I would try to just be happy that most of the kids are friendly . . . . . not to be so unhappy that I don’t have a best friend . . . and that I don’t know how to make one.
I would not show up for the first day at Elementary Extension. Since my name wasn’t even on the list, I could have hidden out in the bathroom or something until my mother picked me up.
But now I’m on the list and I’ve got to sit there with a group of kids from kindergarten through sixth grade. I think they should change the name from Elementary Extension to Kids Being Held Captive in the Cafeteria Waiting for a Grownup to Pick Them Up.
I would try not to think about all of the things that are bugging me . . . . my parents getting a divorce, Justin and his family so far away, Max so near.
But even if it would work to snap my fingers and yell, “Do-over,” it would never work.
First of all, I can’t even snap my fingers. . . . . . Instead of the snap sound, I make a sort of thwip sound.
And second, I, Amber Brown, know that just wanting something a whole lot doesn’t mean that I’m going to get it.
And I hate knowing that.
“Amber,” my mother calls up the stairs. “Supper time.”
I walk to the steps and call down, “In a minute.”
Washing my hands, I continue to think about all of the stuff that’s driving me nuts.
On the way downstairs, I practice snapping my fingers.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
I go into the dining room.
Usually we eat at the kitchen table, but tonight Mom said we should do something special . . . . . take some time for ourselves to talk and hang out.
She’s so busy now. Because she has to leave work early to pick me up, she has more work to do at home.
I look at the three place settings on the table.
I thought it was going to be just the two of us.
Maybe she’s asked Max to dinner.
I thought she said that she was going to wait a little while before she brought him over to the house.
I, Amber Brown, must find out the answer before I get very upset.
“Mom!” I yell. “Who else is coming to dinner?”
“No one. Just the two of us,” she calls out from the kitchen.
Again, I look at the table . . . . three plates . . . . three knives . . . . . . three forks . . . three spoons . . . . . three napkins . . . three glasses.
It looks like three to me.
I stand there wondering.
Does my mother have an imaginary playmate?
Has Max turned invisible, and is this their way of him being in the house without my having to see him?
Is my mother getting old-timers’ disease?
Are my eyes getting bad and am I seeing triple or double plus one?
Have I turned into a major worrier and is there some regular reason for three of everything?
My mother walks into the room, puts down the bowl of spaghetti, and says, “I don’t believe it.”
She picks up the extra setting, puts it away, and again says, “I don’t believe it.”
She talks to herself as if I’m not even there. “I just set the table for the three of us . . . . Phil, me, and Amber . . . as if nothing’s changed.”
I tug at her sleeve. “Maybe that means you want to get back together again with Daddy.”
She shakes her head. “No, it just means that I’m tired and just wasn’t thinking. For a long time, the table was set for three, and I guess I just did it again, out of habit.”
Getting very quiet, she sits down at the table.
I sit down too. “That’s kind of like when I start going over to Justin’s old house, or when I pick up the phone to call his old number.”
She nods and smiles. “I guess it’s all part of our history and we don’t always remember that it’s not part of our present, at least not in the same way.”
I, Amber Brown, think I am too young to have a history . . . . especially one with so much sad stuff in it.
I remember when everything was fun and easy.
I hope that isn’t history.
I look at my mother.
She looks sad and tired.
I know how I feel.
“Mom, let’s have a spaghetti-slurping contest.”
She laughs. “Amber, I’m a grownup. Grownups don’t have spaghetti-slurping contests.”
I make a silly face at her.
She laughs.
“Oh please, oh please, oh please,” I beg.
She shakes her head, laughs again, and then nods.
We measure out spaghetti strands and then we slurp.
I win.
“The best out of three.” My mother has a line of spaghetti sauce on her chin.
We slurp again.
This time, she wins.
A third slurp . . . . . . . . and Amber Brown is champion.
I look at my mother’s face. . . . . It is a grinning, spaghetti sauce—messy face.
“Can you teach me to snap my fingers?” I ask, and show her how I make the thwip sound.
“Nothing to it.” She snaps her fingers.
We practice.
Soon I am making a sort of thwip-snap sound.
It’s not perfect, but I’m getting there.
When I learn to do it perfectly, I’m going to snap my fingers and say, “Do-over.”
If it doesn’t work, I’m going to say, “Keep On Going.”
I, Amber Brown, am going to get through all of this.
Thwip.
Snap.
Chapter
Nine
Elementary Extension.
Every afternoon, it’s Elementary Extension . . . . . the same old thing.
But it’s different today.
Brandi’s here.
I heard her tell Mrs. Holt that her mom has gotten a job.
That means she’s going to be here from now on.
When she walked into the room, I smiled at her . . . a kind of friendly-but-not-too-friendly smile. I, Amber Brown, have decided not to worry so much about making a new best friend, even though I really want one.
