Elfie Unperfect

by Kristin Mahoney

  I raised my hand. When Ms. Rambutan called on me, I said, “It’s when the truth about something is the opposite of what you would expect it to be. Since your dad’s last name is Rambutan, you would expect him to like that kind of fruit. The fact that he doesn’t is irony.”

  “Yes, exactly, Elfie!” Ms. Rambutan smiled. “Okay, brain break is over; you may file out—quietly, please—to go to lunch!”

  Ms. Rambutan stopped by my desk as people were starting to leave.

  “Elfie, do you think you could stay here for a moment during lunch? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  I nodded. I wondered what she wanted to talk about. Maybe she was going to recommend reinstating my Student Lunch Monitor program, and she needed to ask my permission. Or maybe she wanted my thoughts on the new math curriculum. Or to thank me for my perfect definition of irony. It was good to think that Ms. Rambutan might be starting to recognize what a valuable student I was; I knew it was only a matter of time.

  As it turned out, Ms. Rambutan did not want to discuss any of those things.

  “Thanks for staying in, Elfie,” Ms. Rambutan said when the last of my classmates had filed out. “This won’t take long. I wanted to talk to you about your character study.”

  Oh. That.

  “I appreciated how honest it was. And interesting! I loved learning that your kitten makes you laugh, for example. And thank you for telling me how you feel about group projects; I will see if that’s something we can make more enjoyable for you this year.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I knew that wasn’t the part Ms. Rambutan really wanted to talk about.

  “But I would feel remiss if I didn’t ask you about two things in particular,” she said. “Your loved one with cancer, and also your thoughts about making friends.”

  Right. There it was. Why had I felt the need to be so honest?

  “I know these are private matters, so I’ll understand if you don’t wish to discuss them,” she said. “But I do want to give you a chance to talk if you’d like to. And I also wonder if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I wanted to say, “Sure, can you take away my babysitter’s cancer?” But I didn’t want to give Ms. Rambutan a hard time. She did seem like she wanted to help. (Plus, she was my teacher. When was I ever someone who gave teachers a hard time?)

  “No one can do anything about the cancer, except maybe the doctors,” I said.

  Ms. Rambutan nodded. “Do you mind if I ask who the person with cancer is?”

  “It’s my babysitter. Rhoda.” Rhoda’s name stuck in my throat for a second; it was weird to be talking about her this way.

  “Oh, I see,” Ms. Rambutan said. Was it my imagination, or did she sound a little relieved? Like maybe she thought it wasn’t such a big deal to have a babysitter with cancer, as opposed to one of your parents. She didn’t get that Rhoda almost was like one of my parents.

  “I know that must make you worry, and worrying can make it difficult to focus. If you ever feel like you’re having a hard time concentrating in class, please let me know.”

  I almost laughed. It was a nice offer, but clearly Ms. Rambutan didn’t know me very well.

  “I never have a hard time concentrating in class,” I said.

  Ms. Rambutan smiled. “Okay. I can’t say that surprises me. I have heard from Ms. Puckett and other teachers here that you are an excellent student.”

  That was good to hear. But I wondered what else Ms. Puckett and the other teachers had said about me. Mom and Dad said that none of the teachers at Cottonwood knew the real reason I was back this year, and that they’d just told them there was a change of plans. But I wasn’t so sure. Bad news always traveled fast.

  Ms. Rambutan looked down at her hands for a second. “I know the other part might be even harder to talk about, but it is important….Would you like to tell me more about why it’s hard to make friends?”

  No. No, I very much would not like to tell Ms. Rambutan why it was hard for me to make friends.

  “Oh, I don’t know why I wrote that,” I said. “I was joking.”

  “Oh, I see.” I could tell Ms. Rambutan didn’t believe me. “I’m just curious, since I’m still getting to know everyone here. Who are some of your friends?” Nope. She definitely didn’t believe me.

