Kate the Great, Except When She's Not

by Suzy Becker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual art teachers, Girl Scout leaders, or other

  persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Suzy Becker

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for

  Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division

  of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks

  of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,

  visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Becker, Suzy.

  Kate the great except when she’s not / Suzy Becker. —First edition.

  p. cm. — (Kate the great)

  Summary: Fifth-grader Kate faces a challenge when her mother asks her

  to be especially nice to Nora, a classmate and fellow flute player who is

  sometimes mean.

  Trade paperback ISBN 978-0-385-38742-2 — Library binding ISBN 978-0-

  385-38743-9 — eBook ISBN 978-0-385-38744-6

  [1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Family life—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.B3817174Kat 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013046710

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment

  and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Kate Not Katie

  Thanks A Lot (Not)

  POD 429

  He-e·e-re’s Rocky!

  Bob

  Some Big News

  N-O-N-O-R · A

  Roosevelt Shmelt

  Nerues Central

  Trolly Moly

  My Moment Musical

  Con Bad Gratulations

  Maryland Top 543

  The News

  Eureka

  Say What?

  Deplorably Yours

  Twenty · Six Ways

  Screwball Saturday

  Small Problem

  Afternoon - Mare

  Nightmare

  Kerr - Fuffle

  Horse Tales

  Victory?

  Round-Up

  If Wishes Were Horses

  Fun Planning

  Up-N-Down

  L-O-N-G Day

  Leter (Same Long Day)

  Stella by Candlelight

  Party Planning

  President Johnson

  O-n-o-not This Again-o-r-a

  Negative Space

  Ratsa and Double-Raza

  Colon Explodes

  Yek, Ratsa · A Star, Key

  V.I.P

  Showtime

  Fun Fun Fun

  Mostly Funday

  Mein Haus is Haunted

  Slumber Party ≠ Sleep

  Sayonara Single Digits

  Eleven Candles

  Warp-Up

  In My Next Great Book

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author - Illustrator

  My best friend, Brooke, and I have Mrs. Block for fifth grade, except we are trying to pretend we are not best friends so Mrs. Block will put us together when she does the new seating chart, which we hope is extremely soon. This one is obviously not working.

  Brooke is making this ridiculous begging face right behind Mrs. Block, and I have to think of something extremely sad (besides sitting next to Peter Buttrick forever, like Pop-Tarts becoming extinct or losing my electronics privileges) so I won’t laugh.

  “Okay, kiddos, let’s put away our writing journals and get ready to go to specials.” This is Mrs. Block’s first year teaching fifth grade—she used to teach third grade, which is why she calls us kiddos and asks easy questions like “There are two kinds of writing, fiction and _________.” Or “Are you ready for recess?”

  Easy Question du Jour: “Today is an F day. Who can tell me what our special is?”

  I raise my hand. Meanwhile, she gives the class a hint: “It is circled on the board.” Pretty much everybody is laughing except for Mrs. Block. I stare at my desk very hard and pray that Mrs. Block will not ask me to explain what is so funny.

  My prayer is answered. Mrs. Block turns to look at the board, and miracle of teacher miracles, she is actually smiling. “Well, I’ll never have to ask that again! What were the chances?!”

  “Seventeen percent,” Eliza calls out. Eliza is a math genius.

  “Seventeen percent is correct, Eliza!” Mrs. Block is still smiling as we line up to go to art.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Brooke asks, holding up her flute, which reminds me I am forgetting to make an announcement, so I raise my hand. “Mrs. Block, we do not need our instruments in band today.”

  Nora Klein is in Ms. Crowley-the-not-so-secret-girlfriend-of-Mr.-Bryant-the-band-teacher’s class. Yesterday afternoon on the bus, Nora told me I didn’t need my flute for the first practice, which is kind of unforgettable since Nora Klein is famous for sitting by herself on the bus and not talking to anybody.

  We wait while people put their instruments away, so we are approximately two minutes late for art class.

  Mrs. Petty is at the door, looking at her watch because we are constantly running out of time for our art projects. News flash: NOT OUR FAULT!

  “Mrs. Petty should time herself taking attendance,” Brooke says. This is an extremely excellent idea, and my watch happens to have an excellent stopwatch.

  “Katie Geller?” Six minutes and twelve seconds later, Mrs. Petty is only on the Gs.

  “Kate,” I say. I have not been “Katie” since first grade.

  “Kate,” she repeats, and she makes a note for the fourth year in a row.

  It takes Mrs. Petty fourteen minutes (13:49 to be exact) to finish attendance, which is more than a half minute per person, except she spends a full three minutes trying to pronounce “Hui Zong Tian,” the new girl’s name.

  “It’s Hway Zong!” I say without raising my hand. I will not let Mrs. Petty ruin Hui Zong’s name. “Beautiful on the inside and smart on the outside, in Chinese.” (We had to write essays about our names for Mrs. Block last week.) Mrs. Petty does not make a note of it.

  Twelve minutes left until band, not that I am particularly looking forward to band.

