Libby on Wednesday Read Online Free

certainly understand why you might not want to read your stories in public that way. But couldn’t you say that you’d rather stay in your other club. Great Books, wasn’t it?”
    Libby shook her head. “No,” she almost wailed. “I can’t. Ms. Ostrowski had us vote, and all the others voted for it. I didn’t think they would, but they did. Even Gary Greene. And Ms. Ostrowski promised Arnold Axminster. She promised him that she’d personally see to it that the five of us meet once a week for the rest of the school year.”
    Silence fell. Libby looked from face to face, trying to read their thoughts. Trying to guess if they were going to agree that it was impossible for her to continue to go to Morrison Middle School.
    Christopher looked promising—worried and sympathetic. He was, she was pretty sure, on her side and since hewas her father, that certainly should count for a lot. But, on the other hand, Christopher was not at all good at making decisions. Sighing, Libby turned to the others.
    Cordelia spoke first. “I, for one, am quite relieved,” she said. “I really don’t see what you’re so concerned about. It’s not as if you have to worry about not being up to the mark. I’m sure the whole group will be delighted with your stories. Delighted and astounded.”
    It was Libby who was astounded—that anyone, even Aunt Cordelia, could be so blind. Trying not to show her exasperation, Libby turned to Gillian. Surely her grandmother, who never agreed with Cordelia, would set Cordelia straight. “Gilly?” she prompted.
    Gillian, who had curled herself up in her chair with her knees pulled up against her chest, in one of her typically ungrandmotherly poses, was grinning devilishly, showing her famous dimples. “You could write limericks about them. If they give you trouble, and it sounds to me as if you’re afraid they might, you can give them back as good as you get. You write such clever limericks. Let’s see. What does
pink
rhyme with?
Stink
comes to mind, but I’m sure you’ll think of something more subtle. Yes, limericks. That’s what I’d do if I were you.”
    Libby only shook her head, thinking that for once Gillian’s advice was worse than Cordelia’s. In desperation she turned to Elliott. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said briskly. “I must admit that I don’t quite understand your anxiety about this writing group, but since you’re obviously sincerely distressed, it seems to me that what we must do is to get you removed from the group. Perhaps your father could go to the school …” Elliott paused and looked atChristopher, who was obviously not agreeing. “Or else I could go, and talk to this Ms. Ostrowski and—”
    “No!” Libby said. “No! No! No! You don’t understand. None of you understands anything.” She was fighting back tears now, tears of anger and frustration. Pushing back her chair so violently that it nearly tipped over, she ran from the room.

    3
    Libby ran out of the dining room, leaving them all still sitting around the table. All of them just sitting there—so certain that there was some better way of solving the problem than the simple one of no more Morrison Middle School. Skidding to a stop in the center of the Great Hall—the enormous McCall House living room with its rough stone walls, soaring windows, and high vaulted ceiling—she found that she was panting, not from exhaustion but from anger. For a moment she considered running on—and on and on—doing what the family used to call her “exasperation run.”
    When she was younger, she had used running as a kind of safety valve. In those days, in fact even now in some circumstances, she had a quick temper, sudden and explosive, and when something she was working on just wouldn’t turn out right—when an important experiment fizzled or a painting smeared, or when her legs and arms just wouldn’t cooperate during ballet practice—she’d found she could race off her frustration and