The Waffler

by Gail Donovan

  Monty and his class marched down the hall. Marched down the stairs. Marched through the front lobby, where Mrs. Tracy—you can’t cross over my bridge!—waved at them through her big window. Then marched down the first floor hall. And then, finally, they were there. The cafetorium.

  Overhead, a big banner said WELCOME! BIENVENUE! BIENVENIDOS! On one side of the room a long table held trays of muffins and scones and cookies, and pitchers of orange and apple juice. On the other side stood art easels holding student work. Buddies were supposed to meet at their easels. When the families arrived they would walk around, asking questions, and the students would answer.

  Monty went and found the easel with his report on Leo, based on his five facts. And tacked up next to his report was a picture Leo had drawn to illustrate The Tale of Samuel Whiskers. Leo had colored the rat white with brown spots, just like Officer Samuel Scratcher McIntosh Whiskers the third. Monty wished Leo were here. He wished he could tell Leo how much he liked the drawing.

  “We meet again,” came a voice right behind him. “Good morning, Montana,” said the principal.

  Monty felt the too-late alarm go off inside him. He felt his heart thumping. Usually Monty got the alarm clock feeling when his dad got mad that he was taking too long to make up his mind. This time he’d made up his mind—but to do something he didn’t have permission for, which was a sure way to make a lot of people mad. At him. And it was too late to change his mind back. Help! Monty hadn’t figured this part out!

  Desperate, Monty looked around for help. A few feet away stood Jasmine at her easel, her head speckled with pink barrettes in the shape of little hearts. Monty caught her attention and made a face: Help!

  Through the yellow reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Principal Edwards studied the work on the easel. “Leo,” she said, reading aloud the name in the corner of the drawing. “That’s your Buddy?”

  It was weird to think about how much grown-ups knew. They acted like they knew everything. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. The principal knew that his name was Monty. But apparently she didn’t know that Leo, Monty’s official Kindergarten Buddy, wasn’t coming to the Culminating Event.

  “It was Leo,” said Monty. “But he moved away.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Principal Edwards, frowning. “Well, what now? Why don’t you come along with me and look at the other student work.”

  “Um,” said Monty, stalling. “I better stay here.”

  The principal’s eyes seemed to get smaller as she trained her gaze on him. “If you don’t have a Buddy to meet, why would you need to stay here?”

  “’Cause I have some extra Buddies.”

  “Extra?”

  Bit by bit, he explained. Some kids didn’t get Reading Buddies, because they had special services, like speech therapy, and English as a second language, and—he didn’t know all of the reasons. But he knew they wanted Buddies. So he’d been their Buddy during recess. Unofficially. But now that Leo was gone, he decided to be their Buddy. Officially.

  Peering over the rims of her yellow glasses, Principal Edwards studied Monty. Probably she was thinking that her Every-Child-Known philosophy had been a mistake. There were some kids it was better not to know.

  “Exactly who are these extra Buddies?” she asked.

  “Sipping once!” said Kieran, running up and wrapping her arms around Monty’s waist.

  “Kieran,” said Monty.

  Winnie came up and got in the hug, too. “Sipping twice!”

  “Winnie.”

  And Finn did a little dance while he said the last line, “Sipping chicken soup with rice!”

  “And Finn.”

  “Kieran, Winnie, and Finn,” repeated the principal, just as Tristan Thompson-Brown—the kid who teachers sent on errands, the kid who never got in trouble—came running over.

  “Mr. Carlson needs Monty right away!”

  Principal Edwards frowned. “Mr. Carlson needs Monty now?”

  Tristan Thompson-Brown nodded his bright orange not-me head. And quickly, so Principal Edwards couldn’t see, he flashed Monty a grin. Monty grinned back. Jasmine had asked Tristan for help! And Tristan had helped! Just then Mr. Carlson tapped his baton to his music stand, his signal for the band members to gather onstage.

  “I better go,” said Monty, giving the principal a what-can-I-do? shrug.

