by Sally Warner
Heather sits behind me in class, and ever since her teenage sister told her she was going to have to cut up a dead frog in science class when she is a teenager, she has hated the entire subject.
Heather doesn’t even like frogs that are alive, much less dead.
I am not exactly looking forward to cuttin up a dead frog, by th way, but it might be interesting—if the frog didn’t get run over, and if it died of old age after leading a long and happy life. For a frog.
“From now on, Heather,” Ms. Sanchez says with an ice cube in her voice, “please raise your hand if you have something to say.”
“Sorry,” Heather mumbles.
“With this experiment,” Ms. Sanchez says, sneaking a look at her notes, “we will continue our exploration of soil and its components.”
Okay. “Components” means “parts,” I happen to know, only Ms. Sanchez can’t just say “parts,” for some reason. Probably because it’s too simple a word, and we wouldn’t get smart if she always said things the simplest way.
So Ms. Sanchez has to say “soil” when she really means “dirt,” for example.
Next to me, Annie Pat Masterson aims a smile at Emma McGraw, because they both love science, even when it’s just about dirt.
“Here is what your ideal garden soil is made up of,” Ms. Sanchez says, and she writes something on the board:1. 40% SAND
2. 40% SILT
3. 20% CLAY
“Now, who can tell me what this means?” she asks.
Cynthia raises her hand and starts talking before Ms. Sanchez even calls on her, which is typical of Cynthia. “‘Ideal’ means ‘best,’” she says in a very loud voice, and she smiles, using all her teeth, and looks around like she is waiting for us to cheer.
Ms. Sanchez sighs. “That is correct, Cynthia.” she says. “But I was really talking about what the numbers on the board mean.”
“Well, I didn’t know that,” Cynthia says, folding her arms across her chest and frowning, which is never a good sign with her.
Cynthia is a girl who knows how to hold a grudge.
The whole class sits in silence for a minute, hoping someone will raise their—her—hand.
In other words, we are counting on Kry Rodriguez to save us.
Kry’s real name is Krysten, and she is pretty, with long black hair, and she moved to Oak Glen just before Thanksgiving, and she is very good at math. She slowly raises her hand like there is a red balloon tied to her wrist.
“Yes, Kry?” Ms. Sanchez says, smiling in relief.
Kry clears her throat. “I think the numbers mean that almost half of the soil is sand,” she says, “and almost half is silt, and half of almost-half is clay. Which adds up to one hundred percent.”
“Big deal,” Cynthia coughs-says into her hand.
Heather laughs to back her up. “Whatever silt is,” she mutters.
“And what is silt?” Ms. Sanchez asks in her coldest voice. “Heather? Perhaps you can enlighten us.”
“Enlighten” sounds like Ms. Sanchez wants Heather to make us all turn white, which most of my class already is, basically, except for me, Kevin, and two very quiet girls who go to the same church, not mine.
Or else it sounds like our teacher wants Heather to make us light as feathers so we could float up to the ceiling, which would be cool, but no such luck. That’s not what Ms. Sanchez means. What “enlighten us” really means is to shine a light on something, only a pretend light, not a real light. In other words, she wants Heather to explain to us what silt is.
I know this, but I do not raise my hand. I don’t want to make Jared and Stanley any madder at me than they already are, which they will be if they think I’m showing off by acting smart in class.
“I don’t know,” Heather mumbles again.
“Anyone?” Ms. Sanchez asks, but no one raises their hand. Not even Kry.
Ms. Sanchez starts to pull her big blue dictionary from the shelf. “Look it up!” she usually says when a strange word comes along.
Like every minute, practically.
But all of a sudden, Fiona McNulty slowly raises her hand. This is something that she hardly ever does, because she is the shyest kid in class.
“Yes, Fiona?” Ms. Sanchez says, trying to hide her surprise.
