Grade 8, Fish in a Tree - Lynda Mullaly Hunt PDF

CHAPTER 1 In Trouble Again It’s always there. Like the ground underneath my feet. “Well, Ally? Are you going to write or aren’t you?” Mrs. Hall asks. If my teacher were mean it would be easier. “C’mon,” she says. “I know you can do it.” “What if I told you that...

CHAPTER 1 In Trouble Again It’s always there. Like the ground underneath my feet. “Well, Ally? Are you going to write or aren’t you?” Mrs. Hall asks. If my teacher were mean it would be easier. “C’mon,” she says. “I know you can do it.” “What if I told you that I was going to climb a tree using only my teeth? Would you say I could do it then?” Oliver laughs, throwing himself on his desk like it’s a fumbled football. Shay groans. “Ally, why can’t you just act normal for once?” Near her, Albert, a bulky kid who’s worn the same thing every day—a dark T-shirt that reads Flint—sits up straight. Like he’s waiting for a firecracker to go off. Mrs. Hall sighs. “C’mon, now. I’m only asking for one page describing yourself.” I can’t think of anything worse than having to describe myself. I’d rather write about something more positive. Like throwing up at your own birthday party. “It’s important,” she says. “It’s so your new teacher can get to know you.” I know that, and it’s exactly why I don’t want to do it. Teachers are like the machines that take quarters for bouncy balls. You know what you’re going to get. Yet, you don’t know, too. “And,” she says, “all that doodling of yours, Ally. If you weren’t drawing all the time, your work might be done. Please put it away.” Embarrassed, I slide my drawings underneath my blank writing assignment. I’ve been drawing pictures of myself being shot out of a cannon. It would be easier than school. Less painful. “C’mon,” she says, moving my lined paper toward me. “Just do your best.” Seven schools in seven years and they’re all the same. Whenever I do my best, they tell me I don’t try hard enough. Too messy. Careless spelling. Annoyed that the same word is spelled different ways on the same page. And the headaches. I always get headaches from looking at the brightness of dark letters on white pages for too long. Mrs. Hall clears her throat. The rest of the class is getting tired of me again. Chairs slide. Loud sighs. Maybe they think I can’t hear their words: Freak. Dumb. Loser. I wish she’d just go hang by Albert, the walking Google page who’d get a better grade than me if he just blew his nose into the paper. The back of my neck heats up. I don’t get it. She always lets me slide. It must be because these are for the new teacher and she can’t have one missing. I stare at her big stomach. “So, did you decide what you’re going to name the baby?” I ask. Last week we got her talking about baby names for a full half hour of social studies. “C’mon, Ally. No more stalling.” I don’t answer. “I mean it,” she says, and I know she does. I watch a mind movie of her taking a stick and drawing a line in the dirt between us under a bright blue sky. She’s dressed as a sheriff and I’m wearing black-and-white prisoner stripes. My mind does this all the time— shows me these movies that seem so real that they carry me away inside of them. They are a relief from my real life. I steel up inside, willing myself to do something I don’t really want to do. To escape this teacher who’s holding on and won’t let go. I pick up my pencil and her body relaxes, probably relieved that I’ve given in. But, instead, knowing she loves clean desks and things just so, I grip my pencil with a hard fist. And scribble all over my desk. “Ally!” She steps forward quick. “Why would you do that?” The circular scribbles are big on top and small on the bottom. It looks like a tornado and I wonder if I meant to draw a picture of my insides. I look back up at her. “It was there when I sat down.” The laughter starts—but they’re not laughing because they think I’m funny. “I can tell that you’re upset, Ally,” Mrs. Hall says. I am not hiding that as well as I need to. “She’s such a freak,” Shay says in one of those loud whispers that everyone is meant to hear. Oliver is drumming on his desk now. I fold my arms and stare up at her. “That’s it,” Mrs. Hall finally says. “To the office. Now.” I wanted this but now I am having second thoughts. “Ally.” “Huh?” Everyone laughs again. She puts up her hand. “Anyone else who makes a sound gives up their recess.” The room is quiet. “Ally. I said to the office.” I can’t go see our principal, Mrs. Silver, again. I go to the office so much, I wonder when they’ll hang up a banner that says WELCOME, ALLY NICKERSON! “I’m sorry,” I say, actually meaning it. “I’ll do it. I promise.” She sighs. “Okay, Ally, but if that pencil stops moving, you’re going.” She moves me to the reading table next to a Thanksgiving bulletin board about being grateful. Meanwhile, she sprays my desk with cleaner. Glancing at me like she’d like to spray me with cleaner. Scrub off the dumb. I squint a bit, hoping the lights will hurt my head less. And then I try to hold my pencil the way I’m supposed to instead of the weird way my hand wants to. I write with one hand and shield my paper with the other. I know I better keep the pencil moving, so I write the word “Why?” over and over from the top of the page to the very bottom. One, because I know how to spell it right and two, because I’m hoping someone will finally give me an answer.  CHAPTER 2 Yellow Card such a big bunch of For Mrs. Hall’s baby shower, Jessica shows up with flowers from her father’s florist shop that you’d swear she ripped a bush out of the ground and wrapped the bottom in foil. Whatever. I don’t care. I found a bright card with yellow roses at the store. And a picture of flowers won’t dry up in a week. I feel like it’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being such a pain all the time. Max gives his present to Mrs. Hall. He leans back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head as she opens it. He’s given her diapers. I think he hoped to get a reaction from her and seems disappointed when she’s happy. Max likes attention. He also likes parties. Just about every day, he asks Mrs. Hall for a party, and today, he’s finally getting one. When Mrs. Hall slides my card out of the envelope, she doesn’t read it out loud like all the others. She hesitates, and I know that she must really love it. And I feel proud, which isn’t something I feel very much. Mrs. Silver leans over to look. I figure I might finally get a compliment for once, but instead, her eyebrows bunch up and she motions me toward the door. Shay has gotten up to look. She laughs and says, “The world gets dumber every time Ally Nickerson speaks.” “Shay. Sit down,” Mrs. Hall says, but it’s too late. You can’t make people unhear something. I should be used to this, but it still takes a piece out of me every time. As Shay and Jessica laugh, I remember how we dressed up as our favorite book characters for Halloween last week. I came as Alice in Wonderland, from the book my grandpa read to me a ton of times. Shay and her shadow, Jessica, called me Alice in Blunderland all day. Keisha steps up to Shay and says, “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?” I like Keisha. She isn’t afraid. And I’m afraid of so much. Shay turns, looking like she’s ready to swat a fly. “Like it’s your business?” she asks her. “That’s right. It’s not my business, but it’s as much yours... as it is mine,” Keisha replies. Shay lets out a small gasp. “Stop talking to me.” “Stop being mean,” Keisha replies, leaning forward. Max folds his arms and leans forward across his desk. “Yes. There’s going to be a fight,” he says. “There’s isn’t going to be a fight,” Mrs. Hall says. Suki is holding one of her small wooden blocks. She has a collection of them that she keeps in a box and I’ve seen her take one out when she gets nervous. She’s nervous now. Shay glares at Keisha. Keisha is new this year and I’m surprised she’s said something. Everyone is all riled up and I don’t even know how this all happened. While Mrs. Hall tells them both to cool off and points out to Max that it’s foolish to root for a fight, Mrs. Silver waves me toward the door. What the heck is going on? Once we’re out in the hallway, I can tell by Mrs. Silver’s face that it’s going to be another one of those times when I’ll have to say I’m sorry or explain why I’ve done something. The thing is, I have no idea why I’m even in trouble this time. I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep them from doing something I’ll regret. I wish I could put my mouth in there, too. “I just don’t get it, Ally,” she says. “You’ve done other things that have been inappropriate, but this is just... well... different. It’s not like you.” It figures; I do something nice and she says it isn’t like me. And I can’t understand how buying a card is bad. “Ally,” Mrs. Silver says. “If you’re looking for attention, this isn’t the way to do it.” She has that wrong. I need attention like a fish needs a snorkel. The door swings all the way open, hitting the lockers, and Oliver springs from the room. “Ally,” he says. “I think you gave her that card to tell her you’re sorry she has to leave us to go have some dumb baby. She’s probably really sad. I feel sorry for her, too.” What is he talking about? “Oliver?” Mrs. Silver asks. “Is there a reason you’re out here?” “Yeah! I was going to... um... I was... going to go to the boys’ room. Yeah. That’s it.” And off he runs. “Can I just go now?” I blurt out, feeling like the job of just standing here is something I can’t do for another second. She shakes her head a bit as she speaks. “I just don’t get it. Why in the world would you give a pregnant woman a sympathy card?” Sympathy card? I think. And I think some more. And then I remember. My mom sends those to people when someone they love dies. My stomach churns, wondering what Mrs. Hall must have thought. “You do know what a sympathy card is, Ally, don’t you?” I should deny that I know, but I nod because I don’t want to have to hear Mrs. Silver explain it. And besides, she’ll think I’m even dumber than I am. If that’s possible. “Then why would you do such a thing?” I stand tall, but everything inside shrinks. The thing is, I feel real bad. I mean, I felt terrible when the neighbor’s dog died, never mind if a baby had died. I just didn’t know it was a sad card like that. All I could see were beautiful yellow flowers. And all I could imagine was how happy I was going to make her. But there are piles of reasons I can’t tell the absolute truth. Not to her. Not to anyone. No matter how many times I have prayed and worked and hoped,  reading for me is still like trying to make sense of a can of alphabet soup that’s been dumped on a plate. I just don’t know how other people do it. CHAPTER 3 Never up to Me Leaning against the wall in the hallway, I stay quiet. Some little kids walk by, reminding me that I’m in sixth grade—the highest grade in this school. But I feel like a baby. “Ally? Do you have anything to say?” Mrs. Silver asks. I’m afraid to open my mouth because sometimes things just come out that get me in more trouble. Finally, she suggests we go to her office. I sit in the principal’s office staring out the window, silent. I wonder what it would be like to be able to relax at school and not have to worry every second of every minute. I wish I had my Sketchbook of Impossible Things. