by Ginger Rue
CONTENTS
1
Everybody’s Got a Thing but Me
2
A Thing Called Mojo
3
Time Stands Still
4
I Blame the Posters
5
Seizing a Hamster (and Opportunities)
6
Nervous? Who’s Nervous?
7
Dance Like No One Is Watching (Because They’re Not)
8
Even More Secret Than Raspberry Filling
9
This Time-Stopping Business Has Its Perks
10
There’s a Sherbet-Haired Lady in Our Car
11
Aunt Zephyr Doesn’t Fool Around
12
My Grandfather, a Horse, and a Snake
13
Zander Zamm Makes a Deal
14
Wondering
15
Aunt Zephyr Wanders and Wonders
16
I’d Rather Be a Pretty Witch
17
I’m Not a Dud . . . I’m a Wonder!
18
There’s a Downside to Everything
19
Wondering Is Top Secret
20
The One Time in History When Jolly Ranchers Didn’t Bring Happiness
21
Something in the Lunchroom Is More Mysterious Than the Food
Acknowledgments
Aleca Zamm is Ahead of Her Time Excerpt
About the Author
For Martin H. Chambers, because Aleca was born in your elementary school class.
I wish all children had a teacher like you to believe in them.
1
Everybody’s Got a Thing but Me
“Maybe timed tests aren’t your thing,” my mom said as we waited in the car pool line before school.
“What is my thing?” I asked. “See, Mom? That’s the thing. . . . I don’t have a thing.”
“Sure you do,” Mom replied. “Everyone has a thing.”
“Then what’s mine?”
“Oh, Aleca, you’re good at lots of things.”
“Name one.”
“Well,” Mom began. “You’re very good at . . . You’re very . . . Well, you have a wonderful sense of humor.”
“No I don’t,” I said. “I’m not good at telling jokes.”
“But you laugh at all the right places in funny movies,” Mom insisted.
“Laughing at stuff that’s funny isn’t a thing, Mom,” I replied.
“Being a loser—that’s your thing,” said my sister, Dylan, from the front seat. She could be really mean sometimes, especially since she’d started middle school last year.
“Dylan, that was unkind and uncalled for,” Mom scolded. “And on your sister’s birthday, of all days.” She made Dylan apologize and say happy birthday. Dylan did it, but she didn’t mean it.
Deep down I knew Dylan was right. If I had a thing at all, it was being a loser.
It certainly wasn’t singing, like Dylan . . . or swimming, like my best friend, Maria . . . or soccer or gymnastics or dancing or anything else.
And it sure wasn’t math. Which was why I was so stressed out that morning.
It was Wednesday, so we were having another timed test. I’d practiced at home all weekend, but whenever Mrs. Floberg put a test on my desk, my hands got sweaty and the room started spinning. We were supposed to do fifty problems in three minutes, but I could never finish in time with a 90 percent or better. Which meant that I didn’t get a Jolly Rancher when the tests were returned the following day. Pretty unfair, if you ask me, because (a) Jolly Ranchers are delicious, and (b) Jolly Ranchers given out by a teacher taste better. Don’t ask me why; they just do. Plus, being forced to smell other people’s blue raspberry and cherry Jolly Ranchers while you sit there math shamed is just plain WRONG.
“I know you’re worried about the test today, Aleca,” Mom said, “but all you can do is give it your best shot.”
“It won’t matter.” I shook my head. “Mrs. Floberg hates me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Mom. “Why wouldn’t she like you?”
“Because Mrs. Floberg loves Madison, and Madison can’t stand me.”
“I can’t imagine that your teacher would be childish enough to play favorites, Aleca.”
“I don’t have to imagine it. I live it. Mrs. Floberg knows how bad I am at math, but she always calls on me to work the hardest problems on the board,” I insisted. “She does it to embarrass me.”
“She’s probably just trying to help you reach your full potential,” Mom offered.
“Mrs. Floberg doesn’t care about my potential,” I replied. “Every time it’s the same thing. She calls me up for the hardest problem, I stand there like a dork with no idea what the answer is, and then she says, ‘Is there someone who has been paying attention, unlike Aleca?’ And then Madison raises her hand and solves the problem, and Mrs. Floberg tells her how great and wonderful she is.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Aleca,” Mom said. “Just try your best on the test. And think good thoughts about your birthday dinner tonight. I’m making all your favorites!” Mom stopped the car, and a safety patrol boy opened my car door. Mom called, “Good luck, sweetheart!”
The safety patrol boy snickered.
“Good luck, loser,” Dylan called just as the safety patrol boy shut the car door.
I should’ve been mad at Dylan for calling me a loser again, but really . . . I figured I could use all the luck I could get.
2
A Thing Called Mojo
“Ten!” Maria squealed as she greeted me at the coat cubby. “Double digits! How does it feel?”
“You ought to know,” I replied. Maria had turned ten two months before.
“I can’t wait for your skating party!” Maria exclaimed. “And I can’t wait to give you your present! You’re going to love it!”
