Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit

by Paula Danziger

  “Are you still going to be here tomorrow?” I want to know.

  My mother looks at me.

  Then she looks at Max.

  Then she looks back at me.

  And then at Ma. . . . . . . . .

  Max looks at my mother.

  And then he looks at me. “I would like to have pizza with you and your mom, and then I know she has work to do so I will leave right after dinner.”

  My mother smiles at him.

  He smiles back.

  There is too much smiling, much too much smiling going on around here.

  He continues. “Since the plan was for Sarah and me to spend some time together tomorrow, I think we should use that time to help you with your project.”

  I wish he would stop being so nice . . . . . One of these days, I’m going to have to do something terrible to him to make him lose his temper.

  But not today . . . . . . . . . I need to go shopping.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  “Wagons Ho,” I say, putting on my seat-belt.

  “Wagons Ho” is something my aunt Pam always says when we go someplace. It’s become kind of a family thing to say at the beginning of some journeys.

  I can’t believe I’ve said it to Max, who is definitely not family. I wish I could take it back . . . but can’t figure out how to do that . . . . so I think about taking it . . . . . . backward . . . that would be . . . . . . Oh Snogaw.

  “Oh Snogaw,” I say softly.

  “What?” Max asks as he backs out of the driveway.

  “Never mind.” I shrug.

  This is the first time I’ve been alone with Max . . . . and I’ve got a lot to tell him . . . . and a lot to ask.

  I change the subject. “Do you have any kids? Have you ever been married? Do you want to marry my mom? Do you know that even though my mom and dad are divorced, there is a very good chance that they’re going to get back together . . . . . that they’re just taking a break from each other. . . . kind of like recess?”

  Max keeps driving, without saying a word.

  It makes me nervous that he’s not saying anything.

  I’ve never had to meet anyone that my mother was dating . . . mostly because she didn’t go out on dates for a long time after my dad left . . . and then because she said I didn’t have to meet anyone unless it was serious, and now she’s made me meet Max, so I know this must be serious.

  So I continue. “Do you know that my mom and I have been very happy just living together by ourselves? We like it that way . . . . . until my dad moves back from France. Then we’re going to all live together again . . . . my mom . . . . my dad . . . and me.”

  I wait for him to say something.

  Just before we get to the supermarket, Max pulls into the Dairy Queen, my favorite ice cream place.

  “You can’t bribe me,” I say.

  The car stops, and Max says, “I know. I just think that we should talk, and when I talk with friends, we often discuss things over a cup of coffee. I didn’t think that we should have coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” I tell him. “I don’t know a lot of nine-year-olds who do . . . . My friend Justin used to like coffee ice cream, though.”

  We get out of the car and order ice cream.

  I get two scoops in a dish, chocolate chip mint and vanilla fudge.

  He gets coffee ice cream.

  We sit down.

  I mush up my ice cream and wait for the answers.

  Chocolate chip mint and vanilla fudge mushed together looks pretty gross.

  Max starts. “I’ve never been married. I don’t have any kids. My niece, my sister’s daughter, Jade, and I are very close. Jade’s father left before she was born, so I’ve been like a father to her. She’s six.”

  “My dad would never do anything like that,” I say.

  Max looks at me and nods. “I know. Your mom has told me how much he loves you.”

  “He does,” I say, and then ask, “Do you want to marry my mom?”

  Max looks at me. “Amber, your mother and I have only been dating since this summer . . . a few months. We’re not talking about getting married . . . but when WE do talk about it, I’m sure that your mother will talk to you.”

  “You said WHEN, not IF.” I let my ice cream drip down my chin.

  He looks surprised. “I guess I did . . . . . That’s very interesting.”

  “My dad will be back soon,” I remind him.

  “Your mother said that he was going to try to move back. But Amber, I think you should talk to your mother about this . . . . . . about whether or not they’re going to get back together.”

  I stand up. “We better go shopping now.”

  He stands up too, picks up a napkin, and wipes the dripping ice cream off my face.

  “Are you being nice to me because you want me to like you?” I ask.

  “I’m being nice to you because I’m basically nice.” He grins. “And, yes, I do want you to like me. But I’m not going to like it if you do stuff to try to mess things up between your mother and me . . . . but I will try to understand . . . . and to remember how rotten I was to the man who eventually became my stepfather.”

  Stepfather. I don’t like that word.

  “Would you tell me some of the things that you did to him?” I want to know because that information might be useful someday.

  He laughs. “Not on your life . . . . Why should I tell you? So that you can use them on me? Do you think I’m nuts?”

  I just smile at him.

  “Don’t answer that.” He smiles back.

  “You can tell me. Come on. I thought you said you’re a nice guy. It would be nice to tell me.”

  “I’m not that nice.” He shakes his head.

  One of these days, I’m going to get him to tell me . . . . and then I’m going to do the same thing to him . . . . . whatever it was . . . . I don’t want to make all of this too easy for Max.

  I’m beginning to like him . . . but I don’t want to like him too much . . . . After all, what if he decides to stick around . . . or what if I like him a lot and then he decides to leave?

