Amber Brown Is Not a Crayon

by Paula Danziger

  Mrs. Daniels sighs. “Kids. Please stay out of my way. We’ve got to be out of here in two and a half weeks.”

  I wish I didn’t even have to be here right now but my mother had to go to work for a couple of hours, even though it’s Saturday.

  Two and a half weeks.

  When I first found out that they were actually moving, I had five weeks to get used to the idea. Now the time is half gone.

  Justin won’t even talk to me about the fact that he’s leaving.

  He keeps acting as if everything is the same.

  I keep wanting to talk about it.

  He won’t.

  It’s driving me nuts.

  Every time I mention it, he suggests we play or make something or watch a video.

  Every time, I say, “Justin. I want to talk to you,” he says, “I don’t want to talk.”

  I don’t know what to do.

  Sometimes I think about talking to my mom about this but she’s already really sad that the Danielses are leaving.

  She and Mrs. Daniels have been friends since Justin and I were in preschool.

  “Kids. I repeat, do me a favor and stay out of my way today,” Mrs. Daniels says. “I’ve really got to get this stuff packed. I’ve put some boxes into your bedroom, Justin. I want you to go through all of your things. Throw out the things that are no good, broken. Put things that are still good but that you don’t want in a box to give away to charity.”

  “Yea!” Justin yells.

  His mother looks at him. “Justin Daniels. You are not going to try to give away that suit your grandmother sent you.”

  “Rats.” Justin frowns.

  “I’ll help,” I offer, wondering when I turned into the “Queen of Clean.”

  Heading into Justin and Danny’s room, we step over already packed and labeled boxes.

  Justin picks up a basketball and throws it at me.

  I throw it back.

  Soon we are playing a game of “Points for Hitting the Other Person.”

  We made the game up in second grade.

  One point for a chest hit.

  Two points for a direct hit to the rear end.

  Three points for the big toe, the pinky, and the belly button.

  You can lose points. You lose five points if you hit the person in the head or in certain other places.

  “Three points. Yes!” Justin smashes the ball into my shoe right where my big toe is.

  Mrs. Daniels comes into the room. “And a minus twenty for you for not doing what I said. Look. We still have a lot to pack. I sent Danny over to his friend’s house so that we could get more done. Now I’m treating you like a big boy, Justin. Please act like one.”

  Justin looks down at the floor.

  I wonder. How come when adults say things like, “I’m treating you like a big boy or girl,” you end up feeling like a baby.

  She leaves and I say again, “I’ll help.”

  We start going through the stuff in his closets.

  In the important box go his baseball card collection, three blue ribbons from the county fair three-legged races (we always win those in our age group), his model airplanes and all of our school yearbooks.

  “I’m going to throw this out. If my mother finds it she’s going to have a fit.” Justin holds up the chewing gum ball we have been adding to for a year and a half.

  “But it’s OURS. We both contributed to it.” I think of all the times I was just going to throw the used gum out but instead I put it in a damp paper towel and then into a Baggie to keep it sticky so that we could put it on the ball.

  Justin sighs and shrugs. “My mom is in a bad enough mood already.”

  “But it’s OURS,” I repeat.

  “It’s only a chewing gum ball.” Justin sounds annoyed. “Amber. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

  That does it.

  Justin has gone too far.

  “Throw it out and I’m never going to speak to you again.” I stare at Justin.

  He stares at me.

  And then he picks up the ball, bends his knees, and as if the chewing gum ball is a basketball, lobs it into the throw-out pile without saying a word.

  I am never going to speak to Justin Daniels again.

  Chapter

  Eight

  It’s not easy choosing a new best friend.

  I sit on my bed, staring at the list of kids who are in my class.

  First of all, it’s going to take a long time to decide and then what if the person I choose already has a best friend or doesn’t want me as a best friend.

  The names are all written out in light blue ink. I am using a red pen to cross out all of the people who could never be my best friend. Alicia Sanchez and Naomi Schwartz are already best friends. So are Freddie Romano and Gregory Gifford. A couple of the boys are very obnoxious so I’ve crossed them out. I would pick a slug with rabies before I would pick them. Hannah Burton is much too neat and cares too much about looking good. I could never be best friends with someone who has a list on her door of what she wears every day. She does that so that she never wears the same thing twice for at least two weeks. Once she had a pajama party at her house and I saw that her closet is color-coded and arranged by how long everything is—shirts, skirts, pants and dresses. She’s a definite NO.

  Brandi Colwin has a purple star by her name. She’s a definite MAYBE. So is Marc Manchester.

  Fredrich Allen, however, is an absolute NO. He’s one of those pick-and-chew nose people.

  There’s a knock on my door. “Amber, honey. May I come in?”

  I put the list under my pillow. “Sure.”

  My mother comes in, carrying a bowl and two spoons. I know that this is not nutritionally sound, and we shouldn’t turn to food. But I can’t help myself today.”

  She sits down on my bed.

  Looking into the bowl, I say, “My favorite,” as I see double fudge brownie mix with all of the ingredients, but unbaked.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I give her a hug.