So I gave her just a normal smile that you give to the people in your classroom . . . not a please-oh-please-be-my-best-friend smile.
She nodded, looked around the room, and saw that we are the only two fourth graders in the room.
And then she sat down next to me.
There’s a loud noise coming from the other side of the room.
Three of the fifth-grade boys are pretending to be Karate masters, chopping at the air, and making noises like “Hi Ya!” (not the hello, “Hi Ya,” but the Karate “Hi Ya.”)
The teacher makes them sit down.
In fact, she makes everyone sit down, and then yells, “Put your heads on your desks!”
I start to laugh.
I try not to, but I can’t help it.
“Would you mind sharing with the rest of the group what is so funny, Miss Brown?” the teacher says in a sarcastic voice.
I can’t help it if when she said “Put your heads on the desk” I wanted to say, “I can’t. It’s still attached to my shoulders.”
She looks at me.
I think about how my parents are always telling me that I’m going to need a good education to get ahead . . . and I wonder how am I going to get a head if I have to put it on the desk.
I just can’t stop laughing.
I try, but once I start, I can’t stop.
“You have detention.” The teacher walks up to me. “Put your head down, right now.”
I do.
Somehow when you have to stay after school every day, it’s kind of hard to worry about getting detention.
I keep my head on the desk and think about how, if Justin were here, I could put my sweater over my head and pretend that I had no head.
I look over at Brandi.
She raises one eyebrow, and then bites her lip to keep from laughing.
I put the sweater over my head and pretend
that I have no head.
She sort of explodes with laughter.
That makes me laugh more.
It also gets me another day of detention.
It also gets Brandi a day of detention.
The more I try not to laugh, the more I do.
I just can’t stop.
Brandi can’t either.
The teacher gets very annoyed.
I get a third day of detention, and then a fourth.
Brandi gets a second and third day of detention.
I sit there thinking about my FOUR days of detention.
Once more, Amber Brown Goes Fourth.
Chapter
Ten
“Burp.”
“Burp.”
“Burp.”
“Burp.”
Then there’s a moment of silence.
“Forty. . . . . Don’t stop now.” Jimmy and Bobby cheer for Fredrich. “You’re almost there . . . . just three more and you’ll beat the record.”
“No more.” Fredrich pounds his chest. “There’s nothing left. I’m too pooped to burp.”
“Next,” Jimmy calls out, holding up the mermaid. “Who is going to be next? Who is going to win this beauteous mermaid?”
I look at the mermaid—blonde hair, blue plastic body and tail. She has a jewel in her stomach.
Jimmy touches the mermaid’s jewel and this weird music comes out.
The mermaid is so ugly.
The music is so out of tune.
I want that mermaid.
I raise my hand.
“Amber Brown,” Jimmy calls out. “It’s your turn.”
I walk up.
And burp.
And burp.
And burp.
Naomi and Alicia start doing burp cheers for me.
Twenty-nine burps . . . . not enough, but I’m getting better.
Yesterday it was twenty-six.
“You’re such a lady. . . . NOT,” Hannah sneers at me.
I say, “Thank you.”
“Immature baby,” she adds.
I curtsy.
“Gas bag,” she says.
I burp at Hannah.
Just one burp . . . . . but it’s a good one.
Hannah walks away.
“Round fifteen to Amber.” Gregory is keeping track.
The burping competition ends for the day.
Only one more week until someone wins the mermaid.
Brandi is standing nearby.
I look at her and smile.
Brandi comes up to me, grins, and raises one eyebrow. “Good work, Amber. You may just become Burp Queen of the fourth grade.”
I grin back. “Thank you, but it’s going to be hard to win. I’m not allowed to practice in Elementary Extension or in detention and my mom has outlawed burping in the house. She says it’s disgusting and she got mad when I burped at her instead of saying hello. I need more practice to win the mermaid.”
“Her Burpness.” Brandi giggles and then says, “You know, if I could burp not by accident, I would join the competition. I really like that dumb mermaid, too.”
I think for a minute and then say, “Listen. If I win her, we can share custody. I’ll keep her one week and you get her the next.”
Brandi looks at me. “That’s really nice of you.”
I smile.
She says nothing, looking like she’s making a big decision, and then says, “Listen. You can come to my house after school to practice. I’ll be your burp coach . . . and I’ll even braid your hair, if you would like.”
“I would like.” I grin a humongous grin.
“We’ll tell our moms tonight and then you can come over tomorrow,” she says.
I can’t wait.
Chapter
Eleven
Thanks for writing to me.
I wish you were here. (You probably wouldn’t like being here because I’m in detention . . . which I got because I kind of lost my head in Elementary Extension.)
Oh, I added the used gum you mailed me to our gum ball. It was a good idea to put a wet paper towel around it and put it in a baggie (it did leak a little).
I’ll keep adding to the ball too. I just wish that you could add the gum yourself.
