Then it stops.
“Amber,” my mother calls up the steps, “it’s for you. Your father. Hurry up.”
I rush to the phone.
My father is calling from Paris, France.
“Daddy!” I pick up the phone, out of breath.
I hear the click as my mother hangs up the downstairs phone.
“Amber.” My father’s voice sounds so close even though I know how far away he is. “I just wanted to call to wish you a happy first day of school. I only wish I could be there with you.”
“With us?” I keep hoping that means that he and Mom will get back together, even though they keep telling me that they won’t.
“Amber.” My father sighs. “Honey, not there, not in that house. . . . I need a place of my own.”
We are both silent for a few minutes, and then I say, “I miss you, Daddy.”
“I miss you too. I wish I could see what you’re wearing right now and be there later to hear all about your day. Around six o’clock your time, I’ll call to find out how everything went.”
I figure that out. . . . That’s midnight his time.
Before hanging up, we have a kissing contest . . . . . making fast kissing sounds until one of us gets tired lips. As usual, I win.
When we hang up, I feel really glad that he remembered and called, and really sad that he isn’t living closer.
Going downstairs, I think more about this being my first day.
I wish that it were this time tomorrow so that I will have already gotten through my first day of school and know that everything has gone well.
I wish that my new teacher is wonderful and thinks that I’m wonderful.
I wish that I didn’t feel so nervous.
I wish.
Chapter
Four
I, Amber Brown, think that the school playground should be renamed. It should be called the school hang-around-and-talk ground, at least for the older kids . . . . like the fourth graders on up . . . . at least for the first day of school.
While we’ve been talking, I’ve been looking around. So far, there are no new fourth graders. So far, everyone who was best friends last year are best friends this year.
No best friend vacancies so far . . . . . except for me.
“Amber, what did you do over the summer?” Alicia Sanchez asks me.
“I went to England.”
“Name dropper.” Hannah Burton makes a face at me. “Name dropper,” she repeats, sticking her nose up in the air. “You’re just trying to impress everyone.”
That’s not fair. Alicia asked me what I did, and I told her. I went to England.
“And what did you do over the summer?” Naomi Schwartz asks Hannah.
“My family rented a house at the Jersey shore. That’s where I got this great tan.” She tries to look like a model.
I pretend to yawn.
“Where’s Brandi?” Alicia Sanchez asks. “Didn’t she visit you at the shore?”
“Yeah, but that was at the beginning of the summer. I don’t know what she’s doing right now . . . . and actually, I don’t care.” Hannah shrugs. “She and her family are still in California, I think. I don’t know.”
“I thought you were best friends,” Alicia says. “How come you don’t know?”
Hannah shrugs again but says nothing.
I guess that Hannah has a best-friend vacancy too, but the way she acts I don’t want to even be her worst friend, let alone her best friend. She’s such a monster, she should have a best FIEND.
“I hear that you got chicken pox in London,” Tiffany says to me.
I nod. “On the second day. . . . Can you believe it?”
Hannah Burton interrupts and says, “I got chicken pox in the first grade.”
“Disease dropper.” I make a face.
“You are just so immature.” Hannah sticks her nose up in the air. “You are such a dweeb. Back from England. . . . . Her Dweebness.”
“Watch it. If you keep your nose up like that and it rains, you could drown. Not that anyone would care.”
Gregory Gifford pretends to talk into a television microphone. “And there you have it, sports fans. Round one of the rematch between Brown and Burton. Some say it is going to be the fight of the century. Some say it’s just the beginning of another school year.”
“I didn’t start it.” I glare at Hannah, who is wearing a shirt that says, MY PARENTS WENT TO THE JERSEY SHORE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT.
Personally, I think her shirt should say, MY PARENTS GOT MARRIED AND ALL THEY GOT WAS THIS STUPID KID.
Jimmy Russell and Bobby Clifford come running.
They begin making rude noises with their armpits.
After making a really gross noise with his armpit, Jimmy announces that they are planning a Burping Olympics and everyone can sign up after lunch.
“Let me find my pen.” I cross my eyes.
“I can’t wait.” Naomi giggles and makes a gagging motion.
Bobby burps and then says, “You can make fun all you want. We’re going to be giving away a really great prize.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.” Naomi shakes her head.
“Ta-da.” Jimmy holds up a make-believe trophy. “We’re giving away the musical mermaid that I gave my sister last Christmas.”
“She hated it,” Bobby tells us.
“It was on sale, very cheap.” Jimmy laughs.
“It’s so ugly.” Bobby laughs.
“She gave it back to me for my birthday. So now it’s going to be our burping trophy. We’ll bring it in tomorrow,” Jimmy promises.
They start making rude body noises and burping sounds.
The rest of the boys join in.
Some things never change.
Last year the boys made monkey sounds.
This year it’s burping sounds.
Last year Fredrich Allen was picking his nose and chewing it.
