by Sally Warner
I don’t exactly call construction-paper leaves art, however. It is just cutting on the line, really—which most kids learn to do pretty well when they’re four or five.
Ms. Sanchez isn’t that great at art, to tell the truth. It’s one of her few faults. She either has us do an easy holiday craft project, the kind you see in magazines—only our projects never come out looking right—or she teaches us the color wheel.
Over and over again.
“Now, use your rulers to draw a big triangle,” she calls out.
The color wheel. I could do this in my sleep!
“Excuse me, excuse me,” Heather says, waving her hand in the air so much that her ponytail bounces. Heather usually also has one long skinny braid hanging down over her face for decoration, and it is swinging today like a skinny little vine in the Amazon jungle, which is a place I want to go to study nature someday. I love the Amazon! Except for giant snakes like the anaconda, but I am trying—not very hard, I admit—to get over that. “What color do you want the triangle to be this time?” Heather asks.
Heather likes to get things exactly right, and she’s not the only one. Cynthia Harbison is even worse, and so are the two girls who are best friends from church. I’m not that “persnickety,” to use one of my mom’s favorite words, unless it’s about something important, like nature. Or dinner. I can be wa-a-a-y persnickety then.
Don’t try to sneak any lima beans past me, that’s all I’m saying.
Or brussels sprouts.
“The triangle can be any color at all, Heather,” Ms. Sanchez says, but her face pinches up a little at the words this time.
I don’t mind repeating boring assignments, though, even when they’re in a subject that’s supposed to be fun, like art. That’s because boring assignments give me a chance to think, which is something you almost never get to do in school. And what I am thinking about right now is Corey Robinson, and how he’s so good at swimming.
I wish I was good at something. I mean, really good at something people could actually see. Not just knowing stuff about nature, because like I said before, that’s invisible.
I want to be good at something that will impress my dad.
In fact, I want to be excellent.
“Emma?” Ms. Sanchez is saying.
“Yes!” I shout, jumping in my seat at the sound of her voice, which makes Cynthia snicker loud enough for a few kids to hear.
“I was asking you what the complementary color of blue is,” Ms. Sanchez says, sounding a little fakey-patient, to tell the truth.
Complementary means opposite, on the color wheel. I don’t know why.
“Orange,” I say automatically.
“That’s correct,” she says, smiling and surprised. “And I thought you weren’t paying attention.”
So I sit up straighter in my chair and try to look as though I am paying attention—because I like Ms. Sanchez that much.
Also, I want her to finish this lesson so we can hear the mysterious big announcement.
4
Is That a Threat Or a Promise?
“And now, boys and girls,” Ms. Sanchez says after the last ruler and marker have been put away, “we have a special visitor who has something really fun to share with us.” I sneak a look at the wall clock and see that there are only twenty minutes left in the school day.
The classroom door opens a little. “Please welcome our wonderful room mother, EllRay’s mom, Mrs. Jakes,” Ms. Sanchez says, and Mrs. Jakes walks into the our room. She is medium-brown like EllRay, and she has sparkling eyes, and short hair with lots of pretty curls in it, but she looks nervous.
And we’re just a bunch of third-graders!
EllRay looks surprised, proud, and embarrassed—all at the same time—the way any kid would if their mom or dad came to class.
“Hello, boys and girls,” Mrs. Jakes says, standing next to Ms. Sanchez at the front of the class.
“Hello,” our combined raggedy voices mumble back at her.
EllRay’s mom clears her throat. “The PTA has decided that we should all be doing more to encourage active lifestyles among the kids at Oak Glen,” she announces, and she gives us a great big encouraging smile.
Active lifestyles. Oh, I think suddenly—this idea probably came from one of those kids-are-too-fat-and-lazy-today! reports they keep showing on TV. I can just picture all the grown-ups in the PTA—the Parent Teacher Association—sitting around eating squares of sheet cake while they talk about it.
People like to be experts about everybody else, that’s what I think.
