"Well, it is," said Betsy.

Suddenly Patsy shrieked, "Jake! Jake!" Jake, who was standing near the stage, turned and waved. He trotted up the aisle. "Hi," he said to Mary Anne. "It's not time to go yet, is it? I haven't had a chance to practice my part." "We came to watch you reverse," said Patsy.

"Rehea.r.s.e," said Laurel. "Where's your costume?" "It's not ready yet," said Jake.

Up onstage, Metacom said, "Here come my people now. And the last of the Pautuxet people, Tisquantum, whom the Pilgrims call Squanto." Everyone waited.

Metacom said, "Squanto is coming." "Oh!" exclaimed Jake. "That's me." He raced back up onstage to join Metacom.

"Oh, goodness," said a Pilgrim woman who had been stirring a cooking pot in the background. "There are at least ninety Wampanoag. We will have to cook much more food. Remember! Come! You must help!" "Eighteen married women crossed the Atlantic in the Mayflower," said Remember to Alice. "Only six survived. There is much, much work for the women who remain!" She hurried away.

"Let's go take our dogs and look for more crane berries," Giles said to Metacom. "That will be fun!" The two boys hurried away. In the background, Squanto, Ma.s.sasoit, Miles Standish, and the governor of the colony began to talk and gesture.

Alice suddenly exclaimed, "I know what they are talking about! The treaty they just made. We studied it in school." Alice stopped and became Betsy. She blinked rapidly. She cleared her throat. "Treaty," she said again.

"It was a fair treaty that . . ." Abby prompted.

"It was a fair treaty that. , ." Betsy said and stopped a second time.

"Lasted more than fifty years ..." "Lasted more than fifty years . . ." Betsy had forgotten her lines.

"Can we paint?" asked Laurel, beginning to lose interest.

"It looks as though Claudia has plenty of help already," said Mary Anne.

"I'm a good painter," Laurel insisted, jumping to her feet as if she were about to march down the aisle and onto the stage.

Fortunately, just then Ms. Garcia looked at her watch. "Four-thirty," she announced. "Time to wrap things up. Same time, same place tomorrow." Jake retrieved his backpack from one of the seats in the front of the auditorium, then came back to join Mary Anne and his sisters.

"You were great, Jake!" exclaimed Patsy.

"Super-duper extra-special," said Laurel. Mary Anne recognized the name of a frozen treat from a local ice-cream parlor in Laurel's description.

Jake didn't seem to mind being compared to a dish of ice cream, though. He beamed.

"I know," he said. "Squanto is the best part. His whole tribe is dead!" "Did the Pilgrims kill them?" asked Laurel, looking worried.

"No," said Jake in the same superior, grown-up tone of voice that Laurel often used on Patsy. "They died of a sickness while Squanto was away in England, learning to speak English. The Pilgrims settled on the land where his tribe had lived. The Native Americans didn't make them move, though. They didn't believe in owning land the way the Europeans did." Jake explained Thanksgiving all the way home, while Laurel and Patsy listened happily. (Mary Anne told me later that it was an education for her, too.) As they reached the house, Patsy announced, "I will go to first grade. And I will be Squanto when I grow up!" "Me, too," said Laurel.

"Maybe you will," said Jake generously. "And if you do get the part, I'll help you rehea.r.s.e." "Thanks, Jake," said Patsy.

"Thanks," echoed Laurel.

Chapter 8.

"Pa.s.s the pizza puh-lease," I said.

Stacey shoved the pizza across the kitchen table toward me. The Monday BSC meeting was over. On the dot of six o'clock, Kristy had herded us into the Brewer/Thomas van, and Charlie had driven us to their house, stopping to pick up a megaload of pizza on the way. Nannie, Emily Mich.e.l.le, Watson, and Kristy's mom had taken their pizza into the dining room and turned the kitchen over to us. Charlie and Sam and David Michael had snagged slices and disappeared into the family room. We were crowded around the kitchen table, pigging out and talking turkey.

"Dinner for fourteen," said Kristy. "What could be easier?" "Try adding twenty-two more people," said Stacey.

"And a few more courses," I put in.

"How many people have your parental units had to dinner, anyway?" asked Abby, who was picking the cheese off of her pizza. "In this house?" "Well, when Karen and Andrew are staying here, and we all eat together, there are ten of us," said Kristy. She grinned. "Not counting the ghost of Ben Brewer." "But what about, you know, a more formal dinner?" Abby persisted.

