The Friendship War: The Friendship War

Then I find two wooden bobbins loaded with red and green yarn, then a giant pair of scissors, a tin box of sewing needles, an iron gear that weighs about five pounds, two old-fashioned fountain pens, a silver thimble, a key ring with nine brass keys, a hammer with a big flat head, and a pair of antique glasses—the kind that pinch onto the nose.

“It might be a week or so before I can get them shipped, but the boxes should fit onto one pallet. And since you are my one and only granddaughter, I will make it happen! I just wish I could be there to see the look on your mom’s face when the load arrives in Illinois!”

Every summer I forget about this phenomenon, which always makes me ask myself the same question: If Ellie Emerson is my best friend, then how come she gets me so upset!

Everyone would think I was totally conceited.

They’re part of that afternoon I spent with Grampa, poking around like archaeologists.

And my theory is correct: Not only do I own small gray ones, but I also have buttons that are red, green, pink, lavender, yellow, black, brown, amber, blue, and white—all different sizes, too, from bigger than a quarter to smaller than a pea.

I have a small assortment of buttons, and I empty them out carefully at one end of the table.

The assembly begins, and the principal is at the podium onstage, waiting as the room gets quiet.

I’m lost, scattered, totally flustered.

They’re very large, at least an inch and a half across, and there’s a carved design on each one, sort of a notch on the front that cuts across the two holes.

But out of the corner of my eye, I see Brooke come bursting into the room, and she makes a beeline for Ellie and then holds out her hand.

Mrs. Lang has us doing a combined math and science unit about measurement and averages, and during first-period science, we each get a wooden polygon to measure.

I guess you already figured this out, but I’m really getting into buttons. Which sounds stupid, because half the kids in the whole school are into buttons right now. Except I think it’s just a fad with most of them.

Hank starts poking through the bag. “You know, most of these buttons are celluloid.”

“Hank says that you’re the one who started this buttons fad at school. And he told us about the other things you found at that old textile mill in Maine.”

There are several bundles of folded fabric in the box, and some of the cloth is so old that it’s sort of yellowed, almost brittle.

Is your giant cache of buttons still a secret?

There’s a special name for that kind of math progression...maybe recursive?

“I’ve got it—you’re the catalyst! Except that’s not a category, because there’s only one catalyst. You started everything. And when you gave away those buttons last week after lunch? That was pivotal! Without you, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be collecting, and I wouldn’t know what Bakelite is or how it got used to make fantastic Art Deco buttons—I wouldn’t even know what Art Deco means!”

“I’ve got it—you’re the catalyst! Except that’s not a category, because there’s only one catalyst. You started everything. And when you gave away those buttons last week after lunch? That was pivotal! Without you, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be collecting, and I wouldn’t know what Bakelite is or how it got used to make fantastic Art Deco buttons—I wouldn’t even know what Art Deco means!”

I haven’t shown him the broken pinwheel button, but he can see that what I’m doing has an edge to it—something a little sharp, a little harsh, a little grim.

As Mrs. Casey and Mr. Roberts pull them apart, kids are yelling and squabbling and chasing the spilled buttons all over the cafeteria.

“When I did a report on the Klondike Gold Rush last year, I read about how the prospectors and miners began fighting with each other. Looks like the Great Button Rush might be turning ugly. And your little war isn’t so nice either.”

“Okay, good. Next question: How much do you know about economics?”

Hank looks like he’s scanning every single object, sort of the way my new phone takes a panoramic photo.

“More like a deduction. You showed some buttons along with the other stuff you got from the mill, so I figured you must have gotten more than you brought to school. And from the start, you’ve always had plenty—plus you never seemed worried about giving buttons away.”

“Hank—long time no see! So...did Grace make you take the oath of silence? About not telling anyone that she’s a crackpot button hoarder?”

After some gentle prompting from Grace, I've begun sorting through your mother's upstairs sitting room and study.

The outside brick has been sandblasted clean, a crew of masons is making sure the walls are sound and weatherproof and some of the new windows have already been installed.

I feel a lump in my throat, but I don’t want to start blubbering.