Fiona closes her eyes before she speaks, as if she is about to get a shot at the doctor’s office. “Silt is like this teeny tiny dirt that the water moves around, and when the water goes away, the tiny dirt kind of piles up all over the place,” she says, squeaking out the words. “My grandpa lives near the Colorado River,” she adds, opening one eye as she explains how she knows such an unusual thing.
“Well, that’s basically correct,” Ms. Sanchez says, after checking her notes once more. “Very good, Fiona.”
Fiona blushes.
“And so here is our experiment, people,” Ms. Sanchez says. “We have eight glass jars with lids, filled up almost to the top with water, and we have eight mystery soil samples to work with.”
Teachers always use words like “mystery” when they are trying to make something boring sound interesting.
“But—there are twenty-four kids in our class,” Cynthia objects, looking around.
“So how many students will be on each mudshake team?” Ms. Sanchez asks, peeking at her watch. “Tick-tock, people.”
“Tick-tock” means “hurry up,” when she says it like this.
We all look at Kry. “Three,” she says.
“Correct,” Ms. Sanchez tells us. “So listen as I call out the teams.”
“Emma, Jared, and EllRay,” she finally says.
Well, it could have been worse, I remind myself. It could have been Stanley, Jared, and EllRay.
“I want each team to carefully pour its mystery soil sample into its water jar,” Ms. Sanchez calls out, still reading from her notes.
We let Emma do the pouring, of course, because she’s a girl, and girls are always neat. Neater than boys, anyway.
“Now,” Ms. Sanchez says, “I am going to come around and add a spoonful of alum to each jar before you start shaking it.”
“AL-um,” she pronounces it.
Across the room, Annie Pat raises her hand. “Why?” she asks. “What’s alum?”
Like I said before, Annie Pat and Emma love science, and they are always full of questions whenever our class does something the least bit scientific.
But that’s okay, because it uses up the time.
Ms. Sanchez sighs, as if she was afraid Annie Pat or Emma would ask this question. “Alum has something to do with aluminum,” she says. “And for some reason, it makes the soil samples separate more easily into their varying layers of sand, silt, and clay, which will help our experiment. But I’d appreciate it if you’d look up ‘alum’ for us tonight, Annie Pat, and fill us all in first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” Annie Pat tells her, looking important as she writes down her own personal assignment.
Ms. Sanchez adds a spoonful of white stuff—alum—to each glass jar. “Now stir,” she tells us, and Emma hands me the Popsicle stick as if stir- ring things up is obviously my kind of job. So I do it, because who cares?
“Lids on,” Ms. Sanchez says, “and shake!”
That’s going to be Jared’s job, of course. Jared the mighty, Jared the strong.
In about two seconds, he crams the lid on the jar wrong, turns toward me, and starts shaking the mud-filled jar hard, hard, hard.
He practically aims it at me.
Without holding down the lid.
And—FLOOIE! There is mud—components of soil, I mean—all over my best, almost-new T-shirt that has a San Diego Padres logo on it and everything. San Diego is the largest city near Oak Glen.
It is the very same T-shirt I was supposed to wear to the Sycamore Shopping Center this afternoon with my little sister Alfie and my mom, who was going to buy me a corn dog because I got almost all of my Monday spelling words right, for once.
It is the T-shirt Jared
looks at with hungry eyes whenever I wear it.
“Oh, no!” Emma cries, holding her cheeks with both hands like the kid in that old movie.
“Oops,” Jared says, with the happiest look in the world on his big dumb face. “Sorry, EllRay.”
And it’s only Wednesday morning.
9
WHACKED ON WEDNESDAY
It is now noon, and even though the top half of me is covered with mud, or—excuse me—soil, I have made it almost halfway through the week without getting into trouble.
Disneyland, here I come! Maybe.
“Did Jared throw mud at you this morning on purpose?” Kevin McKinley asks me.
“Huh?” I say. We are the only ones sitting at the third grade boys’ lunch table so far. When the bell rang, I ran outside fast, so I could finish my lunch early and then go wash my hands for half an hour.