"How formal is this Thanksgiving dinner going to be?" Mal asked, looking alarmed. "Because I don't think you can be too formal with all the kids we'll have around." "Maybe we could cook Thanksgiving dinner and serve it," said Mary Anne.

"Ha." Abby snorted. "My idea of cooking is wrestling a frozen TV dinner into the microwave, not wrestling an enormous turkey into an oven. And I bet your idea of cooking, Claudia, involves unwrapping a package of something with sugar listed as the second or third ingredient." "You mean turkey doesn't come that way?" I asked in mock surprise.

Everyone laughed.

Jessi said, "Abby's right, though. I mean, Becca and I managed to turn out a spaghetti dinner for my aunt and her un-boyfriend, back when we were trying to cook up a romance for them, but - " "So we don't cook." Kristy snagged another slice of pizza.

We chewed and thought for a minute.

"Nontraditional dinner?" said Stacey.

"Explain, please," I requested.

"You know, go for something simple, like pizza. Skip the turkey and the pie and the - " "No way!" I practically levitated. "I mean, I know that different people from different backgrounds have different foods at their Thanksgiving dinners, but I want turkey." "Well, then, we could have someone cook it for us and just pick it up Thanksgiving morning," Stacey said.

"Sounds expensive," said Mal.

"Yup," Stacey agreed.

"Okay then, potluck," said Kristy. "That's what we'll do. It's the only logical solution. Everyone's family brings one or two dishes. And we'll do what we do best." We looked at one another.

"Baby-sit," we said in unison.

Kristy nodded. "Correct. We baby-sit for all our siblings - no charge, of course - while our parents do the cooking. Plus we serve and clean up, before and after." "Maid Mary Anne strikes again," muttered Mary Anne, referring to a BSC job involving a ton of housework for her.

"Yeah, but this time, we're all in it together," Kristy said.

"So now we just have to ask Watson and your morn, right?" said Jessi.

As if on cue, Kristy's mother entered the kitchen. We all became instantly (and suspiciously) silent.

"Don't let me interrupt," Mrs. Brewer said cheerfully. "I just thought I'd make some post-pizza coffee." Immediately Kristy said, "I'll do it, Mom." "Oh, I can do it. Thanks, though." "No, really, Mom. Let me. I'll even bring it to you." "Well, if you insist ..." Mrs. Brewer gave Kristy a puzzled smile.

"Just call me Ms. Coffee," said Kristy.

The moment her mom left the kitchen, we flew into action. We didn't have to say a word to each other. Operation Serve the Coffee and Ask Kristy's Parents to Host Thanksgiving was under way.

A few minutes later, we were walking down the hall with coffee, coffee cups, sugar, a little ceramic pitcher of milk (Kristy had nuked it in the microwave, so it was hot), and real napkins.

"Goodness," said Kristy's mom as we walked into the dining room.

Watson dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

I think he was hiding a smile. Nannie raised her eyebrows. Emily kept mashing a mushroom with her spoon.

We served them coffee with a flourish.

"Anything else?" asked Kristy when we were through.

Her grandmother looked up with a twinkle in her eye. "I have a feeling there might be." The three adults exchanged glances. Then they looked back at Kristy.

"Okay, okay, this is the deal," said Kristy. "We think Thanksgiving should be a really big celebration this year. You know, friends as well as family. Everybody all together." "Everybody who?" said Watson, stirring his coffee.

"Well, you know, the Stevensons' plans to go to Long Island fell through," said Kristy.

"We're not going to New York, either," said Mal.

"My mom and dad mixed up their schedules," put in Stacey, "so she and I are going to be alone in Stoneybrook." Watson raised his hand. "Hold it - let me guess. Everybody's Thanksgiving plans fell through." "Yes. So we thought maybe we could have Thanksgiving together, all of us and all our families. Here," Kristy finished up.

Watson and Mrs. Brewer looked around the dining room in a dazed sort of way.

"It's only thirty-six people," said Kristy.

Nannie snorted and quickly raised her coffee cup to her lips to stifle her laughter.

We waited for the adults to freak out.

But Watson just said slowly, "Could we even seat thirty-six people in this dining room? I think this table only expands to seat twelve." "Not all in the dining room," Kristy said. "We thought we could set up other tables, too. In the living room, and maybe in the library. The little kids could eat at the kitchen table. We'd just be sort of spread out." Watson began to smile. "It'll be a madhouse." "A total madhouse," agreed Kristy's mom.