This year he’s still doing it.
I know because some of the boys just yelled to him, “Hey, pick me a winner.”
Some things have changed, though. Tiffany Shroeder’s name. It’s now Tiffani, and she got a bra over the summer and actually needs it.
Jimmy and Bobby tried to snap the back of her bra when we came into school.
Mr. Cohen, our last year’s teacher, made them stop.
Another change that I can’t help thinking about again is that Justin isn’t here for the first day of school for the first time in six years, since preschool.
I bet that Justin could have won the burping contest. Justin can even burp the entire alphabet backward and forward.
Gregory Gifford is playing sportscaster again. “It’s Freddie Romano in the lead . . . . . with forty-two consecutive burps.”
“Thank you, sports fans.” Freddie pretends to bow to a huge audience. “I owe my success to the two cans of soda that I had for breakfast.”
The school bell rings.
It’s time for class to begin.
I wonder what our new teacher is going to be like.
I wonder what class is going to be like without Justin.
I wonder where I’ve put my knapsack.
Chapter
Five
“Amber, congratulations. You are the first person this year to use the lost and found.” Mrs. Peters, the school secretary, smiles at me, holding on to my pink knapsack.
“Have you lost anything else, dear?” she asks.
I want to say, “Yes. . . . My best friend. . . . . Has anyone turned one in?”
I just stand there.
She reminds me, “You better get to class, Amber. You’re late.”
I look at the clock.
I’m late for the first day of fourth grade.
Grabbing my knapsack, I yell, “Thanks,” and rush down the hall.
Mr. Robinson, the principal, stops me, makes me go halfway back and walk slowly.
Then he yells at me for being late.
I quickly walk to
class, passing the third-grade room.
Mr. Cohen is introducing himself to his new class.
They are sooooooo lucky.
I rush into the fourth grade classroom.
“You’re late.” Hannah Burton looks at her watch.
“Thank you, Big Ben.” I call her by the name of the large clock in London and look for a place to sit.
Looking around the room, I see that everyone is sitting in the same rows that they were in last year, the same seats.
I sit down in what would have been my old desk in this new classroom.
The desk next to me is empty.
“Welcome, Amber.” The teacher smiles at me. “My name is Mrs. Holt, and Tiffani explained that you were looking for your knapsack. I see that you’ve found it.”
I look up at our teacher and smile back. “Hi.”
Mrs. Holt is a new teacher.
I don’t know what happened to the old fourth-grade teacher.
Anyway, Mrs. Holt is not only new, she’s very pretty, with brown eyes, brown skin, and brown hair. Her eyelashes are the longest I’ve ever seen.
She’s wearing a long purple skirt and a beautiful pink top.
I hope that she’s as good a teacher as Mr. Cohen . . . . and as nice.
Passing out notecards, Mrs. Holt tells us to fill in all of the important information.
NAME
ADDRESS
PARENT(S) OR GUARDIAN(S) NAMES
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF?
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO LEARN THIS YEAR?
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE HAPPEN THIS YEAR?
The first two are easy.
I definitely know my name and address.
For my parents’ names, I think about putting MOMMY and DADDY, but decide against it.
I don’t want Mrs. Holt to think I’m a jokester right away.
She already knows that I’m a knapsack-loser.
I put down my parents’ real names, Sarah and Phil.
The rest is not so easy.
What should I tell her about me?
After doodling on a piece of paper for a few minutes, I write on the notecard:
The other questions are a little easier.
Looking at the last answer, I hope that Mrs. Holt doesn’t think that I only think about myself, so I add. . . .
Then I think of one more thing that I want, and add. . . .
Finishing the notecard, I put it on the side of my desk and wait for something exciting to happen.
Chapter
Six
2,672 divided by 12.
Why is Mrs. Holt doing this to me?
“Knock knock.” Someone raps on the classroom door.
“Who’s there?” Jimmy Russell calls out.
“Orange.” Bobby Clifford turns to him.
“Orange who?” Jimmy grins at him.
“Orange you glad that we’re in the fourth grade now?”
Mrs. Holt gives them the special half smile—half frown teacher look. “Gentlemen, that was the door, not an excuse to tell a joke.”
Mrs. Holt walks over and opens the door.
In walks Mrs. Clarke, the vice-principal.
And she’s not alone.
“I just thought it would be nice to show Brandi to her new classroom and see how you all are doing.” She smiles.
Practically everyone in the class looks at Brandi Colwin, starts waving, and calls out stuff like “Welcome Back,” and “I love your hair.”
I smile at her and wave.
I like the way she looks.
She’s wearing purple leggings, a long T-shirt with lots of rhinestones on it, and pink sneakers with sparkly laces.
Her long, blond, curly hair has something special in it.
It’s hard to tell from this far away, but I can see that it’s special.
Mrs. Holt says, “Welcome, Brandi.”