I also wish your handwriting was better.
I wish to ask you a few questions about your new school’s lunch menus (since it’s so hard to read your handwriting):
Do they serve worm rolls? Or warm rolls?
Did you really have to eat pimpled feets? Or was it pickled beets? (Either one sounds really gross!)
Do the kids at your school really call the cafeteria hamburger that? Wow!
I have another question. . . . Do they teach penmanship at your new school?
I have another question. Since you are living down south now, are you going to start talking funny? Are you going to think that I talk funny?
It’s too bad you aren’t here. Jimmy and Bobby are having a burping contest!!!! You should see the prize!!!!!!
Well . . . . here’s some more news:
1. My mother’s going out with this guy named Max. Secretly, I think of him as Min . . . . . like in minimum. I haven’t met him yet . . . . and I really don’t want to meet him either.
2. I wish my father would move back.
3. You, too. . . .
4. I’ve learned to snap my fingers.
5. Oh, you know what? I’m becoming friends with Brandi Colwin. She’s really nice. . . . You’d like her.
I hope that you have a new friend too. (Just don’t like him or her more than you like me.)
Your friend,
P.S. Don’t eat too many worm rolls.
“Brandi,” the Elementary Extension teacher says sweetly, “your mother is here to pick up you and Amber.”
It’s interesting how some teachers get this really sweet voice when parents are around.
I’m so glad that Mrs. Holt uses her sweet voice with her students, not just with the parents.
As we grab our books, I whisper to Brandi, “I hope your mom is very strong.”
“Why?” she whispers back.
“Well, she’s PICKING us up.” I grin.
We both start to laugh . . . . . a lot, but we don’t get detention. . . . I think that’s because Mrs. Colwin is standing there waiting . . . . . or maybe the teacher is in a better mood.
I know that I’m in a great mood.
Not only am I going over to Brandi’s house, but I’m getting my hair braided.
It’s going to be Amber Brown’s new look.
Chapter
Twelve
“Want to see something really gross?” Brandi giggles as we sit in her bedroom.
I nod.
She goes over to her dresser, opens the top drawer, and pulls out a roll of six-foot-long bubble-gum tape.
“Am I allowed to say something about Justin?” I ask, a little afraid that she’ll get mad again.
She nods. “As long as you don’t compare us . . . . . . or make me feel like I just got picked for the ‘friend team’ because there is no one else left.”
“I don’t feel that way.” I cross my heart. “I promise.”
“Good.” She opens up the bubble-gum package.
“I don’t think that gum is gross. . . . Justin and I always used to buy those and split it . . . . . three feet each. Sometimes we each put half of it in our mouths . . . . . and then when we were all done with it, we added it to this huge chewing-gum ball. I still have the ball. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“Cool.” Brandi grins and raises one eyebrow.
Ever since the first time she did that, I’ve been practicing, but my eyebrow just won’t move. My lip goes up instead.
She says, “Yeah . . . . . but did you or Justin ever blow bubble-gum bubbles with your nose?”
I shake my head no.
She grins and takes a long piece of gum, starts chewing, and then when enough is chewed, she takes the wad out of her mouth and smushes it over and around her nose
.
Then she breathes out.
It’s the most gigantic bubble I have ever seen.
I, Amber Brown, am very impressed.
I try, but realize that before attempting this trick, a person should blow her nose and get rid of the snot first.
I throw my gum out.
It’s too disgusting to add to the gum ball.
“Now.” Brandi takes out a box. “Let’s do the hair weaving.”
I sit down on a chair.
“Sit still,” Brandi says, handing me a mirror. “You can watch what I’m doing. Just don’t move.”
I move.
It’s very hard for me to sit still.
“Stop wiggling.” Brandi puts a piece of cardboard around a small clump of my hair.
I hold up the mirror so I can watch what she is doing.
She holds up lots of different colors of embroidery threads. “Pick out seven colors.”
Glitter purple. Glitter pink. Glitter silver. Black. Turquoise. White. Green.
She puts the threads at the top of the braid and starts twisting it around the hair, working with one color at a time, then making patterns on some sections with a second color.
“Don’t move. This has to be really tight.”
“Where did you learn this?” I ask.
“This summer, when we went to visit California, my cousin Daniela did my hair. And then she taught me how to do it. We practiced a lot on her old Barbie dolls . . . . and on her dog.”
She finishes one braid.
I look in the mirror. “It’s terrific.”
She continues.
“Brandi.” I ask her the question that I’ve been wanting to ask her ever since she got back. “How come you and Hannah aren’t friends anymore?”
She stops braiding for a minute.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” I say, even though I really do want her to answer.
She starts braiding my hair again and says nothing.
I don’t say anything either.
Finally, she says, “Look. I’ll tell you. It’s not such a big deal. But I want you to promise not to say anything to anyone else.”
Amber Brown Goes Fourth Page 3