“Don’t tell me what it is,” I warned her. Maria had a hard time keeping secrets. Not that she was a blabbermouth or anything. She was just so honest (plus she got super-duper excited about giving presents).
“Of course I’m not going to tell you!” Maria said. “But do you want a hint?”
“Maria . . .” I was about to remind her that she always gave hints that were too big, but before I could, Madison and Jordan walked by. They were wearing white ribbons around their ponytails, the kind all the soccer girls wear.
“Our moms are making us come to your stupid party Saturday night,” Madison said.
“Not that we want to,” added Jordan.
“Wow, thanks,” I said. Then I muttered, under my breath so they couldn’t hear, “Don’t do me any favors. Feel free to get sick or something.”
Their ponytails bounced as they walked away.
Maria said something under her breath too, and at first I thought she said we ought to chase them, which didn’t seem like the best idea. But what she actually said was, “No manches,” which is what Maria says when she means “unbelievable,” because she knows two languages. Then she added, “In cartoons there are always anvils or pianos falling out of the sky and whacking bad people on the head. Why can’t that happen in real life?”
Maria always knew how to make me feel better. In first and second grade Madison had been our friend. We had done everything together. Our parents had called us the Three Amigas. But then Madison joined the soccer team with Jordan. That was the end of the Three Amigas. I tried playing too, but I was klutzy. The other girls on the team were always mad at me for messing up. Mom let me quit even though she’d paid the fee for the full season. Maria hadn’t tried to play socce
r. She’d been too busy with swim team.
“Can’t you just picture the two of them, squished from a falling anvil?” I said.
“With the big flat spot on their heads?” Maria added. “Or folded up and making that accordion sound when they walk?” We both giggled. Then Maria turned serious again. “So, are you ready for the test?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied. “Ask me something.”
Maria fired off a few division problems. I answered them all perfectly . . . and fast.
“This is it,” Maria declared. “You’re going to ace this one.”
“I can always answer the questions . . . until the test comes,” I fretted. “Then I freak out. Why should today be any different?”
“Because today you have mojo!” Maria said.
“What is mojo?” I asked. “Is it a disease?” I put my hand on my forehead. I didn’t know why, exactly, but that’s what my mom does whenever I get sick.
“Mojo is like . . . a good, special luck. A kind of magic.”
“What makes you think I have any of that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just have a feeling your luck is about to turn around. Today is the day everything changes for Aleca Zamm.”
Today is the day everything changes for Aleca Zamm. I said Maria’s words in my head over and over. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to have mojo, and lots of it. But I didn’t hold out much hope.
It turned out that Maria was right.
3
Time Stands Still
When class began, however, I didn’t feel any mojo at all. Nothing seemed to be changing for the better. In fact, everything seemed to be worse.
As soon as everyone was seated, Mrs. Floberg clapped her hands and announced, “Class, I have to step out of the room for a moment.” I thought it was kind of illegal for a teacher to leave kids alone in the room without an adult, but if it was, Mrs. Floberg didn’t seem to care. “While I’m gone, I expect you to be on your best behavior. No talking whatsoever.”
Brett Lasseter high-fived one of his friends. There was some giggling from another area of the room.
“But just to be certain,” continued Mrs. Floberg, “Madison, I’d like you to come up to the board and take names.”
Madison walked up to the whiteboard and took the purple marker from Mrs. Floberg like she was accepting an award for discovering a new planet or something.
“Madison, if anyone so much as whispers, you write their name on the board. And put a check mark next to their name for every time they misbehave again. Understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Floberg,” Madison practically sang.
“I will be right back,” Mrs. Floberg reminded us. Then she left the room.
No one uttered a word. Madison stood at the board eyeing all of us. She had this big I’m-the-boss-of-you grin on her face.
All of a sudden she turned to write a name on the board. I wondered who had spoken; I hadn’t heard anything.
When she started writing a big purple A, I couldn’t believe it. By the time she had finished the l-e-c-a, I was outraged.
“I didn’t talk!” I protested.
Madison put a check mark next to my name.
“That’s not fair!” I fumed.
Madison put a second check mark.
“You can’t do that!” I said.
Another check mark.
“Who do you think Mrs. Floberg’s going to believe? You or me?” Madison said with a mean grin.
She had a point.
But wait! I had a roomful of witnesses!
“Everyone in this room knows you’re lying!” I pointed out.
Madison grinned even more wickedly. “Raise your hand if you will tell Mrs. Floberg that Aleca didn’t talk.”
Only one hand went up. Maria’s.
So Madison wrote Maria’s name on the board right under mine.
Maria made a face of terror. She’d never gotten in trouble in her life.
It was one thing for Madison to torment me, but I couldn’t let her do this to Maria.
“That’s it!” I cried. I went up to the board and tried to wrestle the marker out of Madison’s hand. I had almost gotten the purple symbol of injustice out of her grip, when I heard my name.
“Aleca!”
