Harriet the Spy
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Harriet M. Welsch is a spy. In her notebook, she writes down everything she knows about everyone, even her classmates and her best friends. Then Harriet loses track of her notebook, and it ends up in the wrong hands. Before she can stop them, her friends have read the always truthful, sometimes awful things she’s written about each of them. Will Harriet find a way to put her life and her friendships back together?
started unlocking the drawers to the desk. “You see these books? These are my books.” He stepped back proudly. Harriet looked. Each drawer was filled with large ledgers. One drawer held a cashbox, which was also locked. “My, my,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “A C.P.A. is an accountant, for your information,” Sport said pompously, pulling back Harriet’s hand sharply because she had started to reach for one of the ledgers. “What’s in all those?” asked Harriet, suspecting
Ole Golly managed to breathe, then tried to change the subject by saying, “Will you look over there at that boat? That is a large one for the East River.” “No offense was meant, Miss Golly.” Mr. Waldenstein looked worried. “I only want you to know how much I enjoy these Thursdays we have been spending together.” The crimson zoomed up Ole Golly’s face again, making her look exactly like a hawk-nosed Indian. Big Chief Golly, Harriet thought, what is happening to you? And something was
knocking it over. Her mother came to the door. She looked down at Harriet lying there with the chair on top of her. “What are you doing?” she asked mildly. “Being an onion.” Her mother picked the chair up off Harriet’s chest. Harriet didn’t move. She was tired. “What in the world is all that noise I hear in here?” “I told you. I’m being an onion.” “It’s a pretty noisy onion.” “I can’t help it. I can’t do it right yet. Miss Berry says when I do it right, I won’t make a sound.” “Oh, it’s
around? Harriet opened her notebook: WELL THAT’S NOT MY FAULT. I NEVER TOLD HIM TO WEAR OR NOT WEAR PURPLE SOCKS. HE SHOULD HAVE KEPT ON WEARING PURPLE SOCKS. SOME PEOPLE ACT LIKE A MARTYR AT THE DROP OF A HAT, OR A SOCK, HA HA. I HEAR THEM COMING BACK. I THINK I WILL GO HOME. Harriet walked casually away from the bench. When she saw they were coming around again, she dove under a bush until they marched past. Then she went home, went up to her room, and closed the door. WELL, I JUST WON’T
Harriet didn’t move. “Harriet, answer me.” Harriet just lay there, scarcely breathing. “Listen, I know perfectly well you’re not asleep. I used to do the same thing to my father. So you just sit up and talk to me.” Quickly Harriet sat up, leaned over, and in one perfectly coordinated motion threw a shoe at her father. “Well… of all the splutter splutter. Something has to be done.… This child—come in here. I think we’d better call… What the—” The door banged shut. Harriet lay there as though