone fluffy at the edges. She walked past it twice every Thursday. “Thursday,” said Effie, already at the door. And Romy said yes, and meant it.
Ask Effie about Gym Club
Romy let go of the pen. Tock, it swung back against the wall. She walked the whole length of the hallway. “Are you doing Gym Club?” Effie’s arm was still going into her sleeve. “Yeah,” she said. “I did it over vacation. I liked it.” Then, slower: “I didn’t say. Because you hate the gym.”
Behind them, Mrs. Carrick reached up and pulled both sheets off the wall, one in each hand. “Sheets,” she said, to nobody, and went. Effie looked at the two empty pins. “You could come to mine on Saturday,” she said. “We could make something at my house. My mom’s got the good tape.”
On Thursday Romy went out the gate at three-ten, with the three-ten kids. Through the long window she could see the gym, the mats along the wall, somebody’s legs going up. The Making Club door was open. Tove was holding one end of the bridge. Nobody was holding the other.
On Saturday Romy went to Effie’s at eleven and was still there at four-thirty, cutting cardboard with kitchen scissors that were definitely not for cardboard. Somewhere in the middle, Effie mentioned a competition in March. Romy hadn’t heard about any competition in March. They kept cutting. By the end there was so much cardboard all over the kitchen floor that Effie’s mom had to eat her toast standing in the doorway.
Join Making Club on her own
ROMY went on the first line of the left sheet, the place where two names always went. The line underneath stayed empty. Romy let go of the pen. Tock, tock, it knocked the wall twice. A minute later Mrs. Carrick took the sheet down, empty line and all.
“You coming?” called Effie from the doors, and they went out together, the way they always do. Effie talked about a dog that had gotten into the teachers’ parking lot. Romy didn’t say what she’d written. Effie didn’t ask. Neither of them said Thursday at all.
The list was taped to the Making Club door. Eleven names. Line one: ROMY. Line two: still empty. Further down, RUBEN, in letters so big they spilled onto the next line. Effie’s Thursday was in the gym, at the other end of the school. Romy didn’t hear about it. She didn’t ask.
The crane had a string, a paperclip and a jam-jar lid for a weight, and since June it had picked up absolutely nothing. Romy moved the paperclip down an inch. It hooked an eraser, lifted it right off the table, and held it there while Tove counted to ten out loud.