  “Yes, you’d better,” she said. But before Monty could take off she added, “We’ll discuss this later.”

  Monty sprinted up onto the stage and squeezed into his seat between Ella and Emma. He got his flute from its case, stashed the case under his chair, and put the pieces together.

  Looking as if his musical note bow tie was tied too tight, Mr. Carlson tapped his baton again.

  “Welcome!” he cried. “We hope you enjoy our musical selections!”

  When the band finished playing, the members who weren’t in Mrs. Tuttle’s class headed back to their rooms, and the Mrs. Tuttle kids went to sit down with their families and Kindergarten Buddies. Monty wound his way through the cafetorium until he found his group, sitting at the nut-free table. Except group wasn’t the right word. It was more of a mob scene.

  There were all three of his Kindergarten Buddies. And there was Lagu with his Buddy. And Jasmine, who had to sit at the nut-free table, and her Buddy.

  Then there were all the families, including Jasmine’s mom, talking to Monty’s mom, and Jasmine’s dad, talking to Monty’s dad. And there was his stepmom, talking excitedly to Mrs. Luka. It sounded like they knew each other from when the Lukas had first come to the United States. And there was his stepdad, holding Little A. And there was Sierra!

  “How come you’re here?” he asked.

  “I got special permission,” said Sierra, grinning, “since my whole family was coming.”

  “And I made a special snack for us that’s nut-free,” announced Monty’s mom. She opened up a basket and started passing around blueberry muffins.

  “Wait,” said Monty, confused. “Why would you bring nut-free muffins?”

  Monty’s mom smiled a funny, crooked smile. “So we could sit at the nut-free table?”

  “How did you know you wanted to sit here?” demanded Monty.

  “I told her one of your Buddies was nut-free,” explained Sierra, with an isn’t-it-obvious? expression on her face. “Duh!”

  “So I made nut-free muffins,” said Monty’s mom.

  Monty stared at Sierra in horror. He knew she looked just like him: brown hair, blue eyes, freckles. And sometimes she knew exactly what he was thinking, which was cool. But sometimes she did exactly the opposite of what he would do.

  “You told?” he said out loud.

  “You didn’t tell me it was a secret!” objected Sierra. “And I thought what you were doing was really great,” she said. “Being a Buddy for three kids!”

  “You did?” asked Monty.

  Sierra nodded, and Jasmine joined her. They were like the Town Crier team. “Totally,” said Sierra, and Jasmine agreed, “Totally.”

  “Besides, why shouldn’t we know?” asked his dad, sitting across the table with a black box in his lap. “Look at this! Look what you’ve done!” He swung his hand around the table to include all the people sitting there. Monty and his three Buddies. Jasmine and Lagu and their Buddies. Sierra and Aisha. And all the grown-ups who went with all the kids.

  “Look around you!” said Monty’s dad. “It’s awesome!”

  Monty looked around at everybody eating blueberry muffins together, having a good time, and for about one second, Monty did see that it was awesome. And for that one second, he felt awesome! His dad was proud of him. He wished he could stay in this second forever. He wished he didn’t have to confess that not everybody was going to think it was awesome.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I guess I was just worried bec
ause—um—I didn’t really know if it was all going to work out.”

  “What do you mean?” asked his mom.

  “Well, I told Mrs. Tuttle how I had three extra Buddies, and she said I could choose one of them, since Leo was gone. But I couldn’t choose. So I didn’t. So I never really got permission to be everybody’s Buddy. Not officially.”

  Monty’s dad touched both hands to his bald head, as if he was trying to keep it from flying away. “That’s my Monty,” he said. “The boy who couldn’t make up his mind.” But he was smiling when he said it, as if he wasn’t mad.

  “And mine!” said Monty’s mom, smiling, too.

  Beth waved a hand in the air. “I’m a fan.”

  And Bob, holding Aisha, said, “Me, too.”

  “He’s my brother!” said Sierra. “My twin brother!”