  I am particularly looking forward to: a) getting out of art, and b) the end of band, which equals the end of the day, which equals Junior Guides, our first meeting of the year!!!

  Mrs. Petty sits next to Brooke. “Today we are going to begin our self-portraits. Everybody please gather for a demonstration.” She takes her piece of paper and sits it like a place mat in front of her. “I am going to do a self-portrait. Do I want my paper like this, hot dog–style?”

  “No, I want my paper like this,” she says, rotating her paper. “If I am going to draw myself, do I want a head this big?”

  Zombie chorus: “NO.”

  “Like this?”

  “NO.”

  “I want my head somewhere in the—”

  Zombie chorus: “MID-dle.”

  The zombie trance is broken.

  We run-walk to band. We are the last ones AND we are the only ones without our instruments. Mr. Bryant says, “You four can read along and turn the pages for your section-mates.”

  “Thanks a lot, Kate,
” Thomas Bergen growls on his way to the trumpet section. Meanwhile, I am making the world’s pointiest dagger-eyes at Nora Klein, but she will only look at Mr. Bryant.

  “Thanks a real lot, Nora.” I turn and slide into the seat beside her.

  She has the nerve to say “So welcome!” Ugh, I could kick myself, and I am looking at my feet figuring out how that would work exactly when Nora Klein loud-whispers, “PAGE TURN!”

  I reach to turn the page and my hand catches the bottom of the music stand and the whole thing wobbles but decides not to go over. Nora turns her own page in a huff, which she could have done in the first place, minus the huff.

  Eight measures’ rest—oh yes! Nora Klein cannot count her way out of a paper bag. She has to watch me sideways to see when I pick up my flute, but I do not have my flute and now I have taken up staring at Mr. Bryant. Eight, two-three-four. Nine, two-three-four.

  Mr. Bryant taps his stand with his conductor stick. “Where are my flutes?!” I look at Nora. Problem is, I can feel Mr. Bryant looking at me. “Page turners, you have nothing to do but count. Cue your section-mates.” He puts his stick down and sits on the stool. Here comes a speech. “Band, my friends, is a team sport.”

  “Everybody must give every job her best—refer to Band Handbook Rule Number Three!” (Mr. Bryant holds up three fingers.) “Not just for herself, but for the good of the team. Section leaders, those of you who have expressed an interest”—he is looking at me again—“are expected to be exactly that. Leaders.” Mr. Bryant stands and raises his stick. “From the top.”

  Nora jabs me—“PAGE!”—and waits for me to turn the page back to the beginning, as if she didn’t have any arms of her own.

  I have a whole page and a half to figure out how I will cue my section-mate.

  In the end, I loud-whisper, “NOW!” Mr. Bryant shakes his head and keeps going. Here’s something I never thought I’d say: I wish I were back in art class.

  The page turners put away the music stands while everybody else puts away their instruments. “See you on the bus, Katie,” Nora calls on her way out the door.

  “Yes, please save me a seat!” I call back.

  Brooke says, “Wait, you’re not taking the bus!”

  “Exactly! She was the one who told me we didn’t need instruments. Besides, it’s good practice. I’ve never seen Nora Klein save anyone a seat.”

  Brooke and I grab our backpacks and head to the cafetorium for Junior Guides. I try to put Nora out of my mind.

  This is my last year as a Junior Guide. I am pretty positively (not to brag) going to be a squad leader, and since I have zero intentions of going on to Senior Guides, I have a hundred intentions of making this the best year ever.

  Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Hallberg are already in the cafetorium. So is Mrs. Staughton, Heather’s mom. Mrs. Staughton is a substitute gym teacher. She’s sticking around to help out. (You will never see my mother at a Junior Guide meeting; she is a lawyer and she works a thousand hours a week.)

  Mrs. Lawrence is our leader. Now that her girls are in college, we are her girls. It’s too soon to tell how long Mrs. Hallberg (the assistant leader) will last. Her daughter just moved up to Senior Guides and she specifically asked her mother not to follow her.

  “Do you have any jobs for us?” I ask. I am determined to help Brooke start this year off on a good note. Last year ended on a bad note, literally. She had to write Mrs. Hallberg an apology for calling her Mrs. Hurl Bag. (We all used to call her that, only Brooke got caught.)

  Mrs. Hallberg said it was one of the loveliest notes she has ever received. I wish I had seen it because I personally cannot imagine how anything with the words “hurl bag” in it could be lovely. Anyhow, according to Mrs. H., “All is forgiven.”

  Mrs. Lawrence hands me the cupcakes so Brooke and I can put them out on a couple of Chinet $uper-premium paper plates. (We never get Chinet at our house.)

  Unfortunately for the cupcakes (fortunately for us, YUM), most of the tops are stuck to the Tupperware lid.

  Then I hear Brooke actually asking, “Mrs. Lawrence, do you have a knife so we can refrost the cupcakes?”

  Mrs. Staughton has a Swiss Army knife. She also has two sets of plastic picnic silverware and twenty-seven thousand other things in her fanny pack. We refrost the cupcakes, and Mrs. S. watches her plastic picnic knives to make sure we don’t lick them.