  “Well, it’s not really anyone who goes here,” I said. I tried to think fast. “I mean, my friend Sierra goes to Hampshire Academy. She has a goat. And chickens.” There. Maybe giving details like that would keep Ms. Rambutan from guessing that I’d only met Sierra twice in my life.

  “Wow, that sounds like a fun friend to have.” Ms. Rambutan smiled. But she wasn’t finished.

  “What about Jenna?”

  “Jenna’s my cousin.”

  “Yes, but you’re the same age, so I thought perhaps you were also friends?”

  “Jenna and I don’t have a lot in common other than that.” I wondered if Ms. Rambutan would point out that that was another example of irony, the two cousins who are always thrown together but want nothing to do with each other.

  But she didn’t say that. She just said, “I see. Well, thank you for filling me in, and please do let me know if I can help.”

  She looked at me as though she was hoping I’d say more. When that didn’t happen, she patted my back and said, “Okay. You can run along to lunch.”

  After my talk with Ms. Rambutan, I suddenly felt very conspicuous, and not in a good way. I was accustomed to teachers noticing me for things like cooperation, insightful answers during class discussions, and perfect scores on tests. But now I felt like Ms. Rambutan was watching me to see if I was upset about Rhoda, or group work, or not having friends. I didn’t want to be noticed for those things. So I tried my best to appear content.

  I hadn’t gone back to her classroom at lunchtime after the first day of school anyway. On the second day of school, I’d tried offering to organize Ms. Rambutan’s library or sharpen her pencils, but she’d said, “No, no, Elfie; this is your free time! Go enjoy your lunch!” Now I definitely knew not to try those tactics. I didn’t want her to observe my continued friendlessness.

  That created the problem of what to do during lunch, since there were no obvious classmates for me to sit and eat with. I had asked Assistant Principal Eastman if I could start the Student Lunch Monitor program up again. At least that way I’d have an excuse to stay standing throughout lunch. But she was not interested. “Let’s just see how it goes this year,” she said. “Maybe your fellow students will surprise you and be on good lunchtime behavior.” I nodded politely, even though I knew that was highly unlikely.

  For a while, I tried walking around and pretending I was looking for something during lunchtime, taking occasional bites of my sandwich as I wandered. That was somewhat successful until one of the cafeteria staff members asked what I was looking for. When I said the first thing that popped into my head (which was “my pencil”), she said, “I’ll keep an eye out for it. But you need to find a seat.” I’d just nodded at her and spent the rest of lunchtime in the bathroom.

  So I came up with a strategy: I knew if I could be among the first kids to reach the cafeteria, I could have my choice of tables. And the table I chose was perfect for someone dining alone. Unlike the other long cafeteria tables with benches, this one was small and square, with just two chairs. It was wedged into an alcove by the front door where there wasn’t space for a long table. I knew the student body of Cottonwood Elementary was getting bigger and bigger every year, so I guess they had to fit seats wherever they could, especially for the younger grades.

  But fifth grade was not quite as overcrowded, so I was able to have this table all to myself. I would sit in one chair, put my backpack in the other, and read a book or do homework as I ate. That way, if any overly concerned people such as Ms. Rambutan happened by, I hoped it would appear that I was just
busy, not lonely, and perhaps even as though I was saving the other seat for someone. It was the only option I could think of.

  This plan worked well until the day I was reading a biography of the mathematician Katherine Johnson, and caught a tiny movement out of the corner of my eye. I glanced at the wall beside me, and what I saw made me leap out of my chair. About a hundred ants were making their way in a long line from the ceiling to the floor, where they were swarming around a decaying grape. I recognized the ants because we’d had the same type in our kitchen a few years before. They were called pavement ants. I’d looked up their scientific name when we had them in the kitchen, and I whispered it in horror now as I scooted my chair farther from the wall.

  “Tetramorium caespitum.”

  “They’ll battle to the death, you know.” A voice over my shoulder made me jump. I turned and saw Will and his friend Maxine standing just behind me, eating ice cream with little flat wooden spoons.

