Spiders on the Case by Kathryn Lasky

A nd when Madame unfolded the gown from the layers of tissue paper, she almost fainted with delight at Monsieur Poulet’s creation. “Mon sieur!” she exclaimed. “It is too beautiful — trop belle . It is a chef d’oeuvre, a masterpiece.” Jo Bell hesitated over the next words. “It shimmers like the clouds with just a soupçon of” — Jo Bell paused — “soupçon. I think that means ‘a hint.’ Yes, a hint of silver thread. I love the word ‘soupçon’!” Jo Bell exclaimed, and looked up at her mother. “Mom, have you heard anything I’ve said in the last five minutes?”
    â€œWhat, dear? Something about soup’s on. Yes, a lovely human expression for ‘dinner is ready.’”
    Jo Bell sighed. What did one have to do to get attention in this family? She was the oldest. Didn’t she deserve a little respect? Instead, every one fussed over Felix and the “enchanting” webs he spun. Their mother had called his last one a “triumph.” She wanted to shout, “Hello! I’m here, too, you know! MOI! ” But her mother only had eyes for Felix.
    â€œâ€˜Soupçon’ — it’s the French word for ‘hint.’ Mom, you’re not listening to me! I’ve been teaching myself French. And look, I spun a replica of the very gown Madame Gerora described. I copied it from the book I was telling you about.”
    â€œOh, yes, oh, yes,” her mother replied somewhat vaguely. “Well, that’s very nice, dear. Quite lovely.”
    Jo Bell’s mom’s enthusiasm meter seemed to hover around a five as opposed to the solid ten with bells and whistles it reached for Felix’s masterpieces.
    â€œYou call that art?” Felix said, examining the gown Jo Bell had just spun.
    â€œI certainly do!” Jo Bell replied, crossing her front legs in annoyance. “You are not the only artist in the family, you know, Felix. Fashion is art, especially high fashion. You don’t know every thing,” Jo Bell huffed.
    Sock it to him, Jo Bell , Buster thought.
    â€œI know it’s not as good as this new web design of mine. It’s perfect for trapping and storing silverfish. Elegant yet practical. Form follows function, as the great architects say.”
    â€œNow, Felix, mind your manners. We can’t all be architects as you are.” Edith, the spiderlings’ mother, swung down from the web repair work she was tending in the corner.
    â€œMom, this is beyond manners! He is insulting what I care about.”
    â€œAll he said was that fashion isn’t an art form, dear.”
    â€œMom, now you — you’re saying it, too!” Jo Bell was ready to explode. Her mother always sided with Felix.
    â€œIt is a kind of art, dear!”
    Kind of. Two little words that made fashion design sound like a half art at best! Her mother’s lukewarm defense only made Jo Bell angrier.
    â€œFashion is so … so … vain. It’s really a frivolous preoccupation of humans,” Felix added.
    WHAT?! Was Felix the only one who got credit for anything? Jo Bell felt like an alien in her own family. She thought, That’s exactly it. I might as well be a Peruvian jumping spider or a Mexican lace weaver.
    Trying her best not to explode with anger, Jo Bell said with all the patience she could muster, “Mom, I take offense that you feel my interest is a ‘kind of’ art form, but I can definitely tell you that French is certainly not a ‘kind of’ language.”
    â€œOh, dear, oh, dear.” Edith was beginning to wring two of her rear legs together. In another few seconds, she’d be wringing six of her eight legs. “I didn’t mean that at all, Jo Bell. I misspoke. Since we’ve been here in the Boston Public Library, we have all learned so much already. You especially, dear. Some French! And now Felix is trying as