I guess Kevin was just hungry.
Kevin takes a big bite of his big sandwich, chews slowly, swallows the bite, and then takes a long swig of his chocolate milk without even using a straw.
Milk dribbles down my shirt whenever I try that, but I guess today it wouldn’t make much of a difference.
Kevin clears his throat. “Corey said that Emma told him it looked like Jared threw that mud on you on purpose during the experiment,” he says, and he gets ready to take another bite of his sandwich.
Wow! I didn’t know news traveled so fast around here. Or that boys listened to girls. “Why would Jared do that?” I ask, not really answering Kevin’s question.
“’Cause he’s mean?” Kevin guesses, his mouth full again.
Corey slides onto the bench. “Who’s mean?” he asks, opening his lunch sack and peering eagerly into it—even though he’s already eaten half of what was inside. All that’s probably left is a sack of carrot sticks and the same box of raisins his mom keeps packing every day, even though Corey never eats them.
Those raisins are practically antiques.
But don’t worry, we’ll share our food with him.
“News flash. Jared’s mean,” Kevin says, filling him in.
“Duh,” Corey says, making a face. “Emma says she thought you were going to sock Jared right in the mouth this morning, EllRay.”
“Only he’s so short he couldn’t reach my mouth,” Jared said, flinging himself so hard onto the bench on the other side of the table that everything shakes: table, benches, antique raisins, little sacks of carrot sticks, us. “EllRay socking me,” he sneers in a loud voice. “Like that’s gonna happen. Right, Stanley?”
“Right,” Stanley says, sliding in next to him.
“You sound kind of like a robot, Stanley,” Kevin says thoughtfully, after taking another slurp of his chocolate milk.
Everyone at the table—even Jared and Stanley—is quiet for a second, because Kevin is nearly as big as Jared, so what does that mean in terms of a possible fight? And Kevin is one of those guys who almost never gets mad, but when he does, watch out.
“You got a problem with me, McKinley?” Jared finally asks, because everyone is waiting for him to say something.
“Not yet,” Kevin says calmly, and he takes another bite of his sandwich.
I wish I could say something like that. Maybe if I was bigger, a lot bigger, like half a person bigger, I could.
This talk between Kevin and Jared was almost worth sticking around to hear, but my plan to avoid getting whacked on Wednesday has now been ruined—because I’m sitting here with Jared Matthews and Stanley Washington instead of being in the bathroom washing my hands, and Kevin McKinley can’t be everywhere, not for the whole rest of the day.
Or the two school days left in the week.
“Oops,” Jared says, and then—after he says “Oops”—he knocks his open carton of milk in my direction. The milk splashes on my peanut butter sandwich and floods the table. It creeps toward the edge of the table—where it will look like I wet my pants if it dribbles onto my lap.
And so even though I don’t want to, I scramble to my feet to get out of its way.
“Look at EllRay run,” Jared says, laughing, even though I haven’t run anywhere—yet.
Everyone waits for me to say something or do something to get even with Jared, but I just clamp my mouth shut and think about Disneyland.
It better be worth it.
“BUK, BUK, BUK,” Jared murmurs softly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Dude, you owe him lunch,” Kevin says, and SWOOP! He grabs the sandwich from Jared’s big square paw and hands it over to me.
“Oops,” I say, and then I drop Jared’s sandwich on the ground, and I stomp on it. “Sorry, Jared,” I tell him, not sounding sorry at all.
Jared is halfway to his feet, looking really, really mad, and also hungry, but there is no way he can complain without looking dumb in front of everyone, including a few girls—Emma, Heather, and Annie Pat—who are watching us from a nearby table with worried eyes.
After all, Jared made a “mistake,” spilling his milk, and I made a “mistake,” dropping the sandwich on the ground and stomping on it, so we’re even, right?
But I know that somehow, somewhere, I’m going to have to pay double for this.
I just hope it’s not until next week, that’s all.