  Monty’s dad wasn’t mad. His mom wasn’t mad. Monty felt like his single second of awesomeness was lasting more like a whole minute. And it felt good. Then he felt something else: eagle eyes. Trained on him. Across the cafetorium, the principal lifted her hand to point him out to the person she was speaking with.

  Mrs. Tuttle.

  Tiny Mrs. Tuttle charged toward the nut-free table, trailed by Principal Edwards. When she got there—which took about ten seconds—she spluttered, “Montana Greene! I honestly don’t know what to say, Monty. This is so unexpected.”

  It was like she had said “one two three, eyes on Monty,” and everybody had obeyed. Monty could feel everybody’s eyes on him. He could feel the eyes of Mrs. Tuttle and Principal Edwards. Also the eyes of his mom and his dad. And his stepmom. And stepdad. And his sister Sierra and his friends, Jasmine and Lagu. Plus all their Buddies, and all the parents of all the Buddies.

  The only person at the table who wasn’t silently watching him was Little A, who crowed, “Buh! Buh! Buh!” It was more a sound than a word, but Jasmine whispered, “She’s saying Buddy!”

  “Buh-dee,” coached Sierra in a soft voice. “Buh-dee.”

  “Buh!” agreed Aisha.

  After Little A had broken the silence, Kieran’s mom spoke up. “Kieran just adores Monty,” she said. “She said he reads them stories at recess because there isn’t time during the school day. And I want to publicly thank Monty for going the extra mile.”

  Aisha crowed, “Buh!” again, and then another woman spoke.

  “I’m Finn’s grandmother,” she said. “And I never saw Finn so excited about school as the day he came home and said Monty was his Big Buddy.”

  Lagu’s parents were speaking to Lagu in Sudanese. Lagu listened, then said, “My parents say that Monty is helping Winnie learn to read. They say he’s a special boy.”

  This was out of control. It was worse than Thanksgiving dinner, when everybody said what they were thankful for. Now everybody was saying nice things—about him! For a second Monty didn’t know what to do, because he was starting to feel something he had never expected to feel, not in a million years—sorry for Mrs. Tuttle.

  He felt sorry for Mrs. Tuttle because she was standing right where he usually stood: in the make-up-your-mind hot seat. Now Monty was the one with X-ray vision, able to see inside somebody else. He could see what his teacher was trying to decide. Should she stay mad at him? Or not? Monty knew how hard it was to get un-mad at somebody. But he knew what to do: throw himself on the mercy of the court, like Mr. Milkovich said. And for extra credit, Monty threw in Leo’s puppy-dog eyes.

  “I know you told me to make up my mind and pick one Buddy,” he said, “but I couldn’t. But none of the Buddies knew it wasn’t okay with you. So if you have to take me, I get it,”—he held out his hands for imaginary handcuffs— “but let my Buddies go.”

  One two three, eyes on Mrs. Tuttle. Everybody was watching her, waiting to see what she would say. Was she going to stay mad? Or show mercy?

  “Buh!” crowed Aisha.

  Tiny Mrs. Tuttle heaved a big, tired sigh. “I don’t think we’ll put you in jail, Monty,” she said. “Not today, anyway.”

  Monty figured that even if his teacher wasn’t acting mad, she wasn’t exactly un-mad, either. This was more like a truce. But a truce with Mrs. Tuttle was a good deal for him. He’d take it.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

  The principal put her hand on his shoulder and leaned down so her white hair and yellow glasses were right next to his face. “Mr. Greene,” she said, “some of your decisions have been better than others, but you are making decisions. From now on, feel free to sit wherever you like at lunch. I don’t think anybody could call you a waffler anymore.”

  Principal Edwards and Mrs. Tuttle moved on to make the rounds of the other tables. Monty took a swig of orange juice and another bite of blueberry muffin. Today was: the Culminating Event. The weather was: Snowy. And Monty was: Not a waffler.

  Not a waffler!

  Everything was just about perfect, except for one thing.

  “I wish Leo were here,” he said.

