“If I’m not stuck with a tutor all summer,” I reminded her.
“I bet things will end up better than you think,” she replied.
“And I agree with Lucille,” said Jolina. “Give yourself more credit. You’re smart. You just lose it sometimes with math.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” I said.
A sense of dread—the feeling I’d be stuck with a tutor all summer—stayed with me through silent reading and a science lesson (not about rigor mortis).
Finally it was time to get ready for P.E. Lucille shoved her book into her desk and grabbed her homework folder. As she crammed it into her backpack, she looked at me and smiled. The moment had come to hear Ms. Carpenter’s news, but I wasn’t going to shove anything anywhere. I was particular about how my desk looked—everything had its special place. I carefully placed my books and pencils in their correct spots and tucked my homework folder in my backpack.
“Class, I have something very exciting to share with you,” said Ms. Carpenter. She stood in front of us, hiding something behind her back, and smiled.
This was it—the big announcement. I stole a peek at Lucille and Jolina. Lucille looked like she was imagining herself in a bridesmaid dress, and Jolina appeared to be mentally spending all her allowance at the Mall of America. As for me, I could already taste the pepperoni pizza.
“As I’m sure you’re all aware, there are only three weeks left of school before summer vacation. That’s not enough time to teach a whole new math unit. Therefore, the fifth-grade teachers have de-cided there will be no more math tests for the rest of the year.”
“Sweet!” Jimmy yelled out.
“Zut alors!” said Jean-Pierre.
Was I hearing this correctly? No more math tests? Maybe my luck had finally changed. This was my dream come true and far better than any pizza party, field trip, or wedding. Life could not have gotten any better.
Cheering filled the room, and things didn’t quiet down until Ms. Carpenter clapped her hands together.
“Hold on. Let me finish, please. That doesn’t mean there won’t be any more math.”
Groans replaced the cheers.
“Instead,” she paused and grinned, “we will hold Victor Waldo Elementary’s first ever math fair!”
Dead silence filled the air (unless you counted the cricket chirping in the back of the room).
Surely she was joking. A math fair? Of course, I was thrilled there’d be no more tests, but a math fair didn’t exactly seem … well, fair. However, when given the choice, I’d take a math fair over a test any day. While the situation wasn’t ideal, it certainly wasn’t horrible.
“What exactly is a math fair?” asked Lucille, a note of disappointment in her voice. So much for her hopes of being a bridesmaid.
“It’s a chance for us to look back on the math we’ve covered this year. You can work together in teams to design a display booth with posters and props about a math unit you’ve chosen. Then, on the day of the fair, everyone will walk around and visit the other classrooms and view their displays. It’ll be a fun way to review everything, and I’m sure you would agree it beats taking more tests.”
While I did agree it beat doing a bunch of tests, it was crystal clear to me her definition of fun was way different than mine. Still, it sounded pretty painless.
“Can we pick our own teams?” someone asked.
“Yes, you may. You’ll need three or four people per team,” Ms. Carpenter replied.
“What about our math unit? Can we pick that, too?”
“Sort of,” she said. “I’ve written down the units we’ve covered this year and put them in this hat.” She brought out a ball cap from behind her back. “Each team will draw from the hat to see what topic they’ll review. I’ll give you a few minutes to put your teams together, then I’ll walk around with the hat.”
I immediately looked toward Jolina and Lucille, and we scooted our desks together, waiting our turn to draw. I watched as topics like equivalent fractions, long division, and multiplication were pulled out of the hat. Ms. Carpenter came around to our desks, and I looked anxiously at Lucille and Jolina.
“I don’t want to pick. One of you do it,” I said.
“Oh, I’ll pick it!” said Jolina. I could tell by the squeal in her voice she considered this more fun than her imagined field trip. She dropped her hand into the hat and plucked out a small folded piece of paper.
Opening it, she read aloud, “Time conversions.”
I took back what I had thought earlier. The math fair had just gotten painfully horrible. A tight knot formed in my stomach. Anything but time conversions! I was always forgetting how to do them. Could life possibly get any worse?