"It will be a very organized madhouse," Kristy said. She explained the potluck cooking with free baby-sitting plan, emphasizing the before-and-after cleanup services.

"Well, you can pull it off if anybody can," said Nannie.

"I say we go for it," said Watson. He and Kristy's mom exchanged a big smile.

"Provided everyone's parents agree," added Kristy's mom.

Kristy pumped her fist in the air. "All right!" We made a mad dash for the Brewer/Thomas phone, Watson's business phone, and his fax phone (Abby's mother was still at work in New York, so Watson said we could fax her), and had our invitations out in no time. Our guest list looked like this: Me, Janine, my mom and dad; Kristy, her mom, her stepfather, Nannie, Charlie, Sam, David Michael, and Emily Mich.e.l.le; Abby, Anna, and their mom; Jessi, Becca, Squirt, Mr. Ramsey, Mrs. Ramsey, and Aunt Cecelia; Stacey and her mom; Mary Anne, her dad, and her stepmom; Mallory, her mom and dad, Byron, Adam, Jordan, Vanessa, Nicky, Margo, and Claire.

We had invited thirty-six people to Thanksgiving dinner at Kristy's house and thirty-six people accepted - including ourselves, of course.

Not including the ghost of Ben Brewer!

Chapter 9.

By Tuesday afternoon, Alice and the Pilgrims was taking shape. The scenery and costumes were looking good, and the kids had studied their lines the night before. Clearly, they were very excited about the play.

It was also clear that their parents were involved. Not only were they helping their budding stage stars learn lines, but some of them had even showed up for rehearsal. A couple of teachers stayed late to watch, too. The enthusiasm was nice.

At least, that's what I thought at first.

The crew had finished the drawing of the Mayflower. To make "water" for it, we spread half-folded and crumpled old navy blue sheets with some artistically arranged white and lighter blue streamers across the front of the stage. We still hadn't achieved the exact effect we wanted, but we were working on it.

Just then, a boy named Tyson, who was the narrator, came onstage and stood in front of the curtain. He pushed his gla.s.ses up and peered out at the audience, then peered down at the piece of paper in his hand.

"The Pilgrims were English men and women," he announced. He stopped. He cleared his throat. "The Pilgrims were English men and women. They boarded a ship called the Mayflower and sailed across the ocean for over sixty days, until they reached this country. They landed on Plymouth Rock. They built their houses on land that belonged to the Native Americans. They were very strict and very religious. Our play is called Alice and the Pilgrims. It is the story of the first Thanksgiving." Behind Tyson, two third-graders (who would be dressed in Pilgrim costumes on the evening of the play) came out holding the Mayflower poster. They rocked it up and down above the blue sheets and streamers as they "sailed" it back and forth across the stage.

Then I heard Rick hiss, "Curtain! Help me raise the curtain." Slowly the curtain came up as the Mayflower "sailed" offstage.

Alice went to sleep, and woke up in Plymouth to meet Giles, Metacom, and Remember.

Squanto and Miles Standish had a fight.

Needless to say, that wasn't in the script.

It started when Miles stepped on Squanto's foot.

"Oww!" howled Jake.

"What happened?" Abby said.

"She stomped my toes." "Why aren't you wearing shoes?" Abby asked.

"Because I'm Squanto," Jake said. "It's part of my costume." "This isn't a dress rehearsal," said Abby. "Put your shoes on. And," she added, before Jake could argue, "even if it was a dress rehearsal, and you were in costume, your costume would include moccasins, because that's what the Native Americans wore during cold weather." "Ha!" said Carolyn.

"Double ha," said Jake. "Get off my land, you, you, ugly Pilgrim." "It isn't your land," said Carolyn, stomping her foot.

"Is too." "Is not!" "S'too." "S'not." "Snot." "Stew!" shrieked Carolyn, going off into gales of laughter.

"Snot stew snot stew," chanted Jake.

That stopped the play. It took a few minutes to restore order.

Meanwhile, my crew and I finished painting the trees on the backdrop.

"We should sign it," said Charlotte.

A little girl named Susie Albion said, "We can't. It would look silly. Wouldn't it, Claudia?" I held my paintbrush in the air thoughtfully. I was remembering a cement sidewalk, long ago. It was fresh, new cement. I saw Kristy and Mary Anne and me, age five, bending over to plant our hands in that wet cement while my grandmother Mimi watched and nodded.

We'd signed the sidewalk with our handprints back then. Why couldn't we sign the backdrop with our handprints now?