Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit
Page 2
The potato chip crumbs fall off my head, onto my sweatshirt, and onto the floor.
Tiffani says, “One of the little runts even accidentally stepped on my book report and ruined it. Now I have to spend most of tomorrow redoing it.”
I think about how my own half-finished book report is in one of the garbage bags in my closet. I’ll have to fix mine up, too.
But tonight, while my mother and Max the person are out on a date, I, Amber Brown, am at a pajama party, having fun with my friends.
As for the book report . . . . . . It’s Saturday night. I’ll think about it on Sunday. After all, tomorrow is another day.
Chapter
Five
“We must . . . . . we must . . . we must. . .” Naomi and Alicia scream out of the car as Naomi’s mother drops me off at my house.
I can’t stop laughing.
I also can’t stop hoping that they won’t finish the cheer, which is “We must . . . we must . . . we must improve our bust . . . . We better . . . we better . . . before we wear a sweater.” It’s a cheer that the sixth graders do.
Last night we did jumping jacks to that cheer.
As far as I can tell, nothing much has changed about my body except that it’s very tired.
No one gets any sleep at a sleepover.
Tiffani tried, but we kept whispering in her ear, “Beware your little brother. Today a Barbie doll . . . tomorrow a big sister.”
I look at the driveway to see if there are any strange cars in front of my house . . . . To see if Max is there.
No car . . . . . no Max . . . . . . He’s not in the house, either. . . .
Just my mother, sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Did you have fun last night?” She smiles at me.
“I did.” I pour myself a glass of milk and sit down.
“Mrs. Colwin let us use some of her old makeup and try on her jewelry. Can I get my ears pierced? And then we played Truth or Dare . . . . and we all had to name the boys we want as boyfriends.”
My mother laughs. “Slow down, honey . . . . I can see that you put makeup on . . . . When you get older and are allowed to wear makeup, might I suggest that you don’t outline your lipstick in green? . . . It’s just a suggestion, though. Don’t think I’m being critical.”
I laugh, too. “It was dark. It was late. I thought it was lipliner. It was eyeliner.”
She continues to smile. “Amber Brown, you know we decided that you could get your ears pierced when you are twelve.”
“Mommmmmmmm,” I beg, “everyone is getting it done.”
My mother raises one eyebrow.
I know that is a definite no.
I squint my eyes closed and stick out my lower lip.
She knows that is a definite pout.
Changing the subject, she says, “Who did you choose as a boyfriend, or did you take the dare?”
“The dare was that I would have to go up to Fredrich Allen in school on Monday and give him a kiss. He’s the kid who picks his nose and chews it.”
My mother makes a gagging sound and says, “Who did you say your boyfriend was?”
“I said it was Justin.” I sigh, thinking about my best friend, who moved away at the end of the last school year.
“You really miss him, don’t you.” She ruffles my hair.
I nod.
It makes me sad to think that Justin is so far away and that he hardly ever writes to me.
It’s not that he was really a boyfriend, he was a boy friend . . . . but I said he was a boyfriend because I didn’t want to kiss Fredrich Allen.
I do miss him.
He would understand why I don’t want my mother to go out with Max, why I miss my father.
My dad used to take Justin and me to baseball games. He took us fishing. He took us to see the gory horror movies that my mother hates.
“Amber,” my mother says softly.
“Yes?” I get nervous sometimes when my mother speaks very softly . . . . It’s like she wants me to listen very carefully . . . . usually to something I don’t want to hear.
“Amber . . . . remember yesterday when you said that you would be willing to meet Max? . . . Well, he’s going to take us out to dinner tonight.” She refills my glass of milk and then looks at me.
I have to figure out what I want to say, so I sit quietly for a minute.
“Mom . . . . . I said sometime . . . not immediately . . . . . I have homework to do today . . . . . I have to think about it . . . . How about over Christmas vacation?”
“Amber.” She shakes her head. “This is the beginning of October. We’re not waiting until the end of December.”
“My homework,” I plead, knowing that she knows how important it is that I get it done.
She stares at me. “Do it now. You have all day to finish it . . . . and you know it better be done well. Max won’t be here until around six o’clock. That gives you a lot of time. Now, Amber, you promised that you’d meet Max. I’ll even use up two of the Amberino Certificates on this.”
I stand up.
I know it’s no use to argue.
And I started out having such a nice Sunday.
And then she ruined it.
Well, just wait till she sees what I’m going to do to hers.
Chapter
Six
I stomp (all the way) up the stairs on the way to my room.
On the first step, I stomp because I have to meet Max. . . .
On the second, because I’m going to have to sit down at a table and eat dinner with him. . . .
On the third, because my mother is making me do this. . . .
On the fourth, because my father isn’t here to see what’s happening and get back together with my mother. . . . . .
I stomp with both of my feet on the fifth step because my parents have changed my life without my permission. . . .