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not a waste of space. I like to watch the pictures in my head become real in my book. My recent favorite is a snowman that works in a furnace factory. And then I decide that the craziest, strangest, most unbelievable thing I could ever draw is me doing something right. Mrs. Silver’s sigh brings me back to reality. “Between last year and this year, you’ve been here for less than five months, Ally, and you’ve been to visit me far too much. You need to make some changes,” she says. I sit silent. “It’s up to you.” It’s not up to me. It’s never been up to me. Mrs. Silver’s talking is like background noise. Like the radio in the car. I don’t have any words to explain. It was a mistake. And I’m ashamed and I don’t feel like sharing that with her. She takes a breath. “Did you think it would be funny?” I shake my head. “Did you want to hurt her?” I look up quick. “No! I wouldn’t hurt her. I just...” And I wonder what I’ve wondered before. Should I just tell her? It’s like my chair is over a trapdoor and there is a button to drop myself. I  want to, but I’m afraid. I look up at her. Looking at me all disappointed. Again. And I think that there’s no use. They already think I’m a pain, so why add dumb to their list? It’s not like they can help, anyway. How can you cure dumb? And so I look out the window again. Remind my mouth to keep shut. I’ve learned from the seven different schools I’ve been to that it’s better to stay quiet. Never argue unless I really have to. I realize that both of my hands have curled into tight fists and Mrs. Silver is looking at them. She sits down in the chair next to me. “Ally, sometimes it seems that you just want to get into trouble.” She leans forward a bit. “Do you?” I shake my head. “C’mon, Ally. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.” I look at her quick and then away. I mumble, “No one can help me.” “That’s not true. Will you let me try?” She points at a poster on the wall. “Can you read that for me, please?” she says. “Out loud.” The poster shows two hands reaching for each other. Great. Probably some sappy saying about friends or sticking together or whatever. I don’t even have any friends. “C’mon, Ally. Read it for me, please.” The letters on the poster look like black beetles marching across the wall. I could probably figure most of them out, but I’d need a lot of time. And when I’m nervous, forget it. My brain goes blank like an Etch A Sketch turned upside down and shaken. Gray and empty. “Well, what does it say?” she asks again. “I don’t need to read it to you. I get it,” I say, trying to bluff. Staring her dead in the eyes. “Believe me. I know all about it already.” “I don’t know about that, kiddo. I think you might need to work on it a bit.” Now I wish I knew what the poster said. I don’t look at it, though. Then she’ll want to talk about it more. The bell rings. Mrs. Silver rakes her hair with her fingers. “Ally. I don’t know if you thought the card would be funny or you are upset that Mrs. Hall’s leaving or what. But it feels like you’ve crossed a line this time.” I imagine myself crossing the finish line. My body breaking the bright red ribbon. The crowd cheering as confetti spins through the air. But I know this is not what she means. “As of Monday, your new teacher will be Mr. Daniels. Let’s try to avoid any negative consequences, okay?” I think about how me avoiding consequences would be like the rain avoiding the sky. She waves me out, and as I stand, I look at that poster again. I wish I knew what it was I should learn, because I know that I should know a lot more than I do. She sighs as I leave her office and I know she’s tired of me. Even I’m tired of me. As I run from the office, the hallways are filling with kids. I head back to my classroom to apologize to Mrs. Hall before the buses leave. I run up behind her, tap her on the shoulder. When she turns and looks at me, her face goes sad before straightening out. I stand there thinking how sorry I am. Hoping she doesn’t think I’d wish anything bad on her baby. But I can’t find the words. My mind does the Etch A Sketch thing. Blank. “What is it, Ally?” she finally asks. She puts her hands on her big belly like she needs to protect it. I turn and run out of the room. Down the hall and out the front door. The buses are pulling away without me. But that’s the way it should be, I guess. I deserve to walk. All that long way. And all by myself. CHAPTER 4 Bird in a Cage When I finally get to Park Road, I head into A. C. Petersen Farms, which is a weird name for a restaurant. They have pictures of cows inside and outside but it’s on a busy street with tons of stores. I wonder if there is a restaurant somewhere in the middle of nowhere named Crowded City. My mom is waiting. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “I missed the bus and had to walk.” She shakes her head. “Sit yourself right down there and start that homework of yours,” she says, nodding toward the end of the counter. The same place I always sit. A place where she can keep an eye on me, she says. “Anything you want to tell me?” She seems tired. “They called you, didn’t they?” I ask. “Yes. I don’t know why you would do such a thing, Ally.” She sounds sad instead of mad. Which is worse, I think. There is a tray full of glass sundae dishes filled with brightly colored ice cream. Strawberry, pistachio, black raspberry. Pink, green, and purple. I like the colors next to each other and wonder what kind of impossible things I can draw about ice cream. Maybe melting rivers of it. And a man with a cone-shaped head sitting in a banana split dish rowing with a spoon. “Ally! Are you listening?” “Oh. Sorry,” I mumble, pushing off the floor with my foot to spin on the padded stool. “I just don’t know what to say anymore.” My mom’s boss looks at her over his glasses. She drops to a whisper. “Just do your homework. We’ll talk at home. And please—no spinning on that stool.” “I’m sorry. I am. I really thought Mrs. Hall would like that card.” “How could that be?” she says as she picks up the tray of ice cream and moves away. I pull out a book and open it, but the letters squiggle and dance. How are other people able to read letters that move? So instead I stare at the steaming liquid dripping into a coffeepot and start thinking of steaming volcanoes. And dinosaurs standing around drinking coffee, staring up at the giant meteor soaring through the air, commenting on how pretty it is. And I think about how lucky they were that they never had to go to school. I grab a napkin and begin a drawing of them for the Sketchbook of Impossible Things. Soon, my mom’s brown and white checkered apron is in front of me. I look up. “I swear it. I didn’t know it was a sym... a sym... a card for dead people.” “It’s a sympathy card,” she says. “And it’s for the people that miss the person that has died. Not for the dead.” “Well, don’t you think the dead person deserves a card more than anyone?” And she laughs. She leans her elbow on the counter and lifts her other arm to put her hand on my face. It’s warm and I’m so relieved that she isn’t that mad at me. “You’re funny. You know that?” Then she pulls over the napkin with the dinosaurs holding coffee cups. “What’s this?”  “Just an idea I have for the Sketchbook of Impossible Things.” She stares at it. “Aw, your grandpa knew you were talented, and he’d be so proud of how hard you’re working on your art. And he would love that you named your sketchbook after Alice in Wonderland. He had such fun sharing that book with you.” She looks up at me. “Just like he shared it with me when I was young.” Alice in Wonderland—a book about living in a world where nothing makes sense made perfect sense to me. “I miss Grandpa,” I say. Three words that hold sadness like a tree holds leaves. “Me too, sweetheart.” “I miss how he’d move from place to place with us whenever Dad got stationed somewhere new or deployed. It’s weird to think he doesn’t know that we’ve moved again.” She taps the end of my nose. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I think he knows.” Just then, voices I recognize come through the glass doors. It’s Shay and Jessica. When I turn around, Shay says, “Well, look who’s here. It’s Ally Nickerson.” They know my mom works here and have seen me here before. So I figure it isn’t a coincidence that they’re here. “Ally,” Shay says. “You never came back to class. We were worried about you.” What a joke that is. I turn back around while they whisper. Then Jessica asks, “Why don’t you come sit with us?” Her voice reminds me of a pin hidden inside a candy bar. My mom motions with her head that I should follow them. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You can take a break.” I give my mom the please-just-stop eyes while Shay mimics the word “sweetheart” in a baby voice. I guess my mom didn’t hear, because she whispers, “New friends would be good, Ally. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least give them a chance.” Someone comes to seat them, but Shay asks, “Can we just sit at the counter?” Great. Once they sit, there are two stools between them and me. My mom leans in and whispers, “Why don’t you move down and sit with them? They’re reaching out, Ally.” Reaching out with a bottle of poison. I think back to one of our apartments where the landlords kept llamas in their field. I loved them, but Mom said they smelled. I whisper back, “It’s more likely that you’d buy me my own pet llama than me sit with them.” She half smiles. “What shall we name the llama?” I squint and shake my head. She makes that exasperated sound. “So stubborn.” Shay and Jessica stare at us like two cats watching birds in a cage. My mom takes her pad out and walks over to them. “Hello, girls. What can I get you?” Jessica orders strawberry ice cream, but when Shay orders chocolate, Jessica tells my mom, “Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have chocolate instead.” I roll my eyes. Typical Jessica. As soon as my mom is gone, Shay asks, “So, Ally?” I look over. “Why would you give Mrs. Hall that card? That’s, like, really mean.” Since there is no good answer to give, I stare at the page in my book. I’ll ignore them. I’ve taken their teasing before. Jessica laughs. “Has your mother always been a waitress?” “No,” I blurt out. “She used to be an astronaut.” They break into laughter and, over near the kitchen, my mom smiles. She thinks I’m bonding with them. “My father,” Jessica begins, “owns his own flower business, and he says —” Shay interrupts. “Ally, maybe you can be a waitress when you grow up. But can you read the flavors of ice cream for me? I’m having trouble.” She points up at the slow-turning cube hanging from the ceiling that lists the flavors on each side. The movement makes it even harder to read. I feel my face get hot. Oh no. Do they know I can’t read? As they laugh, I remember how I had to read aloud last year when I first got here. I knew I shouldn’t have, but some stupid voice in my head sometimes says it will be different this time and I try. And I always fail. That day, I read that macaroni can swim up to twenty miles an hour. It was supposed to be a manatee. The class laughed, of course. But so did the teacher, so I tried to pretend I had done it on purpose. I get up, walk behind them, around the corner and into the back room. I’m not supposed to be back there but it’s the only place they can’t follow me. I step behind the tall metal shelves with cans of pickles and ketchup and relish that are bigger than my head. Pushing my back hard against the wall, I see words on everything that surrounds me. Boxes and cans and giant plastic bottles. Words. I can never get away from them.  