  “Promise me that for the rest of the week you’ll take fruit to school for dessert.” She holds back the spoon.

  “I promise.”

  She hands the spoon over.

  We both eat out of the bowl for a while and then my mother says, “Amber. I want to talk with you.”

  There’s no such thing as a free brownie mix, I think.

  She continues. “What’s going on between you and Justin? Why have you two stopped talking?”

  How do I tell her about the chewing gum ball, how he won’t talk to me about leaving, how he acts as if going away is one of the easiest things in the world.

  I shake my head.

  If I start to talk about it, I’ll start to cry.

  My mother puts the bowl and spoons on my desk and puts her arms around me.

  “Amber.” She kisses the top of my head.

  I don’t pull away when she does that although I usually do when she does it in front of other people.

  “Amber.” She kisses the top of my head again. “I know that you are going to miss Justin. The two of you have a very special friendship.”

  “Not anymore, we don’t,” I say, starting to sniffle. “He’s a jerk, a total and absolute jerk.”

  She continues. “It’s hard when people leave you. Sometimes, even though it’s not your fault, you think it is.”

  “I hate him.” The tears start even though I don’t want them to.

  “No, you don’t.” My mother looks at me. “Honey, you’re very angry now, but you know that Justin is your friend.”

  “He is not,” I say.

  “So tell me what’s going on.” She smooths my hair. “It’ll be easier if you can talk about it.”

  I shake my head.

  Continuing to smooth my hair, she says, “Sometimes when people have to leave each other, they act as if it isn’t happening or they pick a fight so it won’t seem so hard to go. In this case, it looks like both. But think of all the good times you and Ju
stin are missing right now because you’ve stopped talking.”

  I start to cry more.

  I hate to cry.

  Sometimes I’m afraid that if I start, I’ll never stop.

  And now I’ve started.

  My mother hugs me.

  She hugs.

  I cry.

  We sit for a while and then I back away. “Mr. Cohen says that our bodies are made up of 80 percent liquid. The way I’ve been crying, the Weather Bureau could call me a drought. Thanks for the hug, Mom,” I say. “I’ll be okay now.”

  “Do you want to be alone?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” She gives me one more hug and then walks out.

  I stare at her as she leaves.

  I’m so lucky to have a mother who doesn’t act like my feelings don’t count, just because I’m a kid.

  I take out my list and look at it.

  Then I rip it up.

  Getting a best friend isn’t like making a shopping list.

  I take Justin’s school picture out of the drawer by my bed.

  It’s a little messy since I drew a black eye on him and used the red pen to give him chicken pox.

  I look at the picture for a while and think. . . . He’s going to miss me. Who else is going to whisper the correct word to him in reading group? Who else is going to make faces when some goofy grown-up says, “So your name is Justin, like in the song ‘Justin Time’?” Who else is going to give up her cookie wafers for him? Cheer for him even when he strikes out? Who else is going to convince Danny that it’s “Big Boy” to make his brother’s bed for him?

  I’ll tell you something.

  He’s going to miss me.

  I’ll tell you something else.

  I’m going to miss him.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Today, Mr. Cohen’s class is going to have a pizza party.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news is that it’s a going-away party for my ex-best friend, Justin Daniels, and we still haven’t spoken to each other.

  I’ve been waiting for him to say “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what he’s been waiting for.

  So we’ve been sitting in class right next to each other without saying a word.

  Well, hardly a word.

  I confess. Once I did say, “Hey, dirt bag. Would you please pass the eraser?”

  And he said, “Crayon brain, get your own eraser.”

  It hurts a lot but I’m not going to give in on this one.

  Justin is just so stubborn.

  Today, the class “returned” from our trip to China.

  Next we’ll be “going” to Australia.

  I can’t wait.

  Justin, however, won’t be “going.” He’ll be going to Alabama for real.

  I wish Al Abama was a real person so I could tell him how much I hate him.

  As Brandi Colwin walks by our desks, I call out, “Hey, Brandi. Don’t forget. We’re going to sit next to each other when we go to Australia.”

  Then Justin turns to Hannah and says, “I’ll be sure to send you some postcards from Alabama.”

  I yawn, a big yawn, right in his face, to show I don’t care, and then I pretend to scrunch up over my worksheet so that he can’t see that I’m very close to crying.

  Mr. Cohen flicks the lights off and on. “The pizza will be here in five minutes. Extra cheese, mushrooms, the works.”

  I pick up my head and look over at Justin.

  He doesn’t look any happier than I feel.

  I make a decision and call out, “Tell the guy to hold the anchovies,” and then look right at Justin, pretending to be holding wiggly anchovies.

  He starts to laugh.

  I pretend to flip an anchovy over to him.

  He pretends to grab it.

  “Let’s go stand in the hall for a minute,” Justin says, picking up his knapsack.

  We both walk over to Mr. Cohen and ask to go out in the hall for a few minutes.

  “Sure.” He motions to the door.

  As we walk out, I think I hear Mr. Cohen say, “Finally.”

  Once we get out there, we just stand quietly for a few minutes.

