Camille McPhee Fell Under the Bus ...

by Kristen Tracy

  My mother’s eyes were very big.

  “Are all your subjects this advanced?” she asked.

  I nodded with a lot of enthusiasm.

  “I should have done a better job staying on top of this,” she said.

  “The other day, in math, Mr. Hawk said that we were going to study bar graphs and charts. And for science, we have to identify ‘local environmental issues’ and possibly conduct scientific tests. Possibly,” I said.

  “I don’t believe it,” my mother said. “That doesn’t sound fair.”

  “It’s not! It’s not! And science is where Mr. Hawk is the most advanced,” I said. “Sometimes he uses words like nucleus and organism and metric.”

  “Camille, what you’re telling me is very serious. I think I’m going to need to talk to your teacher about it.”

  She sat down next to me and rubbed my arm. Hearing that my mother wanted to talk to Mr. Hawk made me a little nervous. Because I felt we could have made the decision for me to drop out of fourth grade and learn everything in the kitchen without him.

  “Is reading too advanced too?” my mother asked, squeezing my hand.

  I shook my head.

  “Mr. Hawk doesn’t teach reading. I leave the class and have reading with Ms. Golden. Because I’m in gifted reading, remember?” I asked.

  It made me sad to think that my mother had forgotten that I was in gifted reading with Ms. Golden. Because I was very proud of that fact. Because I was in there with all the smart kids.

  “But you like Ms. Golden, right?” my mother asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I only see her three times a week.”

  Talking about school made me realize how Sally-less and awful it was, and I started sniffling.

  “Is there something else?” my mother asked.

  I nodded.

  “What?”

  “PE,” I said.

  “What about it?” my mother asked. “You’ve never said anything about not liking PE before.”

  I sniffled really hard.

  “Well, lately, we’ve been playing dodgeball. Except some of the kids call it slaughterball, and sometimes they try to hit certain people in the head.”

  My mother gasped.

  “So Mr. Hawk doesn’t teach you any reading at all and he makes you learn sixth-grade math and science?” my mother asked. “And for PE he lets the other children throw balls at your head?”

  I almost nodded, but I wasn’t sure if what my mother was saying was the exact truth. It sounded pretty severe.

  “I don’t know if everything we learn is sixth grade. But it feels very advanced.” I sniffled. “And he doesn’t want the other kids to throw the balls directly at our heads. But it does happen.”

  “Unbelievable!” my mother said. “Well, I’m going to take you to school on Monday and have a talk with him about this.”

  “Um,” I said. “Okay.”

  So I sat at the kitchen table and read all about laws. And how the basic purpose of a government was to make laws, carry out laws, and decide if laws had been broken. And how equality under the law meant that all people were treated fairly. Which was a nice idea, but I didn’t think that it happened all the time.

  After I finished with social studies, I put my head down on the table.

  “Do you need a break?” my mother asked.

  This made me jump a little, because I hadn’t known she was still in the kitchen.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I don’t want more cheese.”

  “Should we call Aunt Stella in Modesto?” my mother asked.

  “Yes! Yes!” I said, because I loved talking to Aunt Stella. In fact, I loved talking to Aunt Stella in Modesto so much, that the month after Sally moved, I called Aunt Stella thirty-seven times. And talked for over nine hundred minutes. And got banned from using the phone to make long-distance calls ever again. Except in the case of what my parents called a grave emergency.

  My mother dialed my aunt Stella on the kitchen phone and then handed it to me.

  “Aunt Stella! It’s Camille! How’s Modesto?” I asked.

  “Camille, how are you? Does your mother know that you’re calling me?”

  Then something terrible happened. My mother pushed a button and put the call on speakerphone. So I couldn’t tell Aunt Stella anything personal. I could only tell her things that I could tell my mother.

  “I’m here too, Stella,” my mother said.

  “How’s school?” Aunt Stella asked.

  But before I could say anything about school, my mother started talking about how my teacher was science-centered, extremely challenging, and a promoter of sports violence.

