Free Quinny & Hopper by Adriana Brad Schanen Page A

see Mrs. Porridge’s house. I can see Quinny and Victoria standing by the front door, talking.
    And talking.
    Quinny doesn’t look up at me. Not even once.
    Finally she and Victoria go inside Mrs. Porridge’s house together.
    And I pull my window shade down. For good.

Twenty-seven

    The list of things I learn about Victoria during our walk to Mrs. Porridge’s house is very, very, extra-very long.
    1) Victoria doesn’t have a nickname. (I do. Quinny is short for Quinston, which is actually my middle name.)
    2) Victoria is an only child. (Lucky duck.)
    3) Victoria owns twenty-seven dresses in her closet, six of which she made herself at a place called fashion camp. (I only have three dresses, and I don’t know how to sew my own clothes at all—maybe Victoria can teach me!)
    4) Victoria carries a purse everywhere…“just in case.” (I have just-in-case pockets.)
    5) Victoria’s purse is not made out of chicken feathers. It is made out of marabou, whatever that is, and she made it herself (also at fashion camp), and everyone loves it so much that she is going to start a business selling marabou purses (plus headbands) and become rich and famous. (I don’t know much about purses or headbands, but that last part sounds exciting.)
    6) Victoria is going to be in Ms. Yo on’s third-grade class at Whisper Valley Elementary School this fall, along with me and Hopper. (Yippee? I hope so.)
    7) Victoria is allergic to everything…dairy, nuts, and nature. (I’m allergic to nothing, not even dust bunnies—I used to have a bunch of them under my bed back in New Yo rk, and we got along great.)
    8) Victoria loves to talk about Victoria. (I love to talk about anything.)
    The list of things Victoria learns about me on the way to Mrs. Porridge’s house is very, very, extra-very short. Because, actually, I don’t get a chance to say much. See #8 on the list.
    When we get to Mrs. Porridge’s front door, Victoria says, “Quinny, close your eyes.”
    I close them. I hear her opening her purse. I feel her putting something on my wrist.
    “Now open your eyes,” says Victoria.
    I open them. I look down at a bracelet on my wrist. It’s itchy-pink, just like the one on Victoria’s wrist. “Surprise! It’s a friendship bracelet. Yo u’re my BFF now.”
    BFF = best friends forever.
    I’m about to say I already have one of those, and he lives right next door to me. But then I remember that maybe I don’t anymore.
    “BFFs never ever take their friendship bracelets off,” says Victoria. “A nd when school starts, we’ll sit together at lunch and play at recess every day. I’ll introduce you to everyone and show you the ropes.”
    “T he ropes?”
    Before I can ask Victoria what the ropes are, or whether you can have two BFFs at the same time, she pulls me inside Mrs. Porridge’s house.
    There’s no one in the kitchen and no food on the table. But there’s someone out back in the garden.
    “A unt Myrna, we’re here!” Victoria calls out. Aunt Myrna is the name Victoria calls Mrs. Porridge, since she is her great-aunt. “What’s for lunch?”
    “Yo u’re looking at it,” says Mrs. Porridge, working in her garden between the carrots and the peppers. “ We ll, don’t just stand there, help yourselves.”
    I’ve heard of a salad bar, but Mrs. Porridge’s garden bar is different. We pick our lunch from the ground. We pick peppers. We pick zucchini. We pick carrots and eggplant and heart-shaped tomatoes. I do most of the picking because Victoria doesn’t want to get her hands dirty since she is allergic to dirt.
    “T hat’s ridiculous, Victoria,” says Mrs. Porridge. “Yo u are not allergic to topsoil.”
    Then we go back inside and wash up, and Mrs. Porridge cooks all the veggies in a big, sizzly pan. And then she stuffs them into chewy-crispy-warm tortillas, which are green—my favorite color! For dessert, Mrs. Porridge slices strawberries on top of peach ice cream. It’s soy ice cream, since Victoria is