  Then we both say “I’m sorry” at the same time and link pinkies.

  “I don’t want you to go.” I start to cry, just a little.

  Justin takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t want to go either. You think this is easy? My new school is so big. I don’t know anyone there. What if I forget my locker combination? All the kids there already know each other. My parents say I have to be brave, to be a good example for Danny. That it will be fun. But I know my mom is nervous about moving, too. I heard her talking to your mom. And it’s too late to join a little league team, and everyone there thinks I talk funny and I have to learn to say ‘Y’all’ and ‘Ma’am,’ and . . . and . . .”

  I say, “And?”

  Justin turns red. “And I’m going to miss you.”

  I smile for what seems like the first time in years.

  We stand for a few minutes and then I say, “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

  “Because you stopped talking to me,” he says.

  “You wouldn’t talk to me.” I defend myself. “Not about the important stuff.”

  “It’s hard.” He looks down at his untied shoelaces.

  I say, “I want you to stay.”

  Justin looks up. “Me, too. But I can’t. My parents are making me go. But they said you and your mom could visit this summer.”

  This summer. I better start practicing “Y’all” and “Ma’am.”

  Justin pulls something out of his knapsack.

  It’s a badly wrapped present.

  I open the package.

  It’s a tissue box.

  Inside the tissue box is the chewing gum ball.

  “Thanks. It’s the best present ever,” I say, knowing that I will save it for the rest of my life.

  The pizza guy arrives with ten pizzas. My stomach smells the extra cheese. Mr. Cohen comes out.

  “You two better get inside before everyone eats up all of this pizza. It’s your party, Justin.”

  As we walk inside, I think about how it will be when Justin and I grow up and he doesn’t have to move just because his parents move.

  Maybe someday we can open our own company. I’ll be president one week and he’ll be president the next. We’ll sell jars of icing and boxes of cookies.

  Maybe someday we’ll travel around the world trying out new flavors of chewing gum, and the chewing gum ball will get so big that we’ll build a house for it.

  Until then, maybe, I can save some of my allowance each week and call Justin once in a while. He can do the same.

  I think I’m going to learn his new phone number by heart.

  Whenever I think about third grade, I’m going to think about Justin, and I bet he’s always going to think about me.

  Turn the page

  for a preview of

  YOU CAN’T EAT YOUR CHICKEN POX,

  AMBER BROWN

  Chapter

  One

  Third grade.

  Here today.

  Gone tomorrow.

  I can hardly believe it.

  It seems like just yesterday was the first day of school.

  New pens, pencils, erasers, notebooks, clothes, a brain that had a chance to take a break over summer vacation . . . all of the things a kid needs to start a new school year.

  Now it’s the last day of school . . . just in time.

  My pens are out of ink. My pencils are stubs. My erasers are all erased. My clothes are getting too small and my brain needs to take a break over summer vacation.

  It’s definitely time for school to end.

  “All right, class. Take a few more minutes to finish cleaning out your desks and then the party can begin,” Mr. Cohen, our teacher, calls out.

  Waving a six-inch rubber lizard in his ha
nd, Mr. Cohen looks ready for vacation, too. Not only has he had to do all the regular end-of-the-year teacher junk, but he’s also had to do lots of extra stuff . . . because of what we all call THE POX PLAGUE.

  For the last month, practically everyone in our class has come down with the chicken pox.

  In class, people have either been absent or here and covered with scabs.

  It got so bad that I even made up a sign to put on our door that says:

  WELCOME TO SCAB CITY.

  I, Amber Brown, have not been absent, have not gotten the chicken pox.

  I am one healthy kid.

  I never catch anything . . . . . except fireflies . . . . . and I let them go.

  “Be finishing up,” Mr. Cohen tells us.

  I cram more of my stuff into my knapsack . . . my stick of lip gloss for when my lips get chapped (I only use it in the winter so it’s gotten a little melted now that it’s almost summer) . . . the good-luck troll that my Aunt Pam sent to help me get through my math tests easily. I’m glad that she sent it but really nothing can help me get through math tests easily . . . except my best friend, Justin Daniels, who could explain it to me so that I understood it. But he moved away.

  I pull out the large ball of used chewing gum that Justin and I collected.

  He gave it to me when he left and I plan to keep it forever.

  I’ve kept it in my desk because I knew it would be safe there and I haven’t had to worry about my mom finding it and thinking that it’s gross or something.

  Next, I pull out a small photo album. I call it my “Dad Book.” Now that my parents are separated, Mom doesn’t really want pictures of him around the house. . . . I miss him a lot. He’s so far away . . . in France . . . so I made up the “Dad Book” and keep it in my desk. There are pictures of my dad, alone and with me in them. There are even a few pictures of Dad, Mom, and me together, pictures taken before they split up this year, when we were all still happy . . . or at least I thought that we were happy.

  Keeping the top of the desk over my head, I open the book to one of the pictures, give it a fast kiss and whisper, “Hi, Dad. Today’s the last day of school. . . . I miss you and can’t wait to see you this summer.”