Mrs. Floberg was back. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
Not only was Mrs. Floberg back, but she’d brought the principal, Mr. Vine, with her. Mr. Vine was skinny and tall and had a curved posture, all of which made him look kind of like, well . . . a vine. He had a face like a hound dog, all sad and droopy, and he always had two lines between his eyebrows, like maybe he had been thinking about something for a long time, and even though his brain was finished thinking about it, his face wasn’t yet.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I began. “It—”
“Mrs. Floberg!” Madison interrupted. “Thank goodness you’re here! Aleca was talking and wouldn’t stop, and when I put her name on the board and put the checks beside it, she went nuts and attacked me!”
“I did not!” I argued.
“That’s exactly what happened,” said Jordan. “Isn’t it, everybody?”
I wouldn’t say that everyone agreed, but some people said yes, and some didn’t say anything. Only Maria spoke up to defend me.
“It’s not true,” Maria insisted.
“You can’t believe her,” Madison said. “She’s Aleca’s friend. And she was talking too. That’s why her name is on the board.”
“Maria, I’m surprised at you,” Mrs. Floberg scolded. “It’s not like you to be dishonest.”
“I think Aleca’s been a bad influence on her,” Madison suggested.
“Are you kidding me?” I spluttered, and then turned to Mrs. Floberg. “You’re not really going to believe any of this, are you?”
“Young lady, I know what I saw. Mr. Vine, this student has ‘trouble’ written all over her. I think it’s time you take stern action to modify her behavior before it gets any worse.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Mr. Vine replied with a frown.
“But I didn’t do anything!” I realized I had just raised my voice at the principal, but I couldn’t help it. It was all so unfair!
“How dare you raise your voice at me!” Mr. Vine exclaimed. He took a notebook and pen out of his suit pocket. “What is your full name?”
“Aleca Zamm,” I said softly.
I braced myself for what would come next.
But Mr. Vine didn’t say anything.
Neither did Mrs. Floberg.
Or anyone else.
In fact, the whole room became quiet. Scary quiet. I looked at Mr. Vine. He was as still as a statue. His eyebrows were knitted together in a scowl. I turned my head to look at Mrs. Floberg. She was also as still as a statue.
No one in the entire classroom was moving at all. Everything was silent.
“Mrs. Floberg,” I said. “Are you all right?” No answer. “Mr. Vine?” No answer. “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Is this some kind of joke?” Not a sound. Not a movement from anyone. “Maria? Maria, what’s happening?” But not even Maria made a sound. She was completely still. Her shoulders were rounded and she had a worried look on her face. “Maria? Are you okay?” No answer.
Slowly I took a step away from the whiteboard and began to look around the room. Madison had gone over to Jordan’s desk. Her hand was frozen, cupped to Jordan’s ear. Brett and his friends, their teeth bared in evil smiles, looked almost like wolves. Everyone in the room was completely motionless. Joanie Buchanan was bent over a book. Neal Martinez was tying his shoe. Scott Sharp was picking his nose. Ewww! I’d seen enough.
I went back to Mrs. Floberg and kind of shook her by the arm. Nothing. She was as stiff as a board. “What am I supposed to do here?” I said out loud. No response. Everything stayed exactly the same.
What was I supposed to do?
If Mom and Dad had gotten me a cell phone for my birthday, I could’ve ca
lled them. But no. Fourth graders don’t need cell phones, they’d said. That’s just ridiculous. Yeah, because it’s not like a fourth grader would need to call home when everyone in her classroom turns to stone. If you need to call us, you can use the office phone, they’d insisted.
The office phone!
I eased past Mr. Vine and out the classroom door.
The entire school was quiet. I looked in classrooms along the way to the office, and they were just like mine—motionless. The door to the gym was open, and Coach Blanton was holding his hands out to catch a basketball he’d tossed up. The ball hung in the air above him like some ugly orange chandelier.
Mrs. Becky, the school phone answerer, was at her computer. Her fingers were curled above the keys. Only her right pinky finger touched a p on the keyboard.
I guessed she wouldn’t mind if I used the phone without asking permission first.
I picked up the receiver. No dial tone.
“Come on,” I pleaded. I hung up a few times to see if it would click, but nothing happened. Just more silence.
The clock on Mrs. Becky’s computer said 8:03 a.m.
I had no idea what to do. I sat down in one of the office chairs and waited for what felt like a long time.
But when I looked back at the clock on the computer, it still said 8:03 a.m.
4
I Blame the Posters
Maybe my school was caught in some sort of time warp.
I finally had the idea to look outside.
I could see cars stopped in the middle of the street across from the school building. The branches on the big tree behind the school marquee were bent to the left, like the wind that had blown them had never finished the job. A bug on the outside of the window wouldn’t move even when I tapped the glass.
This was definitely weird.
I tried the phone again. Still no dial tone.
I walked back to Mrs. Floberg’s room. Everything I passed was exactly as it had been before, right down to Coach Blanton’s basketball floating above him.
I eased past Mr. Vine once again and walked over to Mrs. Floberg. “Mrs. Floberg, can you hear me?” I asked a few times, but she never responded. I even did a funny dance around the room, but nobody moved so much as a muscle.