“Oh!” Ms. Carpenter exclaimed, interrupting my downward-spiraling depression. “I almost forgot. Two more things. Number one, there will be guest judges who will award first-, second-, and third-prize ribbons for each class. They’ll also pick one Best of Show project out of all the classes. That group will receive a special prize. I’ll let you know who the judges are and what the prize is as we get closer to the day of the fair. I won’t be a judge, but I will be grading your projects—which brings me to my second item. Since this is a major project we will be working on for a couple of weeks both in and out of class, your math fair presentation will count as two test grades, so make sure your team does its best work.”
Two test grades! I closed my eyes and dropped my head into my hands. The math fair was not an improvement at all; it was a complete disaster. If the math fair didn’t go well for me, neither would my summer break. I turned to stare out the window. The gray storm clouds hung heavy with rain and a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Another storm? As it was, the score stood rainstorms 4, me 0.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEAD BALL
dead ball
noun ded bawl
—a phenomenon in many sports in which the ball is deemed temporarily not playable
Ms. Carpenter’s announcement that our math fair grade would equal two test grades made my head hurt. I almost didn’t hear her tell us to stack our chairs and get ready to go to P.E.
P.E. was the one bright spot in my day. I looked forward to it for a couple reasons. First of all, it meant my school day was almost over and I could go home. Second, despite the fact that I wasn’t athletically gifted, I still enjoyed the relay races, fitness tests, soccer games, and even badminton. My favorite game by far was kickball—especially when our class was playing Mrs. Fyffe’s, like we were today. Coach Harris flipped a coin to see who would kick first; we won.
Jolina, Lucille, and I sat next to each other on the bench, waiting for our chance to kick. My friends’ non-stop chatter about the math fair annoyed me, and I tried my best to tune them out as they planned ways to decorate our display. Instead, I focused my attention on the game, determined to enjoy it. The rain was holding off, and soon our class scored two runs.
When it was Jimmy’s turn to kick, he did his “crazy leg” dance and bellowed, “Watch out, far field! Here comes the crazy leg!”
Everyone in Ms. Carpenter’s class cheered because we all knew Jimmy’s crazy leg kick was the most spectacular thing that could happen for our team. Kindergarteners through fifth graders knew all about Jimmy’s skills with a kickball. His funky little dance always culminated in a kick so hard and fierce it was uncatchable.
Always.
Until today.
Jimmy let loose with a tremendous kick and the ball ripped through the air, soaring into far left field. He sprinted around first and second as several kids from Mrs. Fyffe’s class scrambled to chase after the ball. However, they skidded to a stop when they reached it. We watched, waiting for them to pick up the ball and throw it home, but no one moved. They just stood still, gawking at the ground.
“Pick up the ball and throw it!” Coach Harris hollered.
One of them yelled something back to Coach Harris, but I couldn’t understand what was said
. He rolled his eyes, tossed down his clipboard, and jogged toward left field. Jimmy rounded home plate and launched into his victory dance, but no one paid him any attention. We were all watching the group in the field. Curiosity got the better of us and we scurried over to see what the big stink was.
And big stink was putting it lightly.
Apparently Mr. Leeford, the custodian, hadn’t had a chance to remove the dead opossum; it was still lying there on its back with its legs sticking straight up in the air and the flies were still buzzing around. Only now, a kickball was wedged between its front and back legs. Nobody alive had ever managed to catch one of Jimmy’s crazy leg balls, so in an odd way it seemed appropriate it was caught, so to speak, by something dead.
The sight of the dead opossum holding a ball was all the boys needed to whoop and cheer. It was also all poor Jolina needed to throw up. Harry and Jean-Pierre, shouting that they finally had confirmation that the opossum was in fact dead and not just faking it, jumped up in the air and chest-bumped each other.
Jimmy pointed to the animal. “Dude! That’s crazy! It’s the most awesome thing ever!” He turned to us to slap high-fives but suddenly stopped and asked Coach Harris, “Hey Coach, am I out? This doesn’t count as a catch, does it, Coach?”
Coach Harris, clearly distracted by a dead animal and thirty-two kids who were either cheering, screaming, or vomiting, glared at Jimmy and growled, “Be useful, Jimmy. Take Jolina to the nurse and then go find Mr. Leeford. Ask him to come here as quickly as possible and to bring a shovel!”
