Jake and Lily by Jerry Spinelli

parents, they don’t even bother to yell, “Lily!” anymore, except when there’s company. So I guess my mother figured she had to do something, so she says, “Lily,” and gives me a halfhearted glare. As for the overnight guest—ha!—she practically choked on her mouthful. Her eyes went wide and her face twisted like some chain-saw killer was loose in the kitchen. (Other kids just laugh and tell me to do it again.) I patted my chest. “Great French toast, huh?” I said. She took off right after breakfast. I carried her purple suitcase halfway down the block.
    Later that day I told Poppy, “Now I feel worse than ever. And I hate my favorite color.”
    Poppy acted like it was no big deal. “Hey—win some, lose some.”
    “But it just shows you how rotten my life is now,” I told him. “I was born with a built-in sleepover person. It was perfect. Why did it all have to change?”
    “That’s life,” he said. “Change. If you’re smartyou’ll change with it. Took me a long time to learn that.”
    “If change means Anna Matuzak,” I said, “I’ll never change.”
    He laughed. “There’s other ways. And one thing hasn’t changed—Anna or no Anna, you still need a life.”
    So we thought about it, or rather Poppy thought about it. I have no idea how to think about getting a life.
    “Hobby,” he said. “You need a hobby.”
    “I have one,” I told him. “Trains. You know that.”
    “That’s more of an interest than a hobby,” he said. “And anyway, trains obviously are not doing the trick. You need something that will occupy a lot of your time. Hours a day.”
    “Like what?” I said.
    “Like…stamp collecting.”
    “Stamp collecting?” I wanted to barf. “Oh, pul-eeeeeze.”

Jake
    S o he painted his clubhouse yellow.
    And next day there it was again, splashed across the side. In black. Nice contrast with the yellow.
     
    SOOP
     
    Of course this time it was no surprise to us. Bump had told us he was going to do it.
    “Who do you think’s doing it?” Soop said as we pulled up to the curb.
    “Doing what?” said Bump, all innocent, like before.
    “Painting my name on the clubhouse,” said Soop.
    “Oh, that,” said Nacho.
    Bump leaned in and whispered to me, “Listen to him. Look at him.”
    I knew what Bump meant. The goober still wasn’t mad, just curious, like this was a math problem he hadn’t run into before. He should have been pulling out his hair, howling, What’s going on? , maybe even crying. But all he did was talk all calm with his hands on his hips, like he owned the world. That’s what gets you. You know if it happened to you, you’d be going nuts, you’d want to kill somebody. And then you see this kid who refuses—flat-out refuses —to be normal. Who stands there with his hands on his hips, all cocky-like. And if there’s one thing that burns your butt more than anything else, it’s a cocky goober. So naturally you want to smack him, slap some normal into him.
    But Bump stays cool. “I don’t know,” he says. “Who do you think’s doing it, Erno?”
    “Beats me,” said Soop. “It’s a mystery.”
    We all nodded: “Mystery…”
    And now Soop was giggling. Another thing that drives the ice pick into your neck: a giggling goober.
    “What’s so funny, Erno?” said Bump.
    “He still can’t spell soup !” goes Erno. He went on giggling, like it was the funniest thing since cow pies.
    His hand shot into the air. “Hold the presses!” He turned to us—“Wait here, guys”—and sprinted into his house. He was back in a couple minutes with a little paint can and a thin brush. He went to the wall. “I couldn’t find any black,” he called. He painted blue happy faces into the double O s. He turned to us. He threw out his arms. “Ta-da!”
    Bump started a slow handclap that of course Soop didn’t realize was bogus. The rest of us joined in. Bump hissed, almost loud enough for Soop to hear, “This is his last day as a happy