“A week from this Friday,” Ms. Jakes says, “Oak Glen Primary School will be starting a new tradition. We will have our First Annual Winter Games Day. All the parents and grandparents will be invited, and it promises to be a lot of fun.”
A puzzled silence fills the room, and EllRay sinks lower in his chair. “Winter Games Day?” Fiona asks. You mean like—like skiing? Because I have really, really weak ankles, and—”
“And it never snows in Oak Glen,” Heather says, as if she is finishing Fiona’s sentence. “This is Southern California. With palm trees,” she reminds everyone. Heather is the queen of saying the most obvious thing in the world.
“But we still have winter, don’t forget,” Kry Rodriguez points out. Kry is really pretty, and her long straight bangs fall past her eyebrows and almost hide her eyes. Her parents are divorced, too, but that’s not the only reason we’re friends.
“One at a time, please,” Ms. Sanchez reminds us. “And raise your hand if you have something to contribute.”
Heather Patton raises her hand, and Ms. Sanchez tries to hide her sigh. “Yes, Heather?” she says, sounding patient.
Heather stands up as if she is about to pledge her allegiance. “I want to contribute a question,” she says, “which is, what kind of stuff are they going to make us do on games day?”
“Good question, Heather,” Ms. Sanchez says with fake enthusiasm, probably trying to make up for her sigh.
“It’s not all firmed up yet,” Mrs. Jakes says, “but of course there will be the usual foot races, and distance jumping, and so on. And some special competitions we’re thinking of just for that one afternoon.”
Cynthia Harbison frowns. “But we’re all gonna win a prize, right?” she ask. “That’s my contribution,” she adds hastily, seeing Ms. Sanchez’s expression.
“Well, yes,” EllRay’s mom says, sounding a little uncertain. “You’ll win a prize if you win one of the contests. I’m afraid the PTA can’t afford prizes for everyone.”
“We should win something just for trying,” Stanley Washington says, keeping his voice low.
“Yeah,” Heather chimes in.
“Hands in the air if you have a contribution,” Ms. Sanchez reminds us icily. But no more hands go up. “Was there anything else, Mrs. Jakes?” Ms. Sanchez asks, smiling her encouragement.
“I think that’s pretty much it,” EllRay’s mom says, looking a little flustered. “I mean, as Krysten said, we do have winter here in Oak Glen, even if it doesn’t snow. And the school board decided that Winter Games Day would be a fun way for all the children in our school to enjoy some much-needed exercise.”
“They think we’re too fat,” Stanley announces gloomily. “That’s why they’re punishing us.” Stanley is a little pudgy around the middle, I guess, but I would never call him fat. Not out loud. And anyway, a bunch of the kids in our class are skinny, so it kind of evens out.
“They can’t make us do stuff we don’t want to do,” Cynthia announces, raising her hand mid-sentence. She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not too fat.”
“Don’t be silly,” Ms. Sanchez says to everyone, scowling. She is obviously not at all happy that Mrs. Jakes’s so-called exciting announcement has been met with such suspicion.
Mrs. Jakes looks as if she wishes she could turn back time and say things in a different way, but she doesn’t know how.
Well, turning back time is impossible, for one
thing.
“For heaven’s sake, boys and girls!” Ms. Sanchez exclaims. “The parents are going to a great deal of trouble to make this new event a success, and it’ll be fun for you. Just because it will actually involve moving around, weak ankles or not, instead of eating fast food or playing video games, that’s no reason for you to give Mrs. Jakes and me all this attitude.
You kids are going to participate in Oak Glen’s First Annual Winter Games Day, and you will like it!”
Annie Pat and I exchange looks. Wow, we are saying silently to each other. Is that a threat or a promise?
Naturally, we don’t ask this question out loud, however, because Ms. Sanchez—who hardly ever gets mad—is angry. Her cheeks are pink, and her brown eyes flash, and one foot—wearing a pointy brown shoe with a cute leather bow on it—is tapping pretty hard.