I think back to second grade when my teacher wrote a whole lot of letters down and asked me what they said. I had no idea. But I was used to that. “That spells your name, Ally. Ally Nickerson.” Who knew a second grader could understand what being humiliated feels like. Tears begin to come, but I swallow them because I know I’ll be found soon. I worry so much about them knowing my secret that my stomach feels like I’ve been kicked in the guts. “Ally?” my mom asks as she comes around the corner. “Your friends have gone. What are you doing back here?” I can’t tell her. Thinking I have friends makes her so happy. “Honey?” “I was checking the ingredients of ketchup.” Her eyebrows bunch up. She knows something is up, but I walk past her before she asks another question. I walk back out into the restaurant with her following and sit next to Shay’s and Jessica’s matching empty dishes. It feels like they should mean something. Like maybe I’m an empty dish compared to everyone else. But mostly those dishes make me feel like this year will be the worst year I’ve had so far. And that’s really saying something. CHAPTER 5 Silver Dollars and Wooden Nickels The back door swings open and my brother, Travis, is there, smelling like grease. Looking like he rolled in it. And I instantly feel better. “How’s my favorite little sister?” “I’m your only little sister.” “Doesn’t matter. You’d still be my favorite.” He smiles. “So, your favorite big brother had a silver dollar day today!” I think of Grandpa and Dad, who always asked us if we were having a silver dollar day or a wooden nickel one. Travis is doing that thing where he wiggles his fingers in the air and asks his daily question, “What are these?” He looks older—more like my dad, who’s been deployed since just before Thanksgiving last year. It was hard to feel thankful after he’d gone. Especially since Grandpa had died three months before that. “The hands of a genius?” I say. “Correcto-mundo!” “Do you realize you come home every day and ask me to compliment you?” “Not really,” he says, opening the fridge. “Just asking you to state the facts.” “You are unbelievable.” “Exactly!” he says, pointing at me. “Guess what? I finished restoring an old Coke machine today. Thing is like seventy years old.” He pops open a soda. “Those things are worth a bundle fixed up.” Then he holds up the can. “Look at this. Disappointing compared to those old green bottles.” Travis must be happy. The happier he is, the more he goes on about things. “And,” he says, “I picked up an old gumball machine. The kind that takes pennies. I’ll sell it for ten times what I paid for it.” His voice drops and he takes a sip. “I will have to throw some money and elbow grease at it first, though.” He comes over like he’s going to mess up my hair, but I block his dirty hands. “No way!” I laugh. “Don’t touch me!” “Aw, c’mon, Al. I’ve had a great day. And guess what? I almost have enough to buy those rolling tool cabinets. And someday my big neon sign.” He sweeps his hand through the air like he’s showing me a row of mountains. “Nickerson Restoration. My own place. My name—our name— is going to be in lights someday, Al.” But then his voice deflates. “I just have to get out of high school. We’re like oil and water, school and me. I wish Mom would let me quit.” “She would kill you.” “Yeah. So would Dad. And being dead won’t be good for my business.” He smiles. “Won’t be long, though. I’m learning a ton at the garage. The boss is letting me do all kinds of different stuff.” I smile. “I’m going to buy a car soon, too. A classic. And a V-6 at least.” And then he’s off and I can still smell the grease after he’s gone. I’m glad he had a silver dollar day. When my mom finally gets home, I’ve already microwaved my dinner and I’m watching TV while I sketch pictures of a pet llama named Butch Cassidy. With a name like that, I give him a cowboy hat, a bandana, and a holster. But in the holster he carries an ear of corn. When my mom comes in from work, she turns off the TV and I can feel it coming. “So,” she begins. “When are we going to really talk about today?” “On my ninety-fifth birthday.” “Funny one.” She shifts her weight. “I’m trying to be patient, honey. I really am. But today was a party. How could you get into trouble at a party?” “I don’t have to do anything. They all hate me,” I blurt out. “I doubt that. But can’t you see why they’d be tired of your behavior? These shocking things you do and say to get laughs?” She doesn’t get it. Being funny when you don’t mean to be is terrible. Having to laugh at yourself along with everyone else is humiliating. “Oh, Ally... you’re too smart for this. School is too important to joke about. I don’t want you working long hours on your feet for a bunch of tips like me. I want more for you. And you’re so smart. Good at math. A gifted artist. Don’t you think it’s time to stop clowning around?” “I’m not that smart. You say that, but I’m not.” “Now, we know that isn’t true. You could stand to work a little harder, though.” I’m so tired of this conversation. We’ve had it a hundred times, even though my third-grade teacher told her that I might just be slow, that my mom shouldn’t expect too much of me. My mom’s eyes got all wide and shiny when she heard that, and I felt sad and embarrassed for her having to be my mom. But my mother’s never bought what that teacher said. I sometimes wish she would, but most times I’m grateful that she hasn’t. She bends over to look me dead in the eyes. “I know that moving as much as we have has been hard for you. And I know I work all the time and can’t keep tabs on your schoolwork. It has made it hard for you to keep up with some subjects, and I understand that. I really do. But you’re going to have to make more effort, Ally. Things worth having are worth working for.” “I’ll do better,” I tell her. I used to say this and mean it. Now it feels like I’m just making up one of my stories. Her smile is sad. “Okay, then.” She kisses the top of my head. “Can I turn the TV back on now?” She unties her apron as she stares. “Did you take your bath yet?” “No.” I sigh. The tiredness in her voice says there’s no use arguing. I trudge toward the hallway.  “By the way, I don’t want to hear you say that people hate you,” she calls out. “How could anyone on earth possibly hate you?” I wish she could understand my world. But it would be like trying to explain to a whale what it’s like to live in the forest. CHAPTER 6 Triple-Sided Coin Travis opens the door of the pawn shop in town and waves me in ahead of him. The bell on the door announces our arrival as it hits the glass. The dusty smell of the place triggers a bunch of memories. Good times. Together times. When Dad and Grandpa would take Travis and me out looking for coins. Numbers and money are something Travis and I can do well. So we took to it fast. Grandpa loved the dustiest stores best because they were the ones that would have uncracked rolls of coins in the backs of their safes. When the store owners would trade the old rolls for new bills, we’d open them at home to see what was inside. Sometimes we’d find a buffalo nickel, a Mercury dime, or an Indian head penny. It was like a little bit of Christmas. Being here makes me ache to go back in time. The man behind the counter doesn’t say hello. He rolls a toothpick back and forth in his mouth with his tongue. In one way it is completely impressive, and in another, the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Travis rests his fingertips on the glass counter, looking down into the case filled with coins. “You need something?” The man doesn’t talk the way Mom says you’re supposed to talk to customers. “I want to buy some coins,” Travis says. “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah.” Travis brushes his chin with his knuckle—something he does when he is nervous. The guy reaches up and takes the toothpick out of his mouth. He uses it to point at Travis. “Do you have money or are you all talk?” Travis does what Dad said never to do. He shows him his money. And not money like a regular person. A roll of money wrapped in an elastic band.  