  We get into the car, go to the supermarket, and get a cart.

  The shopping begins.

  We play supermarket basketball, lobbing all of the ingredients, except for the eggs and oil, into the cart. We get more points the farther we throw the items.

  We also get strange looks from some of the other shoppers.

  Then we play Guess the Weight.

  Max picks up an item. Then he hands it to me and we both guess how much it weighs.

  Then he takes it over to the fruit-weighing machine and we see who wins.

  I’m ahead, fifteen to seven.

  “Two points!” I yell as I throw a bag of marshmallows into the cart.

  Max pretends to guard it, but it goes in.

  There’s loud cheering. It’s the Nicholson brothers, Danny, Ryan, and Kyle. Danny, who’s in third grade, gives Max a high five and says to me, “Amber, your dad is so much fun. . . . . .”

  Max smiles.

  I yell, “He’s not my dad!” Danny looks really surprised that I yelled like that.

  Max looks sad.

  I look at both of them and then I say to Danny, “He’s my mother’s friend.”

  And then I add, “And he’s my friend too.”

  Max looks happy again.

  And I feel good that I’ve said that he’s my friend.

  I also feel a little guilty.

  I’m not sure that my father would like it if he knew about Max and if he knew that I said that he’s my friend.

  Max throws a bag of jelly beans into the cart. “Two points.”

  By the time we get to the checkout counter, we have a tie score.

  No one wins.

  No one loses.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  It’s Brownie Baking Day, and Max is back again.

  The ingredients that I put in the refrigerator yesterd
ay are on the table, and I’m emptying the rest of the stuff out of the bag.

  “I don’t believe you two.” My mother shakes her head.

  “Believe us.” Max comes up behind her and puts his arms around her waist.

  She doesn’t move away or anything.

  I continue to put the ingredients on the table.

  “When you two came back last night, I should have looked through the shopping bags.” She shakes her head again.

  Sprinkles . . . . M&M’s . . . . Reese’s Pieces . . . . . marshmallows . . . . gumdrops . . . . slivered almonds . . . walnuts . . . a can of tuna fish . . . a Mars bar . . . a bag of potato chips . . . . . Cheez Doodles . . . Gummi worms, a bar of white chocolate . . . Good & Plenty . . . . candy false teeth . . . . . candy corn . . . strawberry Twizzlers . . . . . . . Cheerios . . . peanut butter . . . . . grape jelly . . . . plus all of the regular stuff that goes into plain brownies . . . . . . .

  “This is disgusting.” My mother shakes her head . . . again.

  “I know.” I grin. “It’s great.”

  “I’m never sending the two of you out shopping together, never again.” My mother just keeps shaking her head.

  She’s beginning to look like one of those bobbing dolls that some people have in the back window of their cars.

  Her head would probably be falling off if she knew how Max and I shopped.

  Max.

  He’s put one hand over my mother’s eyes and is feeding her some of the ingredients and making her guess what they are.

  Marshmallows are easy for her.

  So are the nuts, candy corn, and Twizzlers.

  Max puts an M&M in my mother’s mouth.

  “This one’s a piece of cake,” my mother says.

  “No. Wrong. It’s an M&M.” Max takes his hand away from my mother’s eyes and gives her a kiss.

  I, Amber Brown, could have told him that “a piece of cake” in my mother’s language means that it’s super easy . . . but something tells me that Max already knows that.

  I, Amber Brown, can also tell him that I’m not too sure about how I feel about him kissing my mom.

  My mother starts to laugh, and then she looks over at me.

  She looks a little guilty, sort of like she knows that I am not crazy about them kissing each other.

  I clap my hands. “Come on, everyone, let’s turn on the oven and do some preheating.”

  My mother and Max both laugh.

  I don’t get it.

  “What’s so funny?” I want to know.

  “Nothing.” My mother moves away from Max and puts the oven on.

  Max puts out the cupcake papers, which we’re using instead of baking pans so that we can make individual brownies with different stuff in them.

  “What’s so funny?” I repeat.

  “Nothing,” my mother repeats.

  I make a face.

  “It was a private joke,” my mother tells me.

  I don’t think that Max and my mother should be having private jokes, not so soon.

  I hate it when adults laugh in front of you and then say that it’s a private joke.

  It’s kind of like when you’re real little and grown-ups spell in front of you.

  And it’s not fair.

  Parents always make kids tell when the kids have a private joke.

  And teachers always say things like, “Amber, would you like to share that with the rest of the class?”

  And then if you say, “No, I really wouldn’t,” they make you do it anyway or they give you detention.

  “The oven’s heating up.” My mother smiles. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  We get started.

  Max pretends to be a French chef . . . “And now for zee eggs. . . .”

  My mother starts singing, “Hi-ho, hi-ho . . . . . it’s off to work we go,” and she pretends to be one of the Seven Dwarfs . . . . Dopey, I think.

  Max says that he’s the eighth dwarf, Hungry.