10
THUMPED ON THURSDAY
“Why is Jared so mad at you?” Emma asks me just before I am probably about to get thumped on THURSDAY, because of the sandwich thing the day before.
It is eight fifteen, and school hasn’t even started yet.
“He’s not mad,” I tell her. “I don’t know.”
That is two different answers to the same question, but Emma can handle it. “Why don’t you have a meeting with him and find out?” she suggests.
This is a very embarrassing conversation.
Also, boys do not solve their problems by having meetings. That’s much more a a girl thing, in my opinion. And all of a sudden, I can feel my juices racing, my heart pounding, and my hands getting clenchy.
In other words, I am about to lose my temper—with Emma!
“Well, why don’t you have a meeting with your mom to find out why your hair is so curly?” I ask, even though I like curly hair.
Especially Emma’s, which is long and brown and tangly and always smells good. I don’t know how girls do that.
Emma touches her hair, and her eyes get wide, and she steps back, surprised. “Don’t get mad at me,” she says in a shaky voice. “I was only trying to help, that’s all.”
“Well, stop trying,” I tell her, turning to walk away—because it’s time to go wash my hands for a while, and nobody can help me.
Especially not a girl.
It is now just after lunch, and I am on my way to the front of the class to talk about the three layers of soil in our experiment jars.
But Ms. Sanchez turns her back to the class for a second—and I land flat on my face on the floor.
FWUMP.
It’s because I had to walk past Jared, that’s why. He tripped me!
Okay. There are three things you can do when you fall flat on your face in front of the whole class:1. You can pretend you are dead, or at least unconscious. But then your teacher will call the nurse, the principal, and your parents.
2. You can pretend it was a joke, and you meant to fall flat on your face. Only it’s hard to do that when you think you might throw up or start crying if you try to talk. And if I start crying in front of the whole class, Jared’s supreme goal will have come true, and I can never let that happen.
3. You can—
“Oh, EllRay, sweetie, are you all right?” Ms. Sanchez asks, racing to my side. I know it’s her, because I recognize her shoes.
Ms. Sanchez just called me “sweetie” in front of the whole class.
I will never live this down.
This week just keeps getting more and more terrible!
“‘Sweetie,’” Kevin whispers, cackling. This will be my nickname from now on, I just know it.<
br />
“Uh-h-h,” I say, which is supposed to mean, “Sure, I’m fine!” Only it’s hard to explain that from flat on the floor when there isn’t any air in your lungs. I try to sit up.
“Jared tripped him,” Annie Pat cries.
“On purpose,” Emma says.
Oh, great! Emma has already forgiven me for making fun of her hair, and I didn’t even apologize yet. Now I feel worse than before.
Thanks a lot, Emma.
“I did not trip him,” Jared objects. “I was stretching, that’s all, and EllRay got in the way of my foot. Ow,” he says a little late, rubbing it.
Ms. Sanchez ignores everyone but me. “Are you all right, EllRay?” she asks again, her voice as soft as a mom’s.
“I’m fine,” I say, struggling to stand up.
After I am on my feet again, I look around the room. Jared is waiting for me to tell on him, but I don’t, and he looks confused.
“Do you think you should go see the nurse?” Ms. Sanchez asks me.
“Nuh-uh,” I tell her. “I just want to talk about soil and its components, that’s all—so I can get credit for doing this very interesting experiment.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Ms. Sanchez says, still looking worried.
“I’m positive,” I tell her, and I hobble the rest of the way to the front of the class.
11
BAD VIBES
“I have an announcement to make,” a serious-looking Ms. Sanchez says to us later that afternoon, after recess, and we instantly hold still in our seats, because you can never tell. “I’ve been picking up some bad vibes lately,” Ms. Sanchez says, looking hard at us.
We have learned by now that “bad vibes” is her way of saying that something in our class feels wrong to her, but she can’t say exactly what.
Hearing this announcement, we all relax a little, because—what else is new? There is always some bad vibe floating around our class.