  “So did he,” said Monty’s dad as he pushed the black box he’d been holding across the table. “He had an idea of something special he wanted to get you. He chipped in everything in his piggy bank, and your mom and I made up the rest, and, well—this is from all of us.”

  “Buh!” said Aisha.

  “She’s saying box!” said Jasmine.

  Monty undid the clips. He lifted the lid. Inside a golden instrument was nestled in black velvet.

  “A trumpet,” announced Lagu.

  “No way!” said Sierra.

  “Way,” contradicted Jasmine. “Way way!”

  “Mom,” said Monty. “Dad. Thanks!”

  Now he could switch instruments, and nobody would accuse him of waffling. Monty wasn’t sure whether his decision not to decide—his refusal to choose—made him more of an unwaffling waffler or a waffling unwaffler. But either way, he knew that sometimes he knew what he wanted. And when those sometimes came along, you had to stand up. Speak up.

  There were good and bad things about being a twin. Getting lumped together in a parent’s bad mood—not good. Getting dragged around to soccer tournaments to see your twin sister score goals—not good. But always having someone around—someone who knew exactly what you meant, someone who stuck up for you—good.

  Maybe tomorrow he would go back to trying to avoid getting noticed. But today he was going to say what he wanted.

  “Hey, Mom, Dad,” he said one more time, “I don’t want to flip-flop anymore. I want to go back to how things were before. Me and Sierra together.”

  “Me, neither,” Sierra said. “I mean, me, too. I mean—I don’t want to flip-flop anymore either. I want to go with Monty.”

  “That sounds good to me, too,” said their mom. She reached across the table and took one of Monty’s hands in hers, and Sierra’s hand in the other. “You two belong together.”

  This time, Monty didn’t mind being half of “you two.”

  Monty’s dad agreed. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, nodding, and he started talking to Monty’s mom about which house Monty and Sierra should go to this afternoon.

  “Dad, pronto!” said Monty. “While we’re young, please?”

  “Ouch!” said Sierra. “He got you, Dad!”

  While his whole family was laughing, Monty felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Jasmine, crowned in pink heart barrettes.

  “Are you never going to sit here at lunch anymore?” she asked. “Now that you don’t have to?”

  It looked like needing to make up your mind never stopped.

  “No way,” he said. “I’m not a jerk! I’ll sit here sometimes.”

  Monty figured that sometimes he would sit with Jasmine here at the nut-free table. Because she didn’t have a choice, and he did. And sometimes he would sit with Lagu at the regular fourth-grade table. He would even sit with Tristan, if Tristan stopped
calling him Waffles. Which he should, because Monty wasn’t a waffler anymore.

  One of the best things about a Culminating Event was how long it took. By the time the families left, all Mrs. Tuttle’s class had time to do was troop upstairs to get their coats and hats and mittens from their locker and head out for recess.

  Outside, Monty headed for his favorite farthest-away place. The sky was blue and the playground was white—sort of. The snow that had fallen was mostly trampled, but on the other side of the fence, the jungly place where nobody went, the snow still lay clean and white. Monty yanked off his mitten so he could stick his hand through one of the diamond shapes made by the chain links. Scooped up a handful of clean, white snow. Nibbled it. It tasted like the sky, like if you could make a sky-flavored snow cone.

  It had been a busy morning. Monty listed all the things that had happened so far.

  Throw yourself on the mercy of the court and have the judge show mercy. Check.

  Be declared not a waffler. Check.

  Get a trumpet! Check.

  Stop the flip-flop. Check.

  Monty took another nibble, wondering if his rat would like snow. He added that to his list, one more thing to do: check out whether his pet liked snow. He could do that later today, after school. Right after he and Sierra got home.

  I am grateful for frontline readers Ann Harleman, Frances Lefkowitz, Ihila Lesnikova, and Elizabeth Searle; for Edite Kroll, my agent; and my editor, Lucia Monfried; and for the help and support of Gregory, Lydia-Rose, and Zora Kesich.