The guy’s eyes widen. Then he asks, “Looking for something special?” “I want liberty coins. You got any?” He takes out several coins. One is a Mercury dime with a head that looks like it has wings for ears. “I remember those!” I say. “Like the one Daddy has in his wallet.” Travis turns them over in his hand. “Nice. You have anything more unusual?” The guy’s eyebrows jump. He reaches into a drawer. “This is unusual, but it’ll cost you big.” “I don’t mind paying for something special.” “Okay, then,” he says. “This one is special.” He puts a penny on the counter. Travis picks it up and his eyebrows bunch up. “This is smaller than other pennies.” The guy nods. “It is. A rare find.” Travis glances at me, and then he turns toward the guy. “How much?” “Well,” the guy says, “if you know anything about coins, you know that a coin with a flaw in it is far more valuable than a regular coin.” Something isn’t right with it and it’s worth more? “Like I said,” Travis says, “how much?” The guy tilts his head to the side. “Well, normally I’d ask for eighty, but I’ll charge you... say... seventy-five?” Travis smiles. Even I remember how Dad used to tell us never to smile when you get a number. Never. Even if it’s the best number in the world— and here he is smiling like he won the lottery. I try to look serious enough for the both of us. “Well, that’s really generous of you. Seventy-five bucks for a penny that’s been dipped in nitric acid.” The guy’s smile falls off of his face. “I bet the police would be interested in a little bit of fraud.” “Now, listen—” Travis interrupts. “Look, I wasn’t born yesterday. Stop messing with me.” Travis points at a coin in the case that has a walking woman wrapped in a sheet with the sun’s rays behind her. It is beautiful. “That 1933 Walking Liberty half dollar. How much for that one?” “Well, that one is in really fine condition. In fact...” “Just tell me how much,” Travis says, leaning in, palms on the glass. “Forty-five.” “Thirty-six and you throw in the Mercury dime for my little sister.” I look up quick. For me? Then I do the math. Yup. He is following Dad’s rule of offering 20 percent less than what they offer. But Travis threw in something extra. The guy squints. “Forty.” Travis nods. “Done.” He slaps the money on the glass case. Outside the store, Travis holds the dime toward me. “Oh, it’s beautiful! I love it so much. Thank you, Travis! You’re the best!” He looks a little sad staring at the coin. “You know, Grandpa was born in 1933. That’s why I chose these coins. They were both minted in that year.” I look down at my Mercury dime and its date, wishing people could last as long as coins. When we get into the car, Travis says, “Did you see how that guy in there took me for a fool? Trying to rip me off. Remember, Ally. When people have low expectations of you, you can sometimes use it to your advantage.” Then he looks me right in the eyes and points at my nose. “As long as you don’t have low expectations of yourself. You hear?” I nod again. But I think to myself that it’s hard not to these days. CHAPTER 7 No Grandpas Here I sit on my bed, holding my copy of Alice in Wonderland. The shaky writing in the front of the book says, “For Ally—my wondrous girl! Love, Grandpa.” The colors of the book are all bright even though the book is old. Inside, the pages are soft and the writing is bigger than in books now. But I still can’t read it by myself. It’s like having a gift that’s locked in a glass box. I’m feeling heavy, but I always do on Sunday nights. The thought of another week of school does that. It’s like knowing I have to pull a tire through a keyhole the next day. But I’ll have a new teacher. A Mr. Daniels sounds like a grandfatherly type with pockets full of lollipops, which could be nice. I’m hoping he’ll spend a lot of time straightening his bow tie and telling us about the good ol’ days and not giving us much work. But when I show up, I find that Mr. Daniels is no grandfather. He’s younger than Mrs. Hall. He wears a dark jacket and a tie with colored circles on it. When I get closer, I realize they’re planets. Most of the kids are gathered around him. I throw my stuff in the closet and walk over. He says, “My very excellent mother just served us nachos,” and claims it is an easy way to memorize the planets in order from the sun. Albert, whose hair reminds me of a bird’s nest, stands nearby. “I feel bad for Pluto.” I look over and my eyes are pulled to the bruises on his arms. “Pluto was a planet all those years and then someone just decided it wasn’t anymore? Too small. Too far away. Orbit not just right.” “I don’t really think Pluto cares, Albert,” I mumble. He sits in his chair and says, “Well, I do.” I feel bad for him and want to ask him about the marks. He is big and clunky but not fat. The kind of size where others would usually leave him alone. I pull out my chair and sit down. Okay, I tell myself. I’m going to do better. I’m going to work harder. That’s all I need to do. I’m going to really concentrate this time. Even though I know I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. Reading for me is like when I drop something and my fingers scramble to catch it and just when I think I’ve got it, I don’t. If trying to read helped, I’d be a genius. Mr. Daniels is in front of me. I hold my breath and lean back. He holds out his hand. “I’m Mr. Daniels. Nice to meet you,” he says. Shay leans toward Jessica. “I guess he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.” As usual, most of her friends laugh. “Hey,” Mr. Daniels says, turning to her. “That isn’t cool. We don’t do that in here.” Which wipes the smile off Shay’s face. Then he turns back to me. “What’s your name?” “Ally Nickerson,” I answer, so softly that even I can barely hear myself. “Well, are you going to shake my hand, Ally Nickerson?” he asks. “I don’t bite on Mondays.” Great. Just what I need. A funny guy for a teacher. I take his hand, but only for a second. My mind is already spinning off. Wondering what terrible things Mrs. Silver has told him. The plans they’ve made for me. I see myself wrapped in rope and lying on the train tracks just like in Grandpa’s old black-and-white silent movies. “Okay, Fantasticos! Take your seats!” he calls. “Time to set the world on fire!” Everyone scrambles to their seats, but I’m still lying on the imaginary train tracks. All tied up and watching the engine come around the corner. CHAPTER 8 Real Trouble The first day with Mr. Daniels starts out okay because we have math in the morning and Mr. Daniels does this thing he calls the bus driver. He says, “You’re the bus driver.” And then he tells us how many people get on and off and we have to add and subtract the numbers in our head. No paper. No pencils. Just math. When I was younger, I loved math. Everything about math. But in school, math now has letters. Like what does x equal? There are also long stories with characters, and although the story is supposed to end with some number, all the words block my path to getting there. But the day turns into a wooden nickel day at snack time, when Mr. Daniels calls me up to his desk. He holds the assignment that I did for Mrs. Hall where we had to describe ourselves, the one with “Why?” written over and over on it. My stomach flops over. “So, I’m wondering what this means, exactly. Can you tell me?” he asks. I shrug. “I’m wondering if you can write just one paragraph for me. Something about you. I’d like to learn something about you.” I stay quiet. With teachers, if you stay quiet long enough, they start doing the talking for you. Filling in the answers and then you just have to nod. So I wait. But he waits, too. Finally, he says, “C’mon, now. Can you write that paragraph for me?” I feel heavy. “No,” I say. He doesn’t want to know about the real me. It’ll be like people in scary movies who think they want to know what’s in the basement, but when they find out, they’re always sorry. “Ally? Did you say no?” he asks, without being mad. I turn myself to stone. He takes a deep breath and leans forward. “So, is it writing you don’t like?”  I think about saying no, except it could cause me trouble later. Like the chess games in Grandpa’s Alice in Wonderland book. You have to be super sure before you make a move final. But I figure Mr. Daniels probably already knows this about me, so I nod. “What do you like, then?” “Buffalo wings,” I say. He laughs a little. “What do you like about school?” “Leaving.” He waits for me to say more. “I like math. And art. I like to draw.” “Oh, well, that’s cool. Do you draw a lot?” “Yeah.” “So, do you find the writing difficult or do you just not like it?” “It’s easy,” I lie. “It’s just boring.” “Well, maybe we can do some things to make it less boring for you. To excite you about writing. It’s a great way to explore. Be creative. Ask questions.” I point at my paper. “I asked lots of questions there.” “Yes.” He laughs. “I guess you did.” He takes a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, Ally. I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve talked with both Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Silver. I know that you have spent a lot of time in the office in the past. You’re good at getting sent to the office, but you know, you can be too good at the wrong things.” Uh-oh. “I just want you to know that I’m going to try really hard not to send you to the office. If we have something to deal with, you and I will deal with it together.” He winks. “What happens in room 206 stays in room 206.” What? “So, we won’t involve Mrs. Silver anymore, okay? I think she has enough to do around here.” Oh no. Did he just take away my “Get Out of Jail Free” card? “Also,” he says, moving his head to look me in the eye, “I’m on your side, okay? I want to help you.” So he wants to help me, huh? He has no idea what he’s in for. CHAPTER 9 Bag Full of Nothing Today, we’re each supposed to bring in something that represents us and tell the class about it. I thought of a few things I could bring, like a can full of dirt or a bag full of nothing. Mr. Daniels asks for volunteers to go first. Shock of the century when Shay raises her hand. She gets up there with a picture of her horse, Diamond. She goes on about how she loves him and goes riding several times a week but how it’s a lot of work to take care of him. She shows us her riding helmet and fancy riding jacket, too. I guess there really isn’t anything that she doesn’t have. Jessica brings a picture of Shay and talks about what good friends they are, which I think is funny since we’re supposed to talk about ourselves. Oliver bounces to the front of the room. His feet are never on the floor at the same time. He takes out a lightbulb. “I. Am. The giver of LIGHT!” “Really?” Mr. Daniels asks. “Well, my dad is. He sells lamps. And when I grow up I’m going to be a salesman, too. I’m going to sell hangers.” “Hangers?” Mr. Daniels asks. “Yeah! Because I was thinking that it should be something that everyone has, because you’d want to sell stuff that most people need, because if you sold stuff that nobody wanted, then you wouldn’t sell anything, right? And everybody needs hangers.” Mr. Daniels smiles and puts his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Oliver, you are one clever boy. You know that?” I haven’t been in this school that long, but I’m going to guess that Oliver hasn’t heard that said much. He falls into his chair, which tips back, but he grabs his desk, rights himself, and cheers for his own victory. Albert gets up next. As always, he wears the shirt with Flint on it and his bruises. He reaches into a brown paper lunch bag and pulls out a jar of clear liquid. He clears his throat. “This is a mixture of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen molecules.” “Will it explode?” yells Oliver. Albert does not answer. Instead, he unscrews the metal lid and drinks whatever it is. I’m silently freaked out, but Oliver goes nuts. “He drank it! Did you see that? He drank molecules! Gross!”  “It is merely water,” Albert reports. While Mr. Daniels speaks to Albert, Shay whispers to Jessica, “Water? Really? That’s all he’s got?” Shay has gotten even better at being mean. Ever since Mr. Daniels kept her in for recess for making fun of Oliver, she saves her comments for when Mr. Daniels is busy or talking to someone else. “This water was taken from a giant underground lake that goes on for miles and miles,” Albert announces. “It’s the same water that the dinosaurs walked through a hundred million years ago and the cavemen drank. It’s the same water that polar bears swam in just last year and medieval knights guzzled after battle.” Oliver and most of the other boys stand, trying to get a better look. “That’s cool, Albert!” Max says. “Where did you get it?” Jessica and Shay smile and lean forward to look at Max. Shay calls out, “Yeah, Albert. Where did you get it?” “I got it from my kitchen faucet.” Huh? “The same water has been here and been reused since the Earth began. It is important to me because, as a scientist and historian, I know that we are but a blip on the Earth’s timeline. A grain of sand on an entire beach of time.” Kids are starting to groan. “Here goes the professor again,” Max says. “Yeah. Such a showoff,” Jessica says, turning to Max. “Now, knock that off,” Mr. Daniels says. “I think Albert’s idea is fascinating. How Earth has recycled its water over and over. Extraordinary, Albert!” Next, he calls on Keisha. She carries a small box and holds it like whatever is inside will break easily. When she takes out a cupcake, the boys argue about who’ll get to eat it. “This is a cupcake that I made. It isn’t from a box mix; it’s homemade.” “And why is it important to you?” Mr. Daniels asks. “I like to bake. I told my mom I want to start a business when I get older, and she said there’s no time like the present. So this is the first one I’ll show to anyone outside my family.” “My God,” Shay whispers. “She acts like she’s the first to make a cupcake. It’s not even decorated or anything.” “Shay. Please keep your comments constructive,” Mr. Daniels says. “Yes, it is plain on the outside,” Keisha says, half smiling at Shay, “but it’s the inside that matters.” Keisha takes a knife out of her box and cuts the cupcake in half and shows us the inside. “As you can see, it says ‘yum’ on the inside.” “How did you do that?” Suki asks, and I’m surprised to hear her talk. She hardly ever says anything. “I’ve been experimenting with making letters out of different kinds of dough. I stand the letters up in the cupcake batter and carefully cover them with more batter.” “Do you lick the spoon when you’re done?” Oliver asks. “I like to lick the spoon, but my mom says too much sugar isn’t good for me, so she doesn’t bake much because—” “Oliver,” Mr. Daniels says, pulling on his own ear. Oliver stops right away. Then Mr. Daniels looks at the cupcake. “Wow, Keisha. That is pretty impressive!” “I’m going to call my baking business ‘Hidden Messages’—the batter way to send a note.” “That’s fantastic, Keisha,” Mr. Daniels says. “The possibilities are infinite.” Albert raises his hand and Mr. Daniels points to him. “The possibilities are not, in fact, infinite, as she would eventually run out of appropriate letter combinations, and the number of letters to be used in each cake would be limited as well. Also, you imply that the possibilities are all positive when it is probable that the possibilities would be equal in positive and negative outcomes.” “Actually, you’re correct, Albert,” Mr. Daniels says. “But I am an optimist. What can I say?” “So you agree that the possibilities aren’t endless?” “Well, I agree from a mathematical standpoint, Albert, but not from a human one. I believe that the things we put numbers on are not necessarily the things that count the most. You can’t measure the stuff that makes us human. Like Keisha’s creativity or how hard she’ll work.” Mr. Daniels shrugs. “Just my opinion.” “Well, it seems that the part that can be measured is most important,” Albert says. “Because that’s what can be proven.” “Well, my fine young fellow, I think we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Mr. Daniels says, walking by Albert and patting his shoulder. Then Mr. Daniels calls on Suki. She pulls out tiny paper bags and begins to pass them out to everyone. “I bring two foods to share. One is hone-senbei, my grandfather favorite. Other is wasabi peas. They are maybe spicy. Food in America tastes...” She turns to Mr. Daniels. “What is correct word?” All of a sudden Max jumps up and runs to the sink, followed by Keisha and Jessica. “Too hot!” Max yells. The three push each other a bit, trying to scoop water into their mouths. “Ah yes,” Suki continues. “Bland is correct word. Food here is bland.” She seems to think that the three kids at the sink are both funny and odd. I think how hard it would be to move to a different country and have to learn another language. I can’t even handle one. Mr. Daniels laughs, holding the little bumpy, bright green pea between his fingers. “They don’t look that hot.” Most people in the class are too chicken to eat it now, pushing it away. Suki looks a little hurt. Albert puts one in his mouth. He eats it but looks like he’s in pain. His eyes even water. He says with a gasp, “I like it, Suki. Thank you.” That Albert is nice. Oliver pops his in his mouth but has no reaction. “Oliver?” Mr. Daniels asks. “You don’t think it’s hot?” “Naw! I’m the only one in my family that can finish a fireball without taking it out of my mouth. My mother says I must have no taste buds at all, and my dad says—” Mr. Daniels pulls on his earlobe again and says, “Thanks, Oliver.” Oliver’s mouth is open. Ready to keep going. But he says, “Thanks, Mr. Daniels.” Do they have some signal or something? Suki continues. “These foods mean much to me because I share them with Grandfather. Many things about Japan I miss, but Grandfather I most miss. Also, I miss wood carving with him. He make me wooden blocks and I carve gift for him and send.” So that’s why she has those blocks. “I eat these foods because they remind me of Japan. And my grandfather.” I feel sad for her. “What are the crackers made of?” asks Albert. Suki turns to him. “They are made of shrimp and fish bones.” It isn’t just Oliver who goes wild over that one. Most everyone says “Yuck,” and Suki looks up at Mr. Daniels, who turns to the class. “Now, now. Quiet down.” “Shrimp and fish bones?” Shay asks. “We prefer lobster in our family.” Albert raises his hand. “I would just like to point out that lobster is a very expensive meal now, but in the olden days, it was served only to peasants and slaves, who revolted and demanded that they only be served lobster twice a week. And”—he swallows—“I think fish bones would have some excellent nutritional properties.” Suki smiles for a second before she scurries back to her seat. Mr. Daniels gives Albert a solid nod.  Next, it’s my turn. What I ended up bringing in means something to me, but now I’m not sure the class would be nice about it. I decide to play it safe and say I forgot. I can tell Mr. Daniels is disappointed. “Well then, do you have a pet you can tell us about?” he asks. “No. My mom is allergic.” This reminds me of my dad crawling around the living room on all fours, pretending to be the puppy I begged for. Oliver starts to bark like a dog. Mr. Daniels says, “Too much of that, Oliver, and we’ll have to give you dog biscuits. Better be careful.” Mr. Daniels squints at me. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can show us? Because I have a feeling there’s something.” I slide my hand down into my pocket and clutch my 1943 steel penny. The object I brought in for sharing today. He watches my hand and I realize I’ve given myself away. So I stand and I take out the penny. “My dad is in the army and he’s deployed right now. On the day my dad left, he gave Travis and me these pennies.” I look up at Mr. Daniels. “That’s my big brother.” He nods. “In 1943, pennies looked weird because they were silver in color like quarters. They were made of steel instead of copper because the government needed copper to make ammunition during World War Two. Then in 1944, pennies went back to the usual red copper color. Anyway, I think it’s cool.” “I do, too,” Mr. Daniels says. “And I think it’s even more cool that you told us about it.” As I walk back to my seat, I think of how when Dad left, he said that when we look at the steel pennies, we need to remember that we are unique, too. And also, that things will go back to normal for us—that he’ll be home before we know it. I really miss him. Mr. Daniels gives Oliver a thumbs-up, and I think how cool it is that they have the ear-pulling signal. That way he doesn’t always have to tell Oliver that he’s doing something wrong in front of everyone. I know what that feels like and I’m happy that Mr. Daniels cares so much. Most teachers seem to like their students to be all the same—perfect and quiet. Mr. Daniels actually seems to like that we’re different. CHAPTER 10 Promises, Promises... “All right, Fantasticos!” Mr. Daniels says, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist. “First thing I’m going to do today is book talk. I will do that a lot this year—tell you all about some of my favorite stories.” When Mr. Daniels talks about books, it reminds me of Max or Oliver. Like he’s ready to launch a giant party. I like hearing about the story. But asking me to read them would be like asking a lobster to play tennis. And then it gets worse. He holds up a pile of notebooks. “I have a surprise. I have a brand-new writing journal for each of you, which you will write in every day.” Oh no. I’d rather eat grass. “But here’s the thing. I will sometimes give you a topic but not very often. And I will never ever—even if an evil sorcerer threatens to turn all my correcting pens to clear ink—correct your work.” Huh? “They will never be graded. They will never be corrected. And most days, I won’t tell you what to write about. You may write about your life, sports, the country of Bulgaria, your favorite kind of soap, books you like, books you don’t like. Anything.” Wow. I wonder if he’s delirious. No correcting? Anything we want? This is too good to be true; I know something is coming. “There are only a couple of rules.” Ah. There they are. The rules. “You must put pencil to paper and do something. And I will often answer with a sentence or two.” “Write back?” Oliver asks. “Can we grade you?” Mr. Daniels laughs. “We’re not going to grade at all, Oliver. This is about communication. Self-expression. Not measurements.” “Can we ask you questions?” Max asks. “Sure!” he says, passing out the notebooks. Mine is yellow. A little too nice a color for a writing thing. “Can I write about football?” Max asks. “Anything you want.” “This is going to be great!” Oliver yells. “I’m going to ask for answers to the tests. And for extra recesses. And unlimited ketchup in the cafeteria.” “Well,” Mr. Daniels begins, “as I said, you can ask whatever you want.” He smiles at Oliver. “So, open up those notebooks now and add your first entry. And make it... you. This