  I pretend to be the grown-up, lecturing them on taking the job seriously and telling them not to eat so much of the batter (which I keep doing).

  Our faces are covered with chocolate.

  Max has just made a tuna–jelly-bean brownie.

  My mother looks at his brownie and makes retching noises.

  She’s decorated her marshmallow brownie with sprinkles.

  I’m filling my brownie with Gummi worms crawling through it and over it.

  The phone rings.

  It’s my father.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  “Hi, honey.” My dad sounds like he’s practically next door, not all the way in Paris, France. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “What are you doing?”

  I don’t want to mention the good time that Max, Mom, and I are having, so I say, “Not much.”

  “I miss you so much. Do you miss me?”

  “Yes, Daddy, I miss you bunches.”

  I sit in the living room, talking on the phone.

  My mother and Max are in the kitchen.

  “I miss you,” I repeat.

  “How much?” He’s smiling . . . I can tell by his voice.

  “This much.” I spread my arms as far as I can while holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

  “And how much is that?” he says, playing the I-love-you-this-much game we’ve always played with each other.

  “To the next universe,” I tell him.

  “To the farthest galaxy,” he tells me. “I love you and miss you that much.”

  I try to imagine what he’s looking like at the other end.

  I haven’t seen my father for a couple of months, not since last summer when my aunt Pam took me to London, England.

  I was supposed to visit him in Paris for a week but then I got the stupid chicken pox and he came to London instead.

  We only got to spend a couple of days together.

  And even though we talk on the phone every week, it’s not the same.

  Just before I start to tell him some stuff about me, he starts talking about what he’s been doing, how he went to Euro Disney with a friend of his from work . . . . . . . and with her little boy.

  I was supposed to go to Euro Disney with him last summer.

  The stupid chicken pox.

  All I have is a Euro Disney sweatshirt that my dad sent me before I even went to England.

  “Who is your friend, the one with the little boy?” I twirl the phone wire. “Did her husband go too?”

  There’s a pause for a minute, and then my dad says, “They’re divorced. You know, Amber, you’d really like Judith and her son, Todd. He’s the cutest little six-year-old. I’ve been spending a lot of time with them lately.”

  I think, Here we go again.

  I’m just getting used to Max. Now I have to find out about Judith and Todd.

  I say nothing for a minute, and then, “Cuter than when I was six?”

  “No one was cuter than my Amber,” he says.

  My stomach starts to hurt.

  I wonder if I’ve been eating too much brownie batter.

  My father continues. “Maybe you can come over here during Christmas vacation and meet them . . . . . I’m sure that you’ll really like them . . . and we’ll finally be able to spend some time together.”

  There’s so much to think about.

  I’m getting a headache.

  A headache . . . . . a stomachache . . . . maybe it’s the attack of a killer flu that suddenly attacks nine-year-old girls who have eaten too much brownie batter. Maybe it’s a telephone virus.

  I don’t want to meet this stupid Judith person and her stupid little dweeb son, who get to spend time with my father in Euro Disney when I hardly ever get to see him.

  Why did my father even have to mention them?

  This is my phone call, my time with him.

  “Amber, I really miss you so much. Tell me what you’ve been doing. I feel like I’m missing so much.”
r />   “You could move back,” I tell him.

  “I can’t, not yet.” He sighs. “We’ve been through this already. It’s my job . . . . and I need to earn money. I’ve got a lot of extra expenses.”

  “Maybe you’d have more money if you weren’t taking strangers to Euro Disney.”

  “Amber, don’t be silly,” he says.

  I hate to be told that I’m being silly when I tell him how I feel.

  “Look. I’ve got to be going now. Mom and I are in the middle of making brownies with her friend Max. He took me shopping yesterday. We’re all having so much fun.”

  There’s silence at the other end.

  I continue. “In a couple of weeks, there’s going to be a carnival at school. I’m probably going to be very busy going to that with Mom and Max. You’ll probably be very busy doing something with Judith and her little dweeb . . . . so if you don’t call, it’ll be okay.”

  “Amber.” He raises his voice. “Stop this. Stop it right now. Don’t be angry. Be reasonable. I only mentioned Judith because I want you to know about my life . . . so that we can stay close. I’m sorry if I’ve done this the wrong way.”

  “You could have asked about my schoolwork,” I say. “Actually, I’ve been getting into trouble at school, not doing my schoolwork.”

  There’s silence at the other end for a minute, and then he says, “Why didn’t your mother call me to talk about this?”

  “She’s handling it,” I lie. “She didn’t have to spend her money on a long-distance phone call. And anyway, she talks to Max about stuff like that now.”

  “Amber, when we’ve finished talking, I want to speak to your mother.”

  “She and Max are watching that the brownies don’t burn. And I’ve got to go back now and help them. Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”

  I hang up the phone.

  I hang up the phone before we even have our kissing contest, which we always have at the end of a call. That’s where we make kissing sounds into the phone until one of us gets tired and quits and the other one wins.

  No kissing contest this time . . . . . no winners.

  I can feel myself start to cry.