  At 3:30, Mrs. Lawrence makes the quiet signal. Mrs. Hallberg raises her right hand high over her head and stares at Mrs. Staughton until Mrs. Staughton raises her hand, revealing a lima-bean-shaped pool of underarm sweat the size of Little Pond, our town beach. I am pretty sure everyone is noticing but I forget to ask them later, because what happens next is much too shocking.

  “Girls, I’d like to introduce the new leader of Pod 429—your new leader—Mrs. Staughton.” Everybody claps because Mrs. Lawrence is clapping. Then Mrs. Lawrence says some words about finally retiring, but I have an ocean between my ears and I cannot possibly hear them.

  Next thing you know, Mrs. Lawrence is gone and Mrs. Staughton is ON. “Let’s all stand and recite our Junior Guide Promise.” You can still see a little of Little Pond with Mrs. Staughton’s arm raised only halfway.

  “Can this day get any worse?” I say to Brooke, and she doesn’t have to answer because Heather Staughton does.

  “I HEARD THAT!” She squints her eyes at me and my stomach balls up.

  I’m not saying that I could have, but explaining myself to Heather while her mother is talking does not seem like an excellent idea. “In conclusion, my main message to you girls is this: We have some terrific things planned, but I am going to need everybody’s help to make this the best year possible.”

  Brooke whispers in my ear, “Translation: I am clueless. Please take advantage of me.”

  “I HEARD THAT!” Heather says, all squinty again, except this time I know for a fact she could not possibly have heard a word. So, skip the apology.

  I walk over all casual-like and say, “I was just telling Brooke I can’t wait for your mother to be leader. It’s going to be so much more …” I am trying to think of a truthful word.

  “Exercise-ful,” says Brooke.

  Heather eats the frosting off a cupcake without removing the wrapper and puts it back on the plate. “I’m not so excited. Who wants to be the leader’s daughter?”

  I could see her point, but at the same time, I can see my mother jumping up and down outside the cafetorium windows and I have to make sure no one else does. “My mom’s here, gottago!”

  “Is Heather’s mom doing a gym patch, Monkey?” my mom asks on our way to the car.

  “I wish.” My mom moves the groceries off the backseat and points to my sister Fern, who is fast asleep in her car seat. “Mrs. Staughton is actually our new leader,” I say softly. “AND she doesn’t believe in patches.” My mom doesn’t iron or sew, so that’s probably the best news she’s heard all day.

  “I can’t believe Shera Lawrence is moving on,” my mom says. “What about your election?”

  “We didn’t vote. The ‘jury’s still out’ on squad leaders AND the Big Spring Camp-In AND most of the rest of the best stuff.”

  “Well, let’s just wait until the jury’s back in.” She puts my hair behind my ear. I put it where it was. “Change is exciting, Monkey,” says the woman who thinks talking to each other is exciting, which is why we can’t watch movies in the car.

  “Hey, guess who I saw at the supermarket?” She waits for me to buckle myself in.

  “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Great guess!” Mom smiles in the rearview mirror. “Mrs. Klein.”

  “Well, guess who told me we didn’t need to bring our instruments today even though she knew we did and I got stuck turning her pages AND—”

  “MA!” My four-year-old sister, Fern, is awake, which is a synonym for “end of conversation.”

  My mom and I do the bag brigade into the house. Two bags each, plus our own personal bags (my backpack, her bri
efcase), and my mom is carrying Fern. I personally think: a) Fern is too old to be carried, and b) my mom secretly hopes Fern will be a baby forever.

  My dad is making dinner. Wednesday night is taco night. His hair smells like taco meat, technically turkey with the spice packet, when I hug him. “How was your day, Champ?” he asks.

  “ROCKY!” I yell, which is not my answer. Rocky is our dog, and his head plus his two front legs are in the bag I just put down.

  “Rocky, where’s Fern? Go see Fern! Good boy, find Fern!”

  “Nice one, Kate! I don’t think I ever used you as dog bait!”

  Meet my sister Robin.

  Things I could say:

  It is hard to argue—CORRECTION—WIN an argument with someone who is fifteen.

  “How was Mrs. Lawrence?” Robin asks. “Did you say hi for me?”

  “Mrs. Lawrence is retiring,” I answer.

  “Yes, it was a big surprise,” my mom chimes in from the other side of the kitchen. “But Mrs. Staughton is going to make a wonderful leader!”

  “Mrs. Staughton, the gym sub? Wait, what did we used to call her—?”

  “Never mind!” my mother interrupts. “Kate, why don’t you go feed Rocky?”

  Translation: Kate, why don’t you scoot, skedaddle, go on and run along?

  Rocky has eaten the same thing:

  After I feed Rocky, I go up to my room. Technically it’s Fern’s room, too, but Fern is never in it before dinner.

  My flute is where I purposely left it this morning. I take it out to practice. Rocky actually likes my band tryout piece. His ears won’t tolerate anything that goes above a high C; Bach’s Minuet in G never goes above the G.