journal is yours, so an introduction to you may be a good thing—no matter how you choose to express that.” Keisha begins writing while Albert stares at the blank page. The room is filled with the sounds of pencils scratching. Suki is rubbing one of her blocks with her thumb. I wonder if she’s thinking about her grandfather. I see a mind movie of me walking through a forest of alphabet blocks stacked on top of each other. They sway like trees in the wind and I worry that they will come crashing down on me. I think about drawing that, but decide to color a big three-dimensional cube with dark black sides. He said we could do anything. I want to see if he means it. The next day Mr. Daniels holds my journal, opened to the page where I drew the black cube. I figured he wouldn’t let that go. He holds his palm facing me and says, “I know. I know I said I’d never correct you and I’m not going to. I’m just wondering if you would mind telling me what this means. Do you like the color black, or does it mean something? Either way, it’s okay.” I think of the kinds of things that might make him mad and remember how he said a person can be too good at the wrong things. Maybe I don’t want to get in trouble this time. “It’s a picture of a dark room.” “Oh. Why would you draw a picture of a dark room?” He looks serious now. “It was supposed to be something about us.” “Why would a dark room have something to do with you, Ally?” His voice is soft. Really soft. I swallow hard. “Because in a dark room, no one could see me.” He stares down at my black cube. Then he clears his throat before looking back up. “Okay. Thank you for being honest, Ally.” I’m so relieved he isn’t mad. “Ally?” He pauses. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to be seen?” “I think it would be easier to be invisible.” “Why?” I shrug. I want to give him an answer, but I have both too many words and not enough. He nods slowly. “Well,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not invisible, Ally. Because this class wouldn’t be the same without you.”  I don’t believe him, but it makes me happy he said it. I realize looking at him that, all this time, I haven’t been looking teachers in the face. I’ve been staring into their stomachs while I sit at my desk and they tell me the things that are wrong with me. But now, on top of all those other big wishes that I carry around, I have one more. I want to impress Mr. Daniels. With every tiny little piece of myself, I just want him to like me. CHAPTER 11 Scrambled Egg When we come into the classroom, Mr. Daniels makes an announcement. “Attention, Fantasticos! We have brand-new fantastico seats. So, find yours and settle in.” Jessica is sitting next to Suki and staring at Shay like their separation is a great injustice. It turns out that I’m sitting in the front row next to Keisha—the girl who can bake and write at the same time while I can’t do either. We don’t speak all morning, and I can’t stop worrying that she doesn’t like me. When she finally glances at me, I blurt out, “I don’t mind being your friend.” Keisha looks annoyed. “You don’t have to do me any favors.” “No,” I say, trying to undo what I didn’t mean to say. “I just mean...” And then I stop because I don’t know what I meant and I’m nervous and embarrassed and that is never good when I’m trying to say something. Every word is another shovelful of dirt from the hole I’ve dug for myself. So I figure my best bet is to shut my mouth. But the silence gets too long and too loud, so I try to think of something to say. I always knew what to say to my grandpa and he always knew what to say to me. I wish he were here to whisper in my ear. And then I think of Alice and how she argued with Humpty Dumpty about using the right words. I turn to Keisha and blurt out, “Do you like eggs?” “Eggs?” she asks. Oh no. She thinks I’m a barrel full of crazy, but I keep going because sometimes my tongue goes on without my say-so. “Yeah. I love eggs. Scrambled eggs. Fried eggs. Poached on toast, and boiled eggs. I love peeling the shell off of a boiled egg, don’t you? I even like egg salad, which my brother won’t eat even if someone holds him down...” Her eyebrows scrunch up, reminding me of angry caterpillars. “That’s incredibly interesting.” Then she searches inside her desk for something. I know this move. It’s a polite way of ignoring me. People do it a lot. Finally, I just put my head down. Grandpa used to say that Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole was just like real life. I didn’t used to understand what he meant, but I do now. There can’t be any place on the planet scarier than a school cafeteria. I hold my tray so tight, my fingers hurt. I hear, “Hey, Ally!” It’s Shay. She is standing with Jessica and a few others. “Yeah?” I ask. “Do you want to sit with us for lunch?” Of course I don’t want to sit with them. But I am getting tired of sitting alone. And having everyone else see me sit alone. Besides that, Shay, Jessica, and some other girls all have these woven friendship bracelets. And I have never had the kinds of friends who have matching bracelets, but I have always wanted them. It’s like the bracelet tells the world that the person wearing it has someone who cares about them. Not like a family member that has to care, but someone who just likes you. I want to feel a part of something. Anything, I guess. Shay is overly happy that I’ve said yes. I sit down after glancing at the seat to make sure I won’t be sitting in a pool of glue. Shay motions to me to sit next to her. She and Jessica smile that smile that on the outside seems fine but your gut tells you to be careful of. There are a few other girls. Max is there with one other boy. Jessica points at Albert and they start laughing. I look over and don’t see anything funny. “Can you believe it?” Shay asks. “How pathetic is that? Hey, Albert,” she calls, “is that supposed to be a fashion statement?” I still don’t get it. He’s wearing his usual Flint shirt and jeans. Why are they so worked up now? Shay hits me on the side of the arm and points down at his feet. The backs of his sneakers have been cut out. Shay calls him over and he comes. I don’t know why everyone does what she says. Even me. Today, anyway.  “What’s the matter?” she asks him. “Don’t you have any money for shoes?” “Quite the contrary,” Albert begins. “But given the choice of buying new sneakers that I will outgrow in three months or a chemistry set that I can use for an undefined amount of time, this seemed the clear choice. They’re in fine shape except for being just a bit short.” “Did you hear that?” Shay asks. “He chopped the back of his shoes off. Like slippers.” Jessica adds, “Next, he’ll be wearing a robe.” Shay turns to her. “I think robes would be cool. We should wear them tomorrow.” “Yeah, that would be cool!” Jessica says. Shay laughs, but I don’t think Jessica knows Shay isn’t laughing because of the robes. I think Shay said something dumb to see if Jessica would go along. Sometimes I think Jessica would follow Shay out of an airplane without a parachute. Then Shay turns to me. “Well, Ally,” she asks, “what do you think of wearing robes tomorrow?” I’d like to tell her it’s dumb, but I say, “Not my thing.” “Is that so? Well, what do you think of Albert and his slippers?” I feel like I’m in one of those old detective movies that Grandpa loved. In a cramped, small room under a bright light, being asked a question I don’t want to answer. The thought to stick up for him goes through my head, but that doesn’t seem like the right answer for Shay. “They’re pretty dopey,” I say. “What a weirdo, huh?” I’ve made Shay happy. I feel terrible. And I know that I am going to feel even worse when the shade comes down over Albert’s face. When he looks sad. But that never comes. He just stands there eating Doritos and studying us like we are lab mice. “I think it curious that you worry about what I have on my feet when three of you are wearing red shirts. Not a wise color. Red is the color of stop lights and signs, bad wounds, warning lights, and the most severe of sunburns. It represents red alerts and high fevers. Red numbers show a loss in accounting. Red represents danger.” I think of all of the red marks that cover my papers from teachers. How I hate to get them back. Jessica laughs loudest. “What a weirdo, Albert!” “Furthermore,” he says, “any crew member of Star Trek’s starship Enterprise who wears a red shirt never appears in another episode. Frankly, I think you’ve made poor choices.” They all burst into loud laughter. “Albert!” Max says. “It’s only a TV show, dude. And not a very good one, either.” Albert’s arm stops dead on the way to his mouth with another Dorito. “Not a very good one?” “Albert,” Shay says, leaning forward a bit, “you go right ahead and ignore what you look like. But it’s the rest of us who suffer; we have to look at you.” “Actually,” he says, “I don’t take my appearance lightly. I take you lightly.” And with that he turns and is gone before she can pull out some other mean thing. And I wish I was more like Albert. Seeing him shuffle away in those sneakers makes me want to be better. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not mean. And then my heart sinks, because I realize that I just was. I guess I did it because I was lonely. Now I know that there are worse things than being lonely. CHAPTER 12 What’s Your Problem, Albert? Light from the hallway pours into my room as my mom opens the door. “Hey, honey.” “Hey.” “I came in to check on you. You seemed very quiet at dinner tonight. Something going on?” “Mean kids at school.” “Oh, Ally Bug. I’m sorry you had to put up with that. What happened?” “Well... the kids who were mean?” “Yeah?” “I was kind of one of them.” “Oh,” she says with a sigh. “I’m surprised by that, Ally. Tell me what happened.” “Those girls that came into Petersen’s that time? Well, they asked me to have lunch with them. I sat at their table but then they started being mean to this kid named Albert about his clothes.” I look up into her eyes. “And I went along with it. I feel bad about it.” My mom brushes my forehead with her fingertips. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Ally. So it’s not too soon to decide what kind of person you want to be. Of course, I know what kind of person you are. And I love you for it.” She kisses me on the forehead. “You made a mistake. Everyone does. Just do your best to make it right, that’s all. The words ‘I’m sorry’ are powerful ones.” “Yeah. Okay. I’ll make it right with him.” “That’s my girl,” she says, kissing my forehead one more time before leaving. The next morning at school, I am wondering how I can make things right with Albert. I’m drawing a pigeon wedding in my sketchbook. I don’t know that Keisha is standing behind me. “You drew that?” I move my arm to cover it. “Why would you cover it? If I could draw like that, I’d put a commercial on TV about it.” “Thanks,” I mumble. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed, but I am. Keisha sits in her chair as I stare at her head full of thin braids, thinking it must take three days to do all that—so beautiful. I just love it. Not like my boring hair that just hangs there. I reach out to touch her hair. She turns toward me all of a sudden. “What are you doing?” “Oh... I... Sorry. There was a mosquito.” Sometimes I can’t believe the things I do. It’s like my arm has its own brain. “Uh-huh,” Keisha says. Just then, Albert walks in, and he looks upset. I want to be able to tell my mom that I made things right with him, so I go over. “Albert? Are you okay?” I ask, wondering if he’ll tell me to strap myself to a rocket and light the fuse. “I have a problem.” “I’m sorry about the cafeteria thing,” I blurt out. His eyebrows rise. “That didn’t bother me. No need to apologize.” “It didn’t bother you at all to have a table full of people make fun of you? You’re kidding.” “Why would I be kidding?” Can it be that he really doesn’t care what people think of him? We just stare at each other. If that didn’t bother him at all and this new problem really does, then it must be really bad. Maybe it has to do with the bruises he has all the time. “Can I help?” I ask. “No offense. But I don’t really think so.” “Okay,” I mumble. “It’s just a problem that I can’t get out of my head. I feel like I won’t be able to relax until I find an answer.” “Do you want to talk about it? I know sometimes when I have a problem, I talk it out with my brother or mom. Even if I don’t find an answer, I feel better anyway.” “Well...” I wait. “I’ve just been wondering... if an insect is flying inside a moving train car, is it traveling faster than the train itself? And if the insect flies in the opposite direction that the train is moving in, is it then traveling more slowly than the train? Obviously, if the fly is on the wall, it is moving at the same speed. As long as it isn’t walking. But the movement within movement is a puzzle to me.” Oh. He turns to me. A little intense. “You can see the problem here.” He doesn’t ask. He tells. I know he doesn’t really think I can help. Who knows if I could possibly figure out the science part of what he’s talking about. But my mind shows me that insect in that train car. It’s a dragonfly with brilliant greenish-blue wings and tiny goggles over its eyes. The car is old with dark wood walls and dark green curtains. Like from Grandpa’s Westerns. And the people have old-fashioned clothes. I see them like they’re with me now. Some of the men are sleeping. One is waving the dragonfly off with a newspaper, not even noticing its tiny goggles. Ladies with the most beautiful dresses sit there, too. And I see a girl who is with her mother, and her mother keeps asking the girl if she is enjoying the ride and the girl keeps saying yes, being sure to have a happy-sounding voice. I don’t know everything about that girl, but I do know that she has a lot more to worry about than an insect on a train. She doesn’t fit in. She’s all dressed up in fancy clothes and has to pretend to be someone she’s not. She wants to muck around. Help build fences. She wants to ride a horse the real way—not sidesaddle like her mother insists. When I come back from my mind movie, Albert has already walked away. But I don’t care. I can’t help thinking about the girl on the train and how she feels—like she wants to do so much but she’s held back, and it makes her feel heavy and angry. Like she’s dragging a concrete block around all of the time. I’d like to help her break free from that. CHAPTER 13 Trouble with Flowers It’s the night of the holiday concert, when we sing about Santa and dreidels and Kwanzaa. The best part is getting a new dress. I stand in front of a mirror looking at my dress and my first shoes with a heel on them. Thinking about the shopping day I had with my mom. We even went to A. C. Petersen’s for lunch. I liked how she stayed with me in a booth instead of having to go wait on other people. I love to sing, but I don’t like our music teacher, Mrs. Muldoon. Max calls her Minefield Muldoon because you never can tell when she’ll blow up over something. Oliver calls her that, too, but he acts it out by leaping into the air and yelling, “Muldooooooon!” as he lands on the floor and rolls. He doesn’t stop, though. He goes from a roll right to his feet again. Like a cat in a cartoon. Shay is making fun of Albert because his clothes don’t fit. “What’s with the pants, Albert?” she says. “Did you get that outfit in the third grade?” Keisha whips around fast. “Why do you always try to pull people down?” she asks. “Because some people deserve it, that’s why,” Shay answers. “Deserve to be pulled down? Really?” Keisha asks. Albert straightens his tie, which is the only part of his outfit that fits. He’s even wearing his sneakers with the backs cut out. “You know,” he says, “logically, if a person was to pull another down, it would mean that he or she is already below that person.” Keisha lets out a laugh so loud that Mrs. Muldoon shoots her a look. Keisha covers her mouth and tries to squelch the sound. “That is perfect, Albert. Man, you really are a smart dude.” She turns to Shay. “You, on the other hand, are so low, you could play tennis against a curb.” Shay’s eyes narrow, but before she can say anything, Mrs. Muldoon appears and tells us to line up. For the spring concert last year, before I had a growth spurt, I had to stand in the front row. I liked when Travis called me a dime among pennies. But this year, I get to stand toward the back of the line with the taller kids, right next to Keisha. I look over at her. I love how she stuck up for Albert. She had the guts that I didn’t in the cafeteria. I wish I could be braver. We all stand, waiting to file into the auditorium. “Oh, Mrs. Muldoon, I love your dress!” Shay says. Mrs. Muldoon lights up like a bulb. “Why, thank you, Shay. Your parents have raised such a nice young lady.” “Oh, thank you very much, Mrs. Muldoon.” Shay smiles, but when she turns away toward Jessica, she rolls her eyes. And she keeps glaring at Keisha. I decide I won’t think about how mad she makes me and I’ll think, instead, about how all the girls get to carry a bouquet of flowers. That’s the good news. The bad news is that they have been donated by Jessica’s father, the florist. It’s nice of him, but Jessica hasn’t stopped bragging about it. Mrs. Muldoon walks down the line, handing out the most beautiful bouquets I have ever seen. Like the ones that brides carry. Dark red ribbons that wind around the stems like a barbershop light pole. Ribbons dangle from the bottom, too. She hands my bunch to me, and I smile thinking of how much my mom will love to see me with them. Keisha leans in to smell them and runs her fingers over the tops of the flowers. Then one of the white buds falls off and bounces off the top of her shiny black shoe. Mrs. Muldoon is there in a second. “What do you think you’re doing?” “I just...” Mrs. Muldoon grabs the flowers from Keisha’s hands. Keisha looks up. “No. Please don’t. I didn’t mean...” “These flowers are a gift, and if that’s how you’re going to treat a gift— with a complete lack of respect and gratitude—then you, Keisha Almond, will be the only girl without flowers.” “But Mrs. Muldoon,” Keisha says, “I really didn’t—” Mrs. Muldoon holds up her hand like she’s stopping traffic. “I don’t want to hear it. You will have no flowers and perhaps you will remember in the future how a lady behaves.” “See?” Shay says to Jessica. “People do get what they deserve.” I stand behind Keisha, but I wish I could see her face. I wait for her to say something back. But Keisha doesn’t say anything. Although I can’t see her cry, I hear her sniff and see her brush her cheek with her fingertips. And I watch a mind movie of me being the only girl without flowers marching in to see all the parents. And the look on my mom’s face. How she’d be the only sad parent in a sea of smiling ones. And how I’d feel like I was less than everyone else. No one should ever feel like that. I feel my fingertips dig into the center of my bouquet to separate the thick stems. It takes some twisting to work half the flowers out of the fancy ribbon, but I put some muscle into it. Stems crack and leaves and petals fall, spinning in the air. Landing all around my shiny new shoes. Mrs. Muldoon has turned around to stare. Her mouth is open wide enough for a bird to build a nest in. I hold her gaze as I hand half the flowers to Keisha. “Well, she can have some of mine, then.” In the end, neither of us had flowers when we walked into the auditorium. But we had bigger smiles than anyone else. CHAPTER 14 Boxed In and Boxed Out “Okay, my Fantasticos! As you know, today is Fantastico Friday, and we are going to end our day with a challenge. I’m going to break you up into groups. Each group will be given a shoe box wrapped in elastic bands— which you will not remove—with a mystery object inside. Your job is to guess what the mystery object is. “You can do anything to the box to figure it out except open it. There are four numbered boxes that will rotate from group to group. You have ten minutes with each box, so be sure that you write down your guesses. At the end, we’ll open them up to see what each object is.” He claps once, loudly. “Any questions?” Everyone looks excited. Most glance around the room, probably hoping they will be with Albert. He’ll get every answer right. But I end up in a group with Max, Suki, Oliver, and Jessica. I briefly consider going to the nurse. Especially when I have to stare at all of Jessica’s friendship bracelets. I wonder if each bracelet is from a different friend. I glance down at my empty wrist. Box number one is dropped on our table. Oliver grabs it and shakes it hard. Jessica folds her arms and rolls her eyes—her response to anything not done or said by Shay. I look across the room. Shay is in a group with Albert. She’s holding the box and talking. What a surprise. “Yeah,” Max says, taking the box from Oliver. “My turn.” I’m surprised when Suki speaks up first. “Oliver. We all need a turn, so we must plan. Ten minutes and five of us. Two minutes each.” I think about the nurse again. I could lie on that comfortable bed and think. I’ve come up with some of my best sketchbook ideas pretending to be sick down there. Max has been shaking the box. He throws it into the air once and catches it. “Whatever’s inside is heavy,” he says. Oliver says, “Maybe it’s a kangaroo.” Jessica looks at him in disgust. Oliver shrinks. “I was just kidding,” he mumbles. This makes me mad. Max hands it to Jessica, who gives it a little shake and says, “I think it’s a wooden block. Like maybe one of those alphabet blocks.” “When will it be my turn again?” Oliver asks. Suki is taking some kind of notes or