  “Who will?”

  “The pavement ants. They’re one of only a few ant species that will do that. Just wait and see; I bet once most of that grape is gone, they’ll start killing each other over it.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll be here long enough for that. Lunch is over soon.”

  “Maybe we just don’t go back to class.”

  I snorted. “I think Ms. Rambutan would notice that.”

  Will shrugged. “We could tell her we had to observe this in the name of science.”

  Maxine nodded. “That’s true. This is very scientific.” I think that was the most I’d ever heard Maxine speak off a stage. Like Will, she was in all the school plays, and she was very enthusiastic about singing, dancing, and drama. Unlike Will, she was almost completely quiet offstage. She never spoke in class unless a teacher called on her. Sometimes she didn’t even speak then. Her most notable trait, apart from her interest in theater, was that she wore headbands with springy antennae on them every day. Some days they had stars on the tips; other days, pom-poms or rainbows or peace signs. It was an interesting fashion choice for such a quiet person.

  The bell rang, but Will and Maxine didn’t move. In fact, Will sat in the chair I’d been sitting in and slid it closer to the wall so he could examine the ants. Maxine sat across from him.

  “The bell just rang,” I pointed out. “We have to go back to class.”

  Will sighed. “Elfie, I thought you liked science.”

  “I do. But I also like not getting in trouble.”

  “Sometimes you have to chase your passion, no matter the cost,” he said, and turned back toward the wall.

  I looked at Maxine, hoping she’d talk some sense into Will, but she just nodded her boing-boing heart antennae in agreement with him and leaned across the table to watch the ants.

  Even though I returned to class, I kept thinking about what Will had said, and I didn’t report him and Maxine for staying in the cafeteria. I guess I didn’t want to get in the way of them “chasing their passion.” (And they didn’t get in trouble after all; Ms. Rambutan just sent Elijah to retrieve them from the cafeteria when she noticed they were gone.)

  I did, however, report the ants to Assistant Principal Eastman on my way to the bus lot that afternoon. She was helping a crying kindergartner who didn’t know which bus to take, and she didn’t seem very concerned about the ant infestation.

  “Oh no, the ants are back?” she said mildly. “Okay, we’ll ask the custodian to call an exterminator.”

  I was alarmed to hear her say the ants were back, which meant that they had been there before. That was news to me. I suppose in my years as student lunch monitor, I hadn’t had an opportunity to closely examine the cafeteria walls.

  “Well, thank you,” I said. “They’re especially bad by the table for two near the door.”

  But I’m not sure Assistant Principal Eastman heard me, because by then she was back to consoling the crying kindergartner. And in fact, the following day, the ant problem did not seem any better. If anything, it was worse.

  When I got to the cafeteria, I stood staring at the wall, holding my lunch box in one hand and my Katherine Johnson biography in the other. I didn’t know what to do. How could I sit at an ant-infested table?

  “Whoa, they’re back with a vengeance!” Will was standing behind me again. So was Maxine; today her antennae had winky-face emojis on them.

  I sighed. “Yes, they certainly are.”

  “Hey, can we sit with you today?” Will asked. “We’ll find another chair to pull over. That way we can watch the ants all through lunch.”

  “You want to sit here?” I asked. “With the ants?”

  “Well, yeah, with you and the ants.”

  “I don’t want to sit with the ants.”

  “Oh. Well, you don’t have to sit with us. Or you can sit in the third chair we pull over; that one will be farther from the wall.”

  I weighed my options. Either I sat with Will, Maxine, and the ants at my usual little table, or I took my book and my lunch to sit at the end of one of the long tables, with a group of kids who may or may not want me there. (“May not” seemed more likely.)

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But definitely let me sit in the farthest chair.”

  Maxine spotted an extra chair behind the recycling bin and pulled it over for me, winky-face antennae bobbing the whole way. I sat in it and tucked my book under my leg; it seemed rude to read with other people at the table. Katherine Johnson would understand.

