The One and Only. Valerie Tripp

front door. Scooter, who had an unerring instinct about where he’d be most in the way, plunked himself down right behind Maryellen.

      “I want to paint, too,” echoed Tom, pedaling his fire engine along behind them.

      “Paint!” said Mikey.

      “No,” said Maryellen.

      “Why?” asked Beverly.

      “Because there’s only one brush.”

      “Can I have a turn with it?” asked Beverly.

      “Me, too?” asked Tom.

      “Paint!” said Mikey.

      “No,” said Maryellen shortly.

      “Why not?” asked Beverly.

      “Because it was my idea and I’m doing it,” said Maryellen. She sounded crosser than she meant to. The truth was that she was cross at herself, because only now that she looked at the front door did she realize that she had forgotten about the screen door, which was outside the front door, so she’d have to paint that first.

      Oh, well. There’s not much to paint. How hard could it be? Maryellen thought. She remembered seeing a commercial on television in which a lady painted her whole living room all by herself, and there was nothing to it! She pretended to be in that TV commercial. She held the can of paint in one hand, dipped the brush into it, and boldly swiped a stroke of red on the middle slat of the screen door.

      “Uh-oh,” said Beverly.

      “Uh-oh what?” asked Maryellen, even though she had spotted a problem, too.

      “It’s all bumpy,” said Beverly.

      “Oh, no one will see,” said Maryellen airily, even though it was easy to see that she’d painted over dead bugs, and their bodies were now permanently attached to the screen door, like raised polka dots. She was glad when Joan’s boyfriend, Jerry, drove up in his convertible hot rod. He would be a great distraction for her critical audience.

      “Hi, Jerry!” Maryellen, Beverly, and Tom called. Maryellen turned and waved her paintbrush.

      “Hi, kids,” said Jerry as he got out of his car and came up the front walk. Maryellen thought he looked very handsome in his white tennis outfit. “What’s with the paint, Ellie?”

      “Paint!” said Mikey.

      “I’m painting our door red,” Maryellen explained. “It’s a surprise for Mom.”

      “She’ll be surprised, all right,” said Jerry. “I guess I’d better knock on the kitchen door, to let Joan know I’m here for our date.”

      Maryellen seized the opportunity, even though she knew she was risking Joan’s wrath. “Speaking of dates,” she said to Jerry, “have you ever thought about setting a date? To marry Joan, I mean.”

      “To—to what?” Jerry sputtered. He looked surprised.

      “Marry Joan,” Maryellen plowed on doggedly. “She’s almost eighteen, you know. She’ll graduate from high school next June. And millions of girls get married right after they graduate.”

      Jerry looked stunned, as if someone had bonked him on the noggin. He was speechless.

      Maryellen pressed on. “You had better ask her soon,” she advised Jerry. “She’s awfully pretty, and very popular, and—” But Maryellen didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence, because just then, everything happened at once.

      Beverly, who had been dipping her empty Popsicle stick into the paint can and painting her fingernails red, stopped and looked up. “Ellie,” she asked, “what’s that smell?”

      Maryellen turned and saw smoke billowing out of the kitchen door just as Carolyn came running up the driveway waving her piano music and shouting, “Ellie! The brownies—they’re burning!”

      Joan, rushing out to see what the fuss was, flung open the front screen door and knocked Maryellen backward on her roller skates. As Maryellen fell over Scooter and landed bottom-first in a bush, red paint went flying—all over her, all over the front step, and all over Jerry’s white tennis shorts and shirt.

      “Hey!” exclaimed Jerry.

      “Oh no!” shrieked Joan.

      Tom, making siren noises and clanging the bell on his fire truck, pedaled to the kitchen door and turned on the hose. He squirted water through the kitchen screen door, trying to put out the fire in the oven like a fireman. Beverly held up her hands, which were covered in red paint, and wailed. Mikey, unperturbed, picked up the paintbrush and began painting red stripes on Scooter, who didn’t seem to mind.

      And it was at that exact moment that Mrs. Larkin’s car pulled into the driveway, horn honking “Honk, honk!” to announce its happy arrival.

      “MOM!” Joan, Carolyn, Maryellen, Beverly, and Tom yelled at the top of their lungs.

      “Fire!” yelled Jerry.

      “Paint!” yelled Mikey.

      “Ar-oooo!” howled Scooter, not to be left out of the ruckus. “Ar-ooo! Ar-ooo! Ar-ooo!”

      The car screeched to a stop, and Mrs. Larkin, Betty, and Florence jumped out.

      “What’s going on?” Mrs. Larkin shouted, over and above all the noise. “Oh, my stars—look at this mess! How on earth did this happen?”

      Suddenly, everyone was quiet. None of them had ever seen Mom this mad before. Even Scooter was cowed, and maintained a dignified silence.

      Maryellen stepped forward. At this moment, she certainly had her mother’s undivided attention, and oh boy, did she ever wish she didn’t. “Mom,” she began. Her voice sounded as wobbly as her knees felt. “I was only trying to paint the door. I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’m sorry.”

      “Sorry?” Joan repeated. “You’ve ruined Jerry’s tennis clothes. You’ve ruined our date. You’ve ruined the front of our house. And all you can say is you’re sorry?” Joan put her hands on her hips and leaned toward Maryellen. “This is just the kind of disaster I was talking about earlier. Mom lets you get away with murder, but you’re not a baby anymore! When are you going to grow up?” She stormed off with Jerry, holding him by the arm, but gingerly, so that she wouldn’t get red paint on her tennis dress.

      “Oh, Ellie,” moaned Mom. She closed her eyes and pressed her red fingertips to her forehead. Then she opened her eyes and said, “Ellie, I will speak to you about this privately. Carolyn, please help Betty and Florence get settled, and then give them a glass of iced tea on the back patio.”

      “Sure, Mom,” said Carolyn. Everyone skedaddled, and Jerry and Joan drove away. Mom and Maryellen were alone.

      Maryellen picked up the paintbrush and the paint can and tried to explain. “I only wanted to—”

      But Mom interrupted. “No explanations right now, please. And just leave the mess,” she said flatly. “We’ll deal with it later, after Betty and Florence have left. Right this very minute, I’ve got to tell you that I am disappointed in you. Dad would be, too. It is childish to get so carried away that you don’t stop to think. I understand that in a big family like ours, it’s hard to get your fair share of attention. But Ellie, honey, like it or not, you are just one of six children. You cannot be the center of attention all the time. And in any case, there are better ways of getting attention than showing off and slathering red paint all over. Didn’t you promise me just this morning that you’d act more responsibly?”

      Maryellen nodded. She was too close to tears to speak. She was sorry to have upset Mom, and she was even sorrier that her surefire way of pleasing Mom had completely backfired. What a flop! What a failure! What a disaster.

      She sure had failed Mom’s test. Now Joan and Mom would never agree to the All