I stomp up the rest of the way because I know it will really annoy my mother and because my feet just want to stomp.
Then I slam my door.
My hands just want to slam.
I throw my knapsack on the bed and then I throw myself on the bed.
I lie on my bed and think about Max.
I just know I’m going to hate him.
I bet he looks like a gorillahead . . . or probably a gorillabutt.
I bet he’s gross-looking, with hairs growing out of his nose and ears, and I bet that he smokes cigarettes and belches and blows his nose in the dinner napkin and then puts the napkin on the table . . . and I bet he hates nine-year-old girls.
I pretend one of my stuffed animals is Max. I choose the gorilla.
Pretending to be a ventriloquist, I put the gorilla’s face near mine. “So, Amber . . . I understand that you don’t want me to take your mother out.”
“That’s right, banana breath.” I stare at Maxgorilla.
The gorilla voice says, “Ha-ha, you lose. I’m a grown-up, and what I say goes.”
I glare at Maxgorilla. “Who says, you foul fur-face?”
“I says . . . . and so does your mother. After all, she did make you meet me,” the gorilla tells me.
I throw Maxgorilla across the room.
He hits the wall and falls into the garbage can.
Trying to calm down, I count to ten.
That doesn’t work.
I count to twenty, thirty, fifty, one hundred.
That doesn’t work either.
I try to think about all of the stuff I have to do.
That definitely doesn’t work. Who can think about homework at a time like this?
I just can’t calm down.
I get up and take out my Dad Book. Opening it up, I talk to my favorite picture of my dad.
I tell him what’s going on.
I beg him to come home and try to straighten things out.
I say, “What happens if Max isn’t so bad and I actually like him?” Will my dad hate me for liking Max, for going places with him and Mom?
&
nbsp; I wish that my father would speak to me face-to-face, person-to-person, Dad-to-Amber. Hearing his voice once a week on the phone just isn’t enough.
And it isn’t easy for me to say some of this stuff into a phone.
I tell his picture this and ask him what he’s going to do about what’s happening.
But he’s only a picture, so he doesn’t answer; and I don’t want to have to pretend to be a ventriloquist to make him say what I want to hear, so there’s only silence.
It’s so silent.
I’m screaming inside . . . . . and I don’t know how to make anything come out.
Chapter
Seven
I sit at the restaurant table, making a list of things that I, Amber Brown, don’t like.
1. I don’t like eating at restaurants. It’s so boring . . . . waiting to get a table . . . . waiting to order something to drink . . . . . waiting for the waiter or waitress to come and take the order . . . . waiting for the dinner to arrive . . . . . waiting to order dessert . . . . waiting for the check.
I personally think that not only the people who work at the restaurant should be called waiters, I think that the people who eat there should be called waiters, too.
Take me to a fast-food restaurant anytime. You stand in a short line, or you even get to go through in a car. Everything arrives at once in a nice little box with your own packets of ketchup and stuff. You don’t have to say, “Please, pass the _____.” It’s all there, and sometimes you even get a toy or something with it. And then you eat it and you’re done. You don’t have to sit around gabbing all day.
2. I don’t like having to sit in a restaurant with Max, who I don’t like.
3. I don’t like complaining all the time, but what’s a kid to do when nothing is going the way she wants it to go?
“Amber, please pass the salt.” Max smiles at me.
I pass him the salt.
He could have just as easily asked my mother to pass him the stupid salt, but, no, he has to ask me.
“Thanks.”
“It’s nothing.”
My mother starts to talk. “You know . . . . the two of you have a lot in common. You both like to tell jokes. You both like to eat the center part of the Oreos.”
Great, I think, that’ll be another thing we have to share.
“You like to read. You like to travel. You like to see horror movies.” She babbles on.
I look at Max. “My dad takes me to horror movies. He’ll be taking me to a lot of them when he moves back here.”
“Amber,” my mother says softly.
Max says, “Well, maybe we can just see a few of them until he comes back.”
“He can take me to all of them.” I glare.
“Amber,” my mother says again.
Max looks at my mother and says, “Sarah, honey, relax.”
How dare he call her honey. That’s what my dad used to call her before they started fighting. That’s what my mom calls me.
He puts his hand on top of hers, and they hold hands at the table.
I accidentally spill my drink on the table.
While we wait for the waiter to clean it up, my mother tries to sponge up the liquid with her napkin.
She’s no longer holding Max’s hand.
I don’t want to like Gorillaface, not for one single moment.
And he’s acting so nice. He does seem like my mom said he would be. I hate it that he’s acting so nice. This would be much easier if my mom WAS dating an ax murderer. Then I could really hate him.
Max and my mother are hugging.
I look over at my mother.
She and Max are kissing.
That’s so gross.
I say, “Mom, I hope that the fungus in your mouth is getting better.”
And then I look at Max and smile. “The doctor says that in girls it’s curable. Boys die from it.”