  I stood and listened. And I felt pretty bad. Because I didn’t think Mr. Hawk was a bad teacher. I just would have preferred to learn in my own kitchen.

  I sat down and listened to my mom and Aunt Stella talk. One of the things I liked about Aunt Stella was that she was from California, and that place had an ocean. Where I lived in Idaho there weren’t any oceans. Only lakes. And things called reservoirs that looked like lakes, but they were actually built by people to store water. And while it was common to see people waterskiing in them, if a reservoir ever broke, which could happen, the water would flood towns and kill everybody and their dogs.

  “Camille, are you still there?” Aunt Stella asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, you and your family are going to have to come visit me,” she said.

  “And drive to the ocean?” I asked.

  I really wanted to wear my swimsuit in the ocean. Because Idaho had dangerous rivers, and streams, and irrigation canals, but none of those things had waves. Just deadly currents.

  “Of course we can drive to the ocean,” Aunt Stella said.

  Then she said she loved me and I said I loved her and my mother hung up the phone. Even though we didn’t have a firm date, thinking about my trip to California made me smile. I now felt good enough to attempt math. I took out my worksheets and looked at them. I was at the point where I had to times everything by nine. Even other nines. I took a deep breath. I found timesing things by nine to be hard work. I tapped my finger to help me count and I scribbled answers. When I finished those, I drank some water. Then I had spelling words. They were all trick words that sounded alike. I didn’t like words like that. I thought maybe the government should have made a law against these kinds of words: threw, through; close, clothes; sure, shore; would, wood.

  My mother looked over my shoulder.

  “You’re studying homophones?” she asked me.

  “I guess,” I said.

  Then my mom called Aunt Stella again and started complaining about how advanced homophones were. For some reason, this made my head itch, so I scratched it. After talking about homophones, my mom started talking about carpet. She was so happy her voice sounded like it was singing. This made me look at the walls. They were too purple to try to study spelling in the kitchen anymore. I grabbed all my homework and hugged it to me.

  “Where are you going?” my mother asked.

  “My room,” I said.

  I walked down the purple hallway and locked eyes on my purple door. Inside, my room was still painted its normal color: white with some dirt smudges. I sat on my bed and finished my homework and tried not to listen to my mom talking to Aunt Stella about essential home repairs. Because I knew that painting your house purple was not an essential home repair. Then I heard her hang up. And walk down the hallway to my room.

  “I think we should have vegetarian lasagna for dinner,” my mother said.

  “Does it have eggplant in it?” I asked.

  “No. Why do you always ask about eggplant? You’ve only eaten it one time.”

  I lifted my finger in the air.

  “I only needed to eat it one time,” I said.

  My mother put her hands on her hips.

  “When it comes to eggplant, I think you’re being a little unfair,” my mother said. “Eggplant isn’t evil. In fact, the paint I ch
ose for the house is called Majestic Eggplant.”

  That’s when my mouth dropped open. I hadn’t realized this, but our house did look exactly like an eggplant. This was so terrible. My head felt dizzy, and I lay down. My books and papers slid off my bed and crashed sloppily to the floor.

  “I feel very doomed,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Camille. I’ll drive you to school and talk with Mr. Hawk first thing tomorrow morning.” She leaned down and kissed me. “You’re not doomed. You’re a McPhee.”

  But staring up at my ceiling, I couldn’t see the difference.

  Chapter 7

  My Blue Butterfly

  “I can’t drive you today, because I have to teach aerobics,” my mother said.

  It was Monday I sat at the kitchen table eating my cereal.

  “The gym just called and the regular instructor aggravated her shin splints. It looks like I’ll be teaching this class for a while.”

  My mother sat down next to me looking very thrilled.

  “It’s an advanced abdominals class, which mainly utilizes inflatable balance balls. It’s a fantastic opportunity for me to learn more ball work.”

  “Ball work?” I echoed.

  My mother stood up and placed her hands on her newly flattened stomach.