No one else is reckless enough to say anything, either.
Except for Fiona. “I really do have weak ankles,” she objects. She holds one leg up as a visual aid, and we all stare.
Her ankle does look kind of flimsy, now that she mentions it—like a pink pipe cleaner with a lime-green sneaker stuck on the end of it.
“Well, Miss McNulty,” Ms. Sanchez tells her, “you’d better get those ankles pumped up, and pumped up fast—because Winter Games Day is going to come rolling around next week whether you children want it to or not.”
A couple of kids wriggle in their seats, but that’s as far as they dare to go with their objections. The rest of us just stare at our shoes.
“Now, I want you to give a big Oak Glen thank-you to Mrs. Jakes for taking time out of her busy day to bring us this good news,” Ms. Sanchez says in her best I’m warning you! voice.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jakes,” a few of us manage to chant.
“You’re welcome, everyone,” EllRay’s mom says, and she leaves the classroom as quickly as she can while still being polite.
Then the bell rings, and we all slink out of the room.
And EllRay is the slinkiest of us all, because it was his mom.
5
In Training
“You’re up early for a Saturday morning, Emma,” Mom says a few days later, pouring herself some coffee. Coffee always looks so good, all steamy in the morning sunlight, but it tastes awful, which I know because I tried it once. “And you’re already dressed, surprise surprise,” she adds. “What would you like for breakfast?”
My mom is really nice, and she’s pretty, too, even though she’s almost thirty-five years old. She has short hair that waves up like the back end of a curly-tailed mallard duck, and she likes to wear necklaces. When I was little, I made her a dyed macaroni necklace once, orange and blue and lumpy—even I thought it looked kind of weird—and she wore it to work! Of course she worked in a business library then, so not too many people saw her.
Still.
“I’d like pancakes and oatmeal, please,” I say, doing some stretches before sitting down at the kitchen table. I tuck my napkin into my jeans so I won’t have to scramble around on the floor looking for it in a minute or two. Somebody should invent magnetic napkins, that’s what I think.
“Pancakes and oatmeal?” my mom asks, raising an eyebrow. “Good heavens, Emma. Are you about to go into hibernation?”
“Nope,” I tell her. “I’m about to go into training—with Annie Pat, only she doesn’t know it yet. There’s going to be a games day at school next Friday, see, and Annie Pat and I are going to rule. We have a head start, because we’re already skinny. I’m going over to her house right after I finish my chores, if that’s okay, and we’ll go to the park so we can practice.”
The pancake mix is already halfway out of the cupboard, but Mom stops and frowns. “Back up a second,” she says. “Skinny? I got the e-mail memo about Winter Games Day yesterday, Emma, and it didn’t say anything about kids having to be skinny. In fact, that’s not the idea at all.”
“Huh,” I say politely. Because that’s the kind of thing grown-ups tell you even when the opposite is true.
I know that Annie Pat must be as excited about games day as I am, because she loves prizes and awards of any kind. In fact, one whole corner of her bedroom is full of the things she’s won: a little “Congratulations!” trophy from when she graduated from preschool, her “Sweetest Smile” certificate from kindergarten, her “Perfect Penmanship” award from first grade, and the “Most Improved Spelling” award from second grade.
And that’s not even counting her prizes and ribbons and plaques from pre-ballet, gymnastics, soccer, and summer camp, where she got an award with glitter on it for “Best Dog Paddle.”
Annie Pat has led a very accomplished life so far.
Not me. I just have one second-place ribbon from the second-grade spelling bee at Magdalena, and one certificate from Parks and Recreation—near my old house—for being able to tread water for two minutes without drowning. But they spelled my last name wrong: Macgraw, not McGraw.
It was still me gasping and splashing in that swimming pool, though.
