decided that Mrs. Digby’s cooking was too stodgy and that they should adopt a more olive-oil-and-tomato-based diet. This had led to the hiring of dietary expert Consuela Cruz. Consuela had been flown over from Seville, Spain, along with many suitcases and countless cooking utensils, and though her salary was eye-watering, Mrs. Redfort considered her to be worth every penny.
The new diet may have been helping maintain healthy hearts, but it certainly wasn’t generating much love. Mrs. Digby made a muttering sound deep in her throat, Consuela clucked her tongue, and both women left the room by different doors. Ruby, now alone, piled several cookies (ten to be exact) on to a plate and went about making some more appealing drinks (two banana milks with strawberry ice cream). The banana milk was imported from Europe, for though Brant Redfort had tried, it seemed impossible to find anywhere inside the U.S.A.
Ruby popped straws in both drinks and carefully carried them out of the kitchen, sucking on one of the straws as she went. She was about to climb the stairs when she caught sight of the little light on the answering machine flashing to indicate a message. She pressed
Play.
“Hey there, Redfort gang! It’s the Humberts here. Freddie and I were just saying how much we would like it if you all came over. And Quent would just adore to see darling Ruby! Call us back, won’t you! Bye bye bye!”
This voice belonged to Marjorie Humbert, a family friend, wife of Twinford City bank manager Freddie Humbert, and the mother of Quent, the dullest boy in town. Ruby automatically pressed
Erase
and continued on her way. She was followed by the large husky.
“Hey there, Bug,” cooed Ruby. “Wanna watch some TV?”
When she entered her room she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Mrs. Digby was right: if she wanted to avoid a whole lot of grief she might want to put on a dress. She rummaged through her closet until she found an interesting red and white number she had picked up at a thrift store — if Ruby wore anything other than jeans and T-shirts, then it was usually secondhand. She was one of those girls who people talked about as “having her own style,” which was sometimes meant as a compliment and sometimes not. The hem of the dress was secured with sticky-tape, but it was hardly noticeable if you weren’t looking too closely.
Ruby pulled on some black over-the-knee socks and a pair of Yellow Stripe sneakers. The dress still retained its thrift store odor, so Ruby sprayed herself with some expensive perfume. (Oriental Rose: she had a sizable collection of beautifully bottled fragrances which, when worn, mingled with the odor of the bubble gum she so often chewed, creating a unique Ruby Redfort fragrance.)
Clancy had not yet reappeared, so Ruby carried the tray of snacks up the open-tread staircase that connected her room to the rooftop. She liked to sit up here on warm evenings looking at the stars, writing in her notebook, reading, and, more than occasionally, watching the portable TV. She settled down in the beanbag, in one hand a cookie and in the other a large green apple. She believed that the healthy attributes of the apple might counteract the bad effects of the cookie. (Ruby Redfort had a lot of theories like this one.)
She looked up when Clancy popped his head through the trapdoor. Clancy was a shortish, scrawny-looking boy — not exactly your “yearbook kid” but certainly one of the most engaging characters you were likely to talk to, if of course you bothered to
talk
to him, which most people didn’t.
“Oh, boy! I had to make a dash for the stairs or she would have had me peeling tomatoes for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t mind but tomatoes give me hives.”
He slumped down next to Ruby, who was busy flipping through the channels. Ruby was a keen watcher of TV — she watched
a lot
. She loved sitcoms, dramas, news shows, quiz shows, documentaries, but it was the detective shows that were her
The new diet may have been helping maintain healthy hearts, but it certainly wasn’t generating much love. Mrs. Digby made a muttering sound deep in her throat, Consuela clucked her tongue, and both women left the room by different doors. Ruby, now alone, piled several cookies (ten to be exact) on to a plate and went about making some more appealing drinks (two banana milks with strawberry ice cream). The banana milk was imported from Europe, for though Brant Redfort had tried, it seemed impossible to find anywhere inside the U.S.A.
Ruby popped straws in both drinks and carefully carried them out of the kitchen, sucking on one of the straws as she went. She was about to climb the stairs when she caught sight of the little light on the answering machine flashing to indicate a message. She pressed
Play.
“Hey there, Redfort gang! It’s the Humberts here. Freddie and I were just saying how much we would like it if you all came over. And Quent would just adore to see darling Ruby! Call us back, won’t you! Bye bye bye!”
This voice belonged to Marjorie Humbert, a family friend, wife of Twinford City bank manager Freddie Humbert, and the mother of Quent, the dullest boy in town. Ruby automatically pressed
Erase
and continued on her way. She was followed by the large husky.
“Hey there, Bug,” cooed Ruby. “Wanna watch some TV?”
When she entered her room she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Mrs. Digby was right: if she wanted to avoid a whole lot of grief she might want to put on a dress. She rummaged through her closet until she found an interesting red and white number she had picked up at a thrift store — if Ruby wore anything other than jeans and T-shirts, then it was usually secondhand. She was one of those girls who people talked about as “having her own style,” which was sometimes meant as a compliment and sometimes not. The hem of the dress was secured with sticky-tape, but it was hardly noticeable if you weren’t looking too closely.
Ruby pulled on some black over-the-knee socks and a pair of Yellow Stripe sneakers. The dress still retained its thrift store odor, so Ruby sprayed herself with some expensive perfume. (Oriental Rose: she had a sizable collection of beautifully bottled fragrances which, when worn, mingled with the odor of the bubble gum she so often chewed, creating a unique Ruby Redfort fragrance.)
Clancy had not yet reappeared, so Ruby carried the tray of snacks up the open-tread staircase that connected her room to the rooftop. She liked to sit up here on warm evenings looking at the stars, writing in her notebook, reading, and, more than occasionally, watching the portable TV. She settled down in the beanbag, in one hand a cookie and in the other a large green apple. She believed that the healthy attributes of the apple might counteract the bad effects of the cookie. (Ruby Redfort had a lot of theories like this one.)
She looked up when Clancy popped his head through the trapdoor. Clancy was a shortish, scrawny-looking boy — not exactly your “yearbook kid” but certainly one of the most engaging characters you were likely to talk to, if of course you bothered to
talk
to him, which most people didn’t.
“Oh, boy! I had to make a dash for the stairs or she would have had me peeling tomatoes for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t mind but tomatoes give me hives.”
He slumped down next to Ruby, who was busy flipping through the channels. Ruby was a keen watcher of TV — she watched
a lot
. She loved sitcoms, dramas, news shows, quiz shows, documentaries, but it was the detective shows that were her
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