  “Ball work targets the core like you wouldn’t believe,” she said. “In fact, modified ball work replaces a lot of outdated moves—sit-ups, push-ups, leg lifts, the plow.” My mother shook her head. “If women understood how overrated sit-ups were, they’d embrace the ball in a heartbeat.”

  I sighed. Then I set my spoon down next to my bowl. And I lovingly touched the kitchen table.

  “I think school is overrated,” I said. “And this spot would be a great place for me to learn everything. Math. Social studies. Science—”

  My mother cut me off.

  “Camille, you’re not getting homeschooled at the kitchen table. But don’t worry. I’ll visit Mr. Hawk soon and have a talk with him about toning down the advanced material.”

  My mother swept her hair back into a ponytail.

  “Hurry up!” she said. “You don’t want to miss the bus.”

  I carried my bowl to the sink.

  Yes, I do want to miss the bus, I thought. Yes, I do!

  Outside, the whole world felt like a Popsicle. I set my cooler down in its usual spot and tried not to listen to anybody. Manny and Danny kept telling me to watch my step. And Polly never looked at me. When the bus finally rolled to a stop, I crossed in front of it at a very slow rate of speed. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Spittle put her hand out and made me wait. She wanted to remind me that she hadn’t run over me and that I shouldn’t tell people that she had.

  “I wouldn’t tell people that,” I said.

  “Good. Because there’s a big difference between being struck by the bus and having a little slip near the bus,” she said.

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “Good. Because school officials view driving over the students as a serious offense,” she said.

  I found an empty seat near the front of the bus and acted like a dingo. Which meant not listening to all the kids on the bus laugh at me. Also, I scratched behind my ears. And I did a little growling. I made a mental note to myself that I would never laugh at anyone who fell down ever again. Even if somebody I didn’t like slipped on a banana peel and fell headfirst into a toilet. Instead of laughing at that person, I would try to be like Sally and help the person out.

  Class started with math. I thought we’d talk about how to times numbers by nine. But we were already on to something else. Mr. Hawk stood in front of us and turned a piece of chalk on the blackboard like it was a screw. He made a perfect point. You might be thinking that Mr. Hawk looked like a hawk, but he didn’t. He looked like an eagle. He had shiny gray hair that he liked to slick back, and he had a great big nose that was quite long and drooped down, almost touching his lips. And when he lifted his long arms, it looked like he was raising a big, featherless wing.

  As I sat and learned about how decimal points changed my understanding of how numbers worked, I felt somebody pushing their eraser tip into my shoulder blade. It was Tony Maboney. I did not enjoy sitting in front of Tony Maboney. Because not only was he a pain in the neck, he had also become a pain in my shoulder blade. Every time Mr. Hawk said the word point, Tony Maboney poked me with his pencil. I felt like flipping around and asking Tony Maboney, “What’s your problem?” But I didn’t do that. Instead, I asked myself, What would a dingo do? And I realized that the answer to this question was simple. Nothing. A dingo wouldn’t react. So that’s what I did. I sat there very content.

  Finally, in an attempt to emotionally wound me with his slobber, Tony shot a spit wad at me. He launched the wet papery ball so fast that it ricocheted off my thick hair and into the stringy hair of Polly Clausen. Polly used her pencil to flick it out of her hair and onto the floor.

  Then Tony leaned forward and whispered into my ear. “Camille, I’ve got a pig on my farm just like you. It’s skinny and stupid and has a big head and it keeps falling down.”

  Then he started to snort like a pig.

  I wanted to point out to Tony that I did not have a big head. I just had terrific hair. And that I’d only fallen underneath a school bus once. And that it was actually very easy to do, because school buses are big. And we’re always walking in front of them. Anyone can slip on a stupid patch of ice.

  Sadly, right before Tony said this, my legs were feeling wobbly and I was going to eat a ham sandwich. But I knew that when somebody was calling you a pig and snorting, it wasn’t the best time to open up your cooler and chow down on a pork product.