A beeper sounds from somewhere in the room.
Mrs. Clarke goes into her purse and pulls out a walkie-talkie.
It beeps at her again.
She answers, listens for a minute, and then says, “He did WHAT?”
Everyone looks at her.
She says, “Excuse me, please.”
And then she walks out the door.
Brandi is just standing there, looking around the room.
I really like her new look.
Mrs. Holt says, “Now, Brandi . . . . let’s find you a seat.”
I decide that I better do something fast, so I yell out, “There’s an empty seat next to me!”
“She didn’t raise her hand.” Hannah Burton tells on me.
Mrs. Holt looks at her. “Nor did you, Hannah.”
Hannah pouts.
I smile.
“Brandi, you may sit next to Amber.” Mrs. Holt points to the empty seat next to me. “And Amber, next time remember to raise your hand.”
I raise my hand.
She nods.
“Thank you,” I say.
Brandi sits down next to me.
Hannah turns and makes a face at us.
Mrs. Holt says, “Amber, show Brandi what we’re doing while I get her a set of books.”
I show her the math book.
Brandi looks down at my work. “The answer is two hundred twenty-two and two thirds.”
“Thanks.” I look at her and grin.
Mrs. Holt brings over Brandi’s books.
While they talk, I look at Brandi.
Her blond hair has three strands all woven with different colors of string and with three beads on each one . . . one at the top and two at the bottom. Two of the sections start at the top of her head and end at the bottom of her hair. The third one starts at the back of her ear and is about two inches longer than her hair.
Mrs. Holt returns to the front of the room, writes our math assignment on the blackboard, and gives us time to begin our homework.
Before starting, I write a note to Brandi.
I sign it with the special signature I’ve practiced for someday when I become famous, and then pass it to Brandi.
She reads it, writes something on it, and passes it back to me.
She’s got it signed with her own special signature, too.
I think I’m going to have a new best friend.
I write back to her.
Brandi looks at my note, smiles, and then frowns.
She writes on the paper and then passes it back to me.
I look at her.
She is staring straight ahead.
“Brandi,” I whisper.
She whispers back, “I am NOT Justin.”
Mrs. Holt says, “Amber. Brandi. Quiet, or I’m going to have to separate you.”
Fourth grade just went from worse to even worse . . . . and it’s only the first day.
Chapter
Seven
Four days of fourth grade and I, Amber Brown, don’t want to go forth. I just want to stay home.
So far, I’ve had mumps, measles, another case of chicken pox, a sore throat that went all the way down to my toenails, a heart attack, headaches, and food poisoning.
So far, my mother has made me go to school anyway.
My mom is no pushover.
I just don’t want to go to school.
It’s not that it’s SO bad.
Mrs. Holt is a good teacher. She’s just not Mr. Cohen.
The kids in the class are fine . . . . all except for Hannah Burton, but that’s no different from last year.
And I like Brandi, even though I don’t think she likes me very much.
I just miss Justin.
I, Amber Brown, think everyone in the world should have a best friend.
I walk around the playground at recess, silently taking the “Justin tour.”
Passing by the swings, I think about how in the first grade we used to take turns pushing each other and pretending that we were birds. We would yell, “Dodo birds . . . . . . . . doo doo.”
Walking by the jungle gym, I
remember how Justin and I organized our kindergarten class to compete in the Jungle Gymboree Olympics. I won a blue ribbon for hanging upside down the longest time while singing the Sesame Street song.
By the water fountain, I remember the time we were studying whales, and Justin and I filled our mouths with water and pretended to be whales with hiccups. We got very wet.
Near the hopscotch area, I remember the time I fell and Justin helped me get the pebble out of my knee.
I think about the time Justin organized our third-grade class, at Halloween, to all scream at once to our teacher, “Mr. Cohen, Mr. Cohen.” Justin said that we were “I scream Cohens.”
I stand under the tree and look at everyone on the playground.
It looks like most of them have a special friend.
The tree is a special place.
It’s where I told Justin that my parents were getting a divorce and how bad I felt about it.
He didn’t say much to help me, but just being able to tell someone helped.
There’s no one in my class that I can tell how I feel . . . . . . . or have that much fun with.
I really miss Justin.
Brandi walks slowly past me.
I want to call out to her and ask her to join me, but I don’t.
She looks back as if she’s going to say something but she doesn’t.
I turn away from her as the bell rings.
Recess and the Justin tour are over.
I sure hope that things are going to get better soon.
Chapter
Eight
I, Amber Brown, want to declare the first week of school a “do-over,” like when you mess up at some sports thing and get to start again at the beginning.
If I could just snap my fingers and yell, “Do-over,” there are a couple of things that I would do very differently.
I would not mention Justin to Brandi . . . . . . especially not in a comparing way.
I would try not to care so much that she doesn’t seem to want to be my friend.
Amber Brown Goes Fourth Page 2