“Well, of course, there will be prizes—for the winners,” Mom says, flopping some pancake mix into a bowl. “But really, Emma,” she continues, temporarily stalled in her pancake-making project, “at the end of Winter Games Day, everyone is supposed to end up feeling more positive about exercise, and realize how good it makes their bodies feel. Whatever size they are,” my mom adds, frowning a little.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, as if she has just totally convinced me that fat or skinny, fast or slow, winner or loser, prize or no prize, everybody at Oak Glen Primary School is going to be perfectly happy at the end of its First Annual Winter Games Day.
Hah.
Two hours later, my mom and I have finished our Saturday chores. We changed the sheets and towels, did a few loads of laundry in our horrible condo laundry room that smells like a combination of bleach, yucky-sweet fabric softener, and cat pee—even though no one is allowed to have pets, so that smell is a mystery. We also watered all the house plants and cleaned out the refrigerator, even the vegetable drawer, which sometimes has scary-looking bags of green goo hiding in the bottom.
Cucumbers, probably. We always forget to eat them, and that is their revenge.
The six blocks from Candelaria Road, where our condo is, to Annie Pat Masterson’s house at 315 Sycamore Lane is usually a fun and easy walk. Today, though, thanks to the PTA, I am thinking about this walk as exercise, which makes it seem like I’m doing another chore. I even ask my mom to drive me, since I don’t want to start my official training until Annie Pat and I get to the park, but Mom says no.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her, sounding grouchy. “I’ll walk. Even though I won’t get a prize.”
“You bet your buttons you’ll walk,” Mom says, laughing. “It’s a beautiful sunny day, Emma. And the fresh air and exercise will do you good.” Grown-ups always say stuff like that. Usually while they’re sitting inside, by the way.
“It’s windy out,” I complain, not wanting to give in so easily. “My hair will get all tangled up.”
This is not a very good argument, because my hair is already tangled up. It always is. Annie Pat and Kry say my hair is pretty, but it is so curly and long that it hurts—or something hurts, maybe it’s my brain—whenever my mom tries to comb it after a shampoo. And the wind will only make my hair situation worse.
But the wind makes no difference to animals. They always look perfect! This is just one more example of how great animals are. If people had fur instead of hair, we’d be a lot better off.
“Don’t worry,” Mom tells me. “I’ll brush your hair smooth when you get home. Maybe we’ll even go out for a pizza tonight! Let’s live it up for once.”
“Oka-a-ay, but don’t forget that I’m in training,” I say slowly, not wanting her to think she can win me over with mere pizza.
Although, of course, she can.
6
Best Friends
Eucalyptus leaves rustle above me as I walk down
Candelaria Road. They release a strong cough-drop smell that makes me want to sneeze.
I like sneezing. It’s fun, if you have a tissue handy.
A few dried leaves tumble past my feet as I hurry down the sidewalk. Sometimes, when the wind blows like this, I feel like I am flying instead of walking. With each step I take, I bounce a little higher.
It would be so wonderful to be a kangaroo on a day like today! That’s the kind of mom I’d like to be someday, too, because kangaroos are marsupials, and a marsupial’s baby grows inside her pouch instead of in her belly.
It’s a much better system than the human method, in my opinion.
I like going over to Annie Pat’s for many reasons. For one thing, it’s a house, like Mom and I used to have, not a condo like we live in now. Sometimes I even pretend Annie Pat’s house is my house, and I have a mom and dad who live together in it. Un-divorced.
But I don’t tell Annie Pat that. Even best friends keep some things private.
Another reason I like going over to Annie Pat’s is because the Mastersons have a baby named Murphy, and he has red hair just like Annie Pat. Murphy is fun to watch, and he’s so new that he doesn’t bother us yet.
Another good thing about Annie Pat’s house is that her mom has to take care of Murphy all the time, so she leaves Annie Pat and me alone pretty much. And she buys really yummy snacks for us to eat, stuff I would never get at home. I think this is because she feels bad about ignoring Annie Pat ever since the baby showed up.
But I don’t think Annie Pat minds a bit.