  What Tony Maboney said really bothered me. But I couldn’t let him see that. Even though it was hard, I had to tune him out. I knew that if my face had gotten red, or if I had released even the tiniest sniffle, Tony Maboney would have called me oinker, hoofy, or snout-face for the next nine years. You have to be smarter than the bullies. Luckily, bullies aren’t always the sharpest crayons in the box.

  All through math, I worked on decimal problems. I even went on to a chapter that wasn’t assigned. It was very advanced and it started to blow my mind. Then I made the mistake of looking up. I did not sit in a good seat for looking up. I sat below a huge, dangling hornet. It was made out of construction paper and pipe cleaners and some sort of fake fur. Mr. Hawk loved insects. I think they were his favorite animal.

  When he’d taught sixth grade, he’d assigned his class to make giant bugs out of what he called “affordable craft items from home.” After the project, he would hang all the insects on wires. And he never took them down. He had been giving this assignment for a long time, because his classroom ceiling dripped with bugs. And some of them were pretty low-hanging. Like my hornet. I couldn’t believe how ugly a hornet’s belly was. It was a miserable thing to be stuck beneath. Polly got to sit under a ladybug. Tony was seated below a dragonfly. Nina Hosack, the class wimp, got to sit under a bright, happy firefly. I would have preferred any of those insects. Because they didn’t hang low. Or have scary eyes. Or a dangerous hind end.

  Mr. Hawk had not assigned us our insects yet. But I already knew what I was going to make. I was going to make a big blue butterfly. Because those insects were beautiful and never tried to sting anybody’s eyes out. Unlike hornets, which were a kind of wasp. They hatched from their eggs angry and trying to sting people’s eyes out right away.

  After math there was social studies. Mr. Hawk talked a lot about laws and there was even a discussion about how our class should write our own constitution. But I thought this was a terrible idea. Because I didn’t trust some of these clowns, and I didn’t want to have to follow their laws. Especially Tony Maboney. Social studies made me do a lot of yawning. I ate some granola to stay awake. Then came lunch. And I wasn’t totally hungry. So I asked Mr. Hawk if I could stay at my desk and work on a project. Or maybe watch the hermit crab in the back of the room.

  “Ev
erybody has to go to the cafeteria, Camille,” he said.

  This made me very sad. But I did it anyway. On my way, I passed two third graders in the hallway coming back from lunch. At Rocky Mountain Elementary School we ate in two shifts. The first graders through third graders ate first. Then the fourth graders through sixth graders went next. Because if the lunch ladies tried to serve the whole school pizza or tacos at the same time, some of the food would have gotten cold, and grown poisonous bacteria, and made everybody who ate it too sick to learn for at least a week.

  I ate at one of the fourth-grade tables. There were twice as many fourth graders than any other grade. So we got two tables. I liked to sit with my back to the wall so I could watch the fifth and sixth graders. Be cause some of the older boys were crazy and liked to throw food at each other. And sometimes they missed their mark and a third grader got peas or applesauce stuck in her hair. And I would rather duck than have that happen.

  I tried not to think about the decimal point and sat next to Lilly Poe. But I didn’t talk to her. Even though sometimes our shoulders touched. I did talk a little bit to Gracie Clop. But I mostly listened to her tell a story about how she had the best grandpa in the world. Because he’d fed gumdrops to a grizzly bear in Yellowstone Park. And she had the pictures to prove it.

  I didn’t have any living grandparents. Grandpa and Grandma McPhee died before I was born. And Grandma Denny died when I was a baby. And Grandpa Denny died when I was three. I’ve seen pictures of me sitting on his lap, but I can’t remember him. He does look very familiar, though. And we still have the chair that he was sitting on in the photographs. Gracie promised to bring us pictures of her grandpa feeding that bear. Everybody seemed very thrilled about seeing them.

  “That’s crazy,” Lilly Poe said. “Bring them tomorrow.”

  “Do you think grizzly bears like chocolate chip cookies?” Zoey Combs asked, stuffing the last of one in her mouth.