  By the end of that lunch, Will had told Maxine and me enough about pavement ants that I felt a little braver about watching them closely. Some of the information I already knew, like that ants can lift twenty times their own body weight. Other bits were new to me, such as the fact that an ant colony can survive for only a few months without its queen. Pavement ants were more interesting than I’d thought. So was Will.

  So when Assistant Principal Eastman spotted me across the bus parking lot and called out, “Hi, Elfie! Are those cafeteria ants still a problem?” I answered back, “No, everything’s going well!” It didn’t feel like a lie. Even though the ants were very much still there, they weren’t bothering me anymore.

  Hi Rhoda—

  I told Mom I wanted to email you before I started my homework because I have to tell you what happened today: Will finally got his wish and two of the pavement ants fought each other to the death. It was disgusting, but fascinating. They were fighting over a cracker crumb. Maxine almost cried at the end because she felt sorry for the dead ant. But Will and I explained to her that that’s just how nature works.

  How are things with you?

  Love,

  Elfie

  Hi Sweet Elf!

  Whoa, that is wild about the ant fight! I bet that’s the only kind of fight anyone can get away with at school. See, I told you Cottonwood isn’t so bad…I bet they don’t have ant fights in the cafeteria at Hampshire!

  I’m glad to hear you’re having fun at lunch with Will and Maxine. You probably never thought you’d get to be friends with Will Haubner, huh?

  Things are okay here. Some good days, and some bad, but I guess that’s true for everyone. I feel like I should warn you that next time you see me, I’ll look pretty different. Vanessa shaved my head for me. Some people say that’s the best way to deal with your hair before you start chemotherapy; otherwise it might fall out in clumps and look even more unusual than a bald head. I will admit that I cried when she first did it, but now I’m getting used to it. I don’t know if I’m ready to show it off in public, though, so I’ve been wearing a baseball cap when I go outside. Oh, and my aunt Carol got me this really fancy scarf that my ma said must have cost a small fortune, so I’m saving that to wear if I have to go somewhere nice. I can’t wait to show it to you. It has butterflies on it (but no ants! ).

  Go finish your homework now, but write back when y
ou can. Your emails are the highlight of my day!

  Love,

  Rhoda

  Since Rhoda and I couldn’t use the Important Jar to communicate now, we’d started emailing each other almost every day. I was better at email than at talking on the phone; somehow it was just easier to put what I wanted to say in writing.

  Rhoda’s emails were usually full of funny stories about her mom and her sister, or about something she’d read in a science magazine in her doctor’s waiting room that made her think of me. But this last email was more serious; I couldn’t imagine Rhoda crying, and I certainly couldn’t picture her without hair. I wasn’t sure how to respond to it.

  I started with the less serious part:

  Hi Rhoda—

  Yes, I guess I’m enjoying sitting with Will and Maxine at lunch, but that’s mostly because of the ants. I don’t know that I’d say Will and I are “friends.” He still annoys me with the way he calls out answers without raising his hand in class, and he sings to himself during writing. But he does make up adventure stories about the ants as we’re watching them, so that can be entertaining. Maxine is very quiet, but nice.

  I thought for a long time about what to write next. Finally I came up with this:

  I’m sorry about your hair. Remember when I was little and I cut my head on my telescope, and I was upset about how the cut was still there the next day? I will always remember that you said, “Elfie, you are still Elfie, even with a cut on your head. And someday it will go away.”

  Well, I guess that’s the best thing I can think of to say to you right now. You are still Rhoda, even without your hair. And someday it will come back.

  I hope I get to see you soon.

  Love,

  Elfie

  To my great relief, Ms. Rambutan hadn’t mentioned the character study again. The only character studies we were doing were for fictional characters in the books we were reading. We were also starting to study algebraic concepts in math, and chemical reactions in science. Ms. Rambutan made everything really interesting…and best of all, most of our assignments were to be completed independently.