“Amber,” my mother says, “stop that.”
Max laughs.
I hate it.
He really doesn’t even look like a gorilla. He’s got dark hair, brown eyes, and he smiles a lot.
My mother continues. “You both like to chew gum. You’ll have to show Max your chewing gum ball sometime.”
Max pretends to take out a stick of gum, put it in his mouth, blow a huge bubble, and pop it all over his face. He pretends to wipe it off.
I will not smile at Max.
I will not smile at Max.
I will not smile at Max.
I will not smile at Max.
I will not smile at Max.
Chapter
Eight
Mrs. Holt collects all of the book reports . . . . . all of them except for mine and Eric Feinstein’s.
Eric’s not in school today because he broke his arm over the weekend.
Some kids will do anything to get out of doing their homework.
I know Eric didn’t do it intentionally, but he’s lucky that he’s got a real excuse . . . . . and he’s unlucky that he’s got a broken arm.
I wonder if he broke the arm he writes with.
I wonder if I should have made up a list of excuses, or maybe I should have broken my arm, but I hate it when I even break my fingernail.
It’s not really my fault that I didn’t do my book report.
All Sunday I was too angry to work on my report.
When we got back from dinner, I told my mother that I had to go upstairs to finish my homework, but since Max didn’t leave right away, I had to sit silently and sneakily on the top of the steps, spying on them.
I thought I was doing a real good job of spying and listening until Max called out, “Do you want us to speak louder, Amber?”
Max thinks he’s so funny.
So does my mother, because she laughed when he said that.
So I went into my stomp-and-slam routine, and then my mother came upstairs and told me that enough was enough, that she was trying to be patient with me but she’d had enough, and it was time for me to go to bed.
So I went to bed.
So it’s really my mother’s fault that I didn’t get my homework done.
Mrs. Holt is calling out everyone in the class by name to take attendance and to have that person bring up the book report.
“Amber Brown.” Mrs. Holt gets to my name.
Very softly, I say, “I’m here but my book report isn’t. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”
Someone goes, “Dun-di-dun-dun . . . . dun.”
Someone else goes, “Not-done-di-done . . . . done.”
Hannah Burton looks at me and smirks. “It figures.”
I cross my eyes at Hannah Burton.
Mrs. Holt writes something in the marking book and calls out the next name.
It’s just my luck that it’s not a regular written-on-a-piece-of-paper report that can be passed up to the front without everyone knowing that you didn’t do your work. But it’s a book report that is supposed to be shaped to look like a cereal box.
I really did start mine. It was called Anastasia Krupnik Krunchies (it was about one of Lois Lowry’s books). I’d already done the book summary that was supposed to go on the back, along with:
NUTRITION FACTS
Character Development 100%
Adventure 50%
Interest 100%
Personalities 100%
Dialogue 100%
Pictures 80%
Anastasia Krupnik Krunchies contains the ingredients found only in the best food for thought.
I knew what I was going to do for the front cover . . . . . . draw a picture of Anastasia and show that inside the box would be an author trading card. I was going to make up one about Lois Lowry, with facts and a Xeroxed picture.
So I did have a lot done, but I scrunched it up when I was mad and then never finished the report.
I read the book and loved it.
I did most of the work.
It’s only a book report.
So what’s the big deal?
Chapter
“I can’t believe you didn’t do your book report. Amber, what’s going on? You’ve been acting so weird.” Brandi puts a tuna fish sandwich on her tray.
I take a sandwich and a bowl of red Jell-O.
I, Amber Brown, love red Jell-O. I love the way it squishes through my teeth while I’m eating it.
I, however, don’t feel good about having to talk about why I’m acting so weird.
I try to make a joke about it. “People have always said that I’m weird.”
Putting my tray down on the counter, I grab my ponytails and pretend they are motorcycle handlebars, and make engine noises.
Usually this makes her laugh.
This time it doesn’t.
She does smile, though, and says, “That kind of weird is what I like about you . . . . This is a different kind of weird.”
We continue to go through the line.
“You’re in a lousy mood sometimes, and you’re not as much fun as you used to be . . . . . and you won’t talk about what’s bothering you.”
I pretend to have trouble making up my mind about whether to choose chocolate milk or regular milk.
Brandi sighs.
We pay for our food and sit down.
At the table on the right, some of the sixth graders are blowing straw wrappers at one another.
At the table on the left, some of the third graders are having a competition to see if they can make milk come out of their noses.
I unwrap my peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwich and add some potato chips to it.
Naomi and Alicia join us.
So does Hannah Burton.
Having to sit next to Hannah Burton is enough to make me lose my lunch . . . and I’m not talking about misplacing it.
She takes out her lunch, which she’s brought from home.
It’s Chinese food, probably leftovers.
I love Chinese food.
But I would never ask Hannah to share it.
Hannah takes out a pair of chopsticks and starts using them.
She’s such a show-off.