My mom’s face was blurry as she came toward me and pulled me to her.
We stayed like that for a long time. I heard her sniffling.
After a while she said, “Remember when you said being a rat was the first step to becoming a man?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I was just thinking. It’s kind of funny. As soon as you stopped trying to be a man, you became one. In a nice little way, I might add.”
“How’s that?”
“Your confession there. Taking blame on yourself. Admitting you were wrong. That’s grown-up stuff.”
“Really?”
She hugged me. “Really.”
“Well,” I said, “from now on, I’m just gonna be a kid. That’s enough.”
She laughed. “That’s plenty!”
Suddenly I remembered. “Winky!”
I bolted out the back door. I searched the yard. Nothing. I tore the lids off the trash cans. Nothing. Gone. No!
My mother’s voice came from the doorway. “We thought you might change your mind.”
I stared at her, at her finger, which was pointing up … upstairs….
I dashed past her, up the steps, into my room…. There he was, my one-eyed teddy bear, sitting on my pillow.
I guess I should mention one other thing to wrap up the story.
It was a couple days later. A Saturday. My dad’s day off.
I came back from playing outside and saw him in front of the VCR. I asked what he was watching.
“E.T.,” he said. Only he didn’t say it regular. His voice sounded funny.
I came into the room. I looked at the screen. E.T. was on the table, all white. I looked at my father, at his face. His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were wet.
He was crying!
“Dad —” I said.
He pulled out a hankie and blew his nose. He chuckled. “Every time that little guy dies,” he sniffed, “I want to bawl like a baby.”
I climbed onto his lap. I hadn’t done that for a long time. I nestled into him. “Don’t sweat it, Dad,” I told him. “I do too.”
Can Suds Morton be a perfect angel?
Keep going for a special teaser!
I heard it first in kindergarten:
First grade babies!
Second grade cats!
Third grade angels!
Fourth grade rats!
I didn’t like being a first-grade baby. (I wasn’t a baby.)
I didn’t like being a second-grade cat. (I like dogs.)
All this time I’ve been waiting to be an angel — and now I am! Today was the first day of third grade.
We could see it from the hallway as we headed for our new classroom. It was right on the door, a big sign:
WELCOME ANGELS
Our new teacher, Mrs. Simms, was standing there saying it to each of us as we entered the classroom:
“Welcome, angel Brett …”
“Welcome, angel Heather …”
“Welcome, angel Emma …”
Amazing! How did she know our names already? She shook each student’s hand.
When it was my turn, she shook my hand and said, “Welcome, angel George.”
Only my teachers call me George. My real name is Suds.
When we were all in our seats, Mrs. Simms gave us the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I knew right away that we were the best class she ever had. I fired my best smile back at her.
She held out her arms. “Good morning, angels!”
“Good morning!” we shouted back. A boy beside me added “— teacher!” We all laughed.
“Are you the boss angel?” the same boy asked. Half of us were shocked and half laughed.
Mrs. Simms laughed. She thought about it. She nodded. “Yes, I guess you could say I’m the boss angel. But, Joseph” — she turned to the board and wrote her name in big letters — “you can call me Mrs. Simms.”
Joseph nodded and looked across the aisle at me and said, “Cool.” I didn’t know him. I figured he must be new.
“All right,” said Mrs. Simms, “let’s talk about angels for a minute. You’ve been a baby and you’ve been a cat, and you know what they are. But what about angels? What’s an angel?” Her eyes swept over the class. Hands went up.
“A spirit,” said Raymond Venotti.
“A dead person with wings,” said Holly Briscoe.
“Big white wings!” Jeremy Muntz called out without raising his hand.
Judy Billings was sitting in front of me. (It was no accident. I had rushed to get the seat behind her.) Her hand shot in the air. “Ouu … ouu …” she went.
“Yes, Judy?” said Mrs. Simms.
Judy stood even though the others didn’t. “Perfect in every way.” The way she said it, so sure, I got the impression she knew a couple of angels personally.
Mrs. Simms pointed to her. “Good. All good answers.” She motioned the rest of the hands to go down. “Now, let’s talk about —”
Christina Serrano practically screamed: “Mrs. Simms! Your earrings are angels!”
She was right. Dangling from Mrs. Simms’s ears were little silver angels with wings.
A couple of kids clapped. A couple said, “Cool!” Beside me the new Joseph kid said, “You da chick,” but not loud enough for the teacher to hear.
Mrs. Simms bowed. “Thank you, thank you, friends. You are very observant. Last year’s class didn’t notice till the third day of school.” She clapped her hands. “All right, now, where were we —” She pointed to Judy Billings again. “Yes — perfection. I’ve heard that too. Whatever angels may be, everybody seems to agree that they’re perfect. All right —” She looked us over. “Show of hands — anybody here perfect?”
We all turned around to see if any hands went up. One did.
Mrs. Simms seemed surprised. “Well, well, Joseph. Congratulations to you.”
Joseph grinned and slapped his own hand down. “Nah. Just kidding.”
Mrs. Simms pretended to wipe her brow. “Whew … had me worried there for a second. I wouldn’t know what to do with a perfect third-grader.”
“Send him to angel school!” someone piped up. Everybody laughed — Mrs. Simms hardest of all. It was only when she stared at me and gave me a thumbs-up that I suddenly realized something: The one who said it was me! I couldn’t believe it. I never did anything like that in my life. I never speak in class unless I raise my hand first. What got into me? I wondered if it had something to do with sitting next to Joseph.
“I can see I’m going to love this class,” said Mrs. Simms. “Okay, angels are perfect. Real angels, that is. But we’re not really real angels, are we? We’re third-grade angels, people-type angels — right?”
“Right!” came the calls.
“So,” she went on, “the best we can do is” — she waited to build up the suspense — “the best we can do.”
A couple “Huhs?” popped up.
“In other words,” said Mrs. Simms, “in order to be good third-grade angels, all you have to do is do … your … best.” She looked us over. “Got it?”
“Got it!” we said.
“Okay,” said Mrs. Simms. “But I know you guys. You like a little reward for your trouble, right?”
“Right!”
“You want a little prize at the end of the road. To make it all worthwhile — right?”
“Right!”
“Well —” she said. She reached into her desk drawer. “Have I got a prize for you —”
Jerry Spinelli is the author of several novels, including Third Grade Angels, The Library Card, and the Newbery Medal–winning Maniac Magee. He lives in Wayne, Pennsylvania, with his wife and fellow author, Eileen Spinelli.
Look for these other great books
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Third Grade Angels<
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Text copyright © 1991 by Jerry Spinelli
Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Jennifer A. Bell
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Cover art by Matthew Myers
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
e-ISBN: 978-0-545-34860-7
This edition first printing, August 2012
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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