something. Looking up at the clock, she says, “Oliver, you have twenty-five seconds of your time left only.” Oliver takes the box back and sniffs it and tries to hear something by pressing his ear to the top. Mr. Daniels calls from the other side of the room, “I love that, Oliver. Creative investigation!” While I wait for my turn, I wonder why Oliver always smells like graham crackers. Finally, I get the box and put it up to my ear and tilt it. Whatever is inside rolls rather than slides. “It must be round. And Max is right about it being heavy.” I tilt it again with my palm on the side of the box. “I think it’s a baseball,” I say, handing it to Jessica. She does the same test and surprises me by saying, “I agree. Feels like a baseball.” “Wait,” I say, taking it back. I tilt it again quickly and the object hits the end hard, and then lightly. “It bounces,” I say. “Would a baseball bounce?” I ask, turning to Max. “Naw. I don’t think so. Maybe it’s rubber. Like a lacrosse ball.” After Suki tests the box, she writes down our answer. Then we get the second box. The second item slides rather than rolls. I can tell because it doesn’t move if the box is tilted a little but, once tilted more, will move all at once. And I can feel it scraping along the bottom. It’s weird, but I can almost see it. It’s heavier than an alphabet block, but I think it is a shape with all flat sides. Oliver tells me that it’s cool I’m so good at this. I forget to say thank you because I’m shocked. But then I also forget to be nervous, talking to everyone and feeling like... like I can do this as well as everyone else, and it is the best. The best feeling ever. Suki hands the box to me. “Your turn to go first.” The third box is harder, but I guess it’s in the shape of a Magic Marker but much bigger and heavier, as it slides one way and rolls the other. I glance over at Albert, who is listening to Shay talk again. Keisha is doing the talking in her group, but she is making everyone laugh. I wish I knew what they were saying. When Mr. Daniels delivers the fourth box, he stays. While Max tries to figure out what’s inside, Jessica constantly compliments him on everything short of breathing. Max tells us that he thinks it’s something light because it doesn’t hit the sides hard. When it is his turn, Oliver looks up at Mr. Daniels. “So, what do you think there, Oliver?” I can see Oliver wants to be right. He tilts and shakes and decides it’s a quarter. Mr. Daniels nods and pats him on the back. “That’s an excellent guess, Oliver. Well done.” “Am I right?” Oliver asks. “You’ll have to wait and see.” Mr. Daniels shrugs. “Can’t you just tell me now?” “Sorry, bud.” Oliver seems disappointed. Then he looks up at me. Holding out the box, he says, “Here, Ally. You’re the best at this.” Jessica’s face looks like if she let out all that pressure, she’d fly into the air like a rocket to the moon. “Ally?” Mr. Daniels asks. “Huh? Uh, sorry. Sometimes when I think, I forget to talk.” He laughs a little.  I hold the box in front of me with the long side almost touching my stomach. I tilt the box front to back and then side to side. This doesn’t make sense. “What are you thinking, Ally?” he asks. “Well,” I begin, “if I tilt it front to back, the object hits the long sides of the shoe box. But if I tilt it side to side, the object doesn’t hit the short sides.” In my mind, I see the object must be the size and shape of a magic wand. Because it moves a lot when tilted in one direction but not when tilted in the other. “What?” Oliver asks. “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. I look down at the box and shake it side to side hard. I can’t get the object to hit the sides of the box. The more I shake side to side, the more it hits the top and bottom of the box. Confusing. I look up at Mr. Daniels and his half smile and scrunched eyebrows. “Waaaait a second.” I smile. “Would you trick us?” “What do you mean, trick you?” I shake it again. Tilt it some more. “The object hits some sides but not all sides. Did you tape it or tie it or something?” His eyes widen quick and he smiles. And then he laughs. He laughs loud, bending over and resting his hands on his knees, and then he swings his head to the side to look over at me. By this time, the whole class is watching him. “Wow, Ally Nickerson. That’s amazing. I have done this with over a hundred kids and no one—in all of those times—has ever been able to figure that out.” He reaches over and takes the box. Taking the elastic bands off, he opens the box to show us all what’s inside. It’s two glue sticks tied together with string, and then the ends of the string are taped to the sides of the box, leaving the glue sticks hanging in the middle. He comes over and does something a teacher has never done even once in my whole life. He high-fives me.  CHAPTER 15 Ungreased Gears For homework, Mr. Daniels said we have to write a paper describing how we feel about a short story he read today. He says there’s no right or wrong answer. He just wants to know our thoughts. Part of my brain knows that this shouldn’t be that hard. I would be able to tell him in two minutes how I feel about it. But I’ll be celebrating another birthday by the time I get it written down. And when I do, he probably won’t be able to understand it anyway. Travis comes in the back door, drops his bag, and takes off his steel-toed boots. “Hey, squirt.” The smell of a garage fills the kitchen. But I like it. “Hey,” I say, trying to get the thoughts floating around in my head to land on the paper. I don’t know why the things in my brain get lost on the way down my arm. Travis takes a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and drinks from it. “Hello, Travis? Gross.” He laughs at me. “No one else will drink that now, you know.” “Good.” He smiles. “My plan is a success.” He walks away, taking the whole carton with him. “Travis?” He stops in the hallway after taking another swig. “Yeah?” I know what his answer will be, but I ask anyway. I’m desperate. “Can you help me?” “With that book stuff you’re doing?” He points using the carton. “Yeah. I have to write something...” “Whoa, Ally. I can give you new spark plugs. Change your oil. Even rebuild your carburetor. But the writing? No can do. When it comes to that, my brain is like gears with no grease. Parts grinding together. Seriously. It ain’t pretty.” “Please? You have to be better at it than me.” He takes a deep breath. “Can’t you wait until Mom gets home?” “She left a message saying she’s closing, and I can’t tell her I need help that late. She’ll be mad.” “Look. You know I’d love to help you out, but the whole school thing... It’s like asking a blind man to drive a bus. Besides,” he says, sipping again, “I’d rather eat a bag of hair.” He’s trying to make me laugh and the picture in my head is funny. And kind of gross. But I can’t laugh. I can’t. I’m too desperate. I must look sad because his voice is sweet. “Seriously, Al. I would help you, but I’m no better at it than you. I’m really not.” The next morning, I am trying to decide if I should turn in my paper, knowing Mr. Daniels will probably think I spit it out in two minutes. The truth is that it cost me my whole night and a headache that was so bad, it reminded me of the Queen in Alice in Wonderland always yelling, “Off with her head!” Just because I thought that would be a relief. I worry what Mr. Daniels will say about it. For now, he’s in the hallway with another kid. “Good morning,” Keisha says. “I have something for you.” And she holds out a cupcake. “Cupcake!” Max says. “Put your eyes back in your head, Max. This is not for you,” Keisha says. “Me want cupcake!” Oliver says, flailing about a bit. “Me love cupcakes!” “You’re such a freak,” Shay says. “That’s Cookie Monster who talks like that.” Oliver gets dead serious. Not a single thing on him is moving except his mouth. “If I’m talking like that, then I’m the one talking like that. And besides, do you really think that Cookie Monster would turn down a cupcake? I mean, it isn’t broccoli or nuclear sludge or something. You could tell him it’s a big, tall cookie with frosting on it. He’d suck it down like a vacuum cleaner. I bet you he would. You want to bet me? Do you?” Jessica begins to speak, but Shay cuts her off with a look. “No. I won’t bet you. I don’t bet on anything. Ever. And especially not with you.” Shay spins on her foot and leaves. Jessica scurries after her. It takes three quarters of a second for Oliver to be onto something else. “Wait! That reminds me,” he says. “During our class party, I hid a Halloween cookie somewhere in my desk.” “The Halloween party?” Keisha asks. “That was weeks ago.” “Yeah!” He starts digging for it, things falling to the floor as he searches. If it’s there, it’s probably as hard as concrete. Keisha turns back to me. “What is it with this class? They lose control over food.” She shakes her head and then pushes the cupcake toward me. “For you!” “For me?” I ask. Nobody ever brings me anything. Except trouble. “Yeah! Of course it’s for you!” “Why?” “Because I’m still cracking up over what you did with those flowers, that’s why.” She cuts the cupcake in half and shows me that it says Wow inside. I’m happy. Mr. Daniels walks back into the room. “Okay, my Fantasticos! Good news! All homework assignments have been passed in today. That’s worth five extra minutes of snack time.” The boys are as excited as if they’ve heard there would be free pizza delivered, too. I hear Keisha kind of laughing to herself. I figure it’s because of the boys all going nuts. But then she turns to me and says, “You’ve got guts, Ally. I respect that.”  I like that, too. But mostly I like that she likes it. “Hey,” she says. “You want to sit together at lunch? I’ve been sitting with some people, but I don’t talk to them and they don’t talk to me. And you sit alone, so...” A mind movie shows us sitting at the table talking and me being happy. “Ally? What do you think?” “Oh! Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” After the best lunch and recess I’ve had in a long time, Mr. Daniels waves me up to his desk. He has my homework and my journal. He’s trying to look all happy and light, but I can see the seriousness underneath. “Hey, Ally. I’m glad you turned in your homework and it’s more than you usually write. That’s great.” I stay quiet. “I’m just wondering how long it took you to do your homework. I’m not going to ask you to make changes or anything. I’m just wondering.” This feels like a trap. I know it isn’t good, so I wonder if it would be better to say I did it fast on the bus or if I should tell him that I worked really hard. “Ally?” “It took me... kind of a long time, I guess. I mean, I tried to do my best on it.” I look at it. “Is it wrong?” “It’s got some good ideas and that’s what the assignment was all about. No worries, okay?” No worries? That’s easy for him to say.