He ran his hand over his face and appeared, for the first time, to really take in the chaos that surrounded him. He fumbled around, grabbed his whistle, and blew it. “Enough!” he yelled. “Everyone go back to the gym and get ready for dismissal!”
I found it ironic that something dead had added so much life to my day. I hadn’t the faintest idea how Coach Harris would retrieve the kickball or what he would do about the opossum, or even if Jimmy was out or not, but it had made for a very interesting time in P.E., and, for a brief moment, I had forgotten about my math problem.
CHAPTER FIVE
CONTROL FREAK
con·trol freak
noun kǒn-trohl freek
—person with a strong need to exercise control
I barely made it through the front door before the rain started pouring. I could hear Mom on the phone in the kitchen as I headed in to grab a snack. I plopped down on the bar stool, exhaled a deep sigh, and began to peel an orange.
“I completely agree with you … Mmm … hmmm … Well, I need to go. Ella’s home now so I’m going to see how her day went. She’s sighing deeply while peeling fruit … Yes, never a good sign.”
After putting down the phone, she came and sat on the stool next to me.
“Rough day at school, huh?”
“Quite possibly the worst in history,” I replied. “Unless, of course, you count the time when Jimmy brought his pet spider—pardon me, pet Jonathan—to school. Which, in fact, was a Chilean rose tarantula, and which, after escaping, decided to make its new home in my desk.”
She smiled. “Yes, well, that would be hard to top. Why don’t you tell me what happened that made today so awful?”
I told her all about my wet shoes, frizzy hair, muddy clothes, the close encounter with the dead opossum, the pop quiz, and the dreaded math fair. I had her complete sympathy until I got to the part when the opossum caught the kickball. She laughed until tears ran down her face.
“Sounds like that poor possum had a far worse day than you did,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah, but at least his math worries, if he even had any, are over. What am I going to do about this math fair? Ms. Carpenter says it counts for two math tests. Two, Mom!” I ripped away a small chunk of peel from the orange. “You know how freaked out I get about math. Luckily Lucille and Jolina are both on my team. Hopefully they’ll get us a good grade.”
“You have to carry your own weight on this, too, Ella. You can’t just let your friends do all the work and sponge off their effort.”
“I know,” I grumped. “But for some reason they’re all happy about doing math.”
She smiled. “Lucille doesn’t ever seem to get upset over anything. That’s why I call her Happy-Go-Lucky-Lucy.”
I called her Lucy-Goosey, for the same reason. Lucille was so relaxed about life that her little brother could dump cat food in her drawers of clean clothes and she would laugh about it.
Mom continued. “As for Jolina, she has too much common sense to let something like a math fair get her worked up.”
“Yeah—that and the fact she’s brilliant at everything,” I muttered.
She sighed. “What would it take to make you happy about doing math?”
“It would make me happy to never deal with it again. My stomach gets queasy, my palms get sweaty. I forget steps. I’m always second-guessing my work. I’m probably the only person in my class who doesn’t get it. Actually, I think I’m allergic to math and should probably just stop doing it.”
“You’re not allergic, Ella. And you can’t stick your head in the sand and hope math goes away.”
I sat up straighter. “It works for ostriches.”
“You’re not an ostrich, young lady. And I promise you that you aren’t the only kid who ‘doesn’t get it.’ Everybody has trouble sometimes. The key is not to let a few mistakes affect your attitude about something for the rest of your life.”
“You’re doing it again, Mom—treating me like one of your clients.”
She squeezed my hand and ignored my remark. “The most important thing is to work through your fear of making a mistake. You need to process those feelings.”
Processing feelings was a big deal to her. I actually didn’t know what she meant half the time, but I always smiled and acted like I understood.
She kissed the top of my head. “You love science, right?”
I nodded.
“Science and math are closely related. Scientists look at a situation, explore and experiment with it, and figure out the best way to go about solving their problem. They take it slow. Step by step. Just imagine when you’re working on a math question you’re, in a sense, really doing a science experiment. See what happens, okay?”
I got up and tossed the orange peel bits in the trash. The shredded pieces looked a lot like my summer plans.
She continued talking. “Look at all the scientific discoveries made from mistakes. Louis Pasteur accidentally found a vaccine for rabies. Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. Even Silly Putty came about all because of a mistake.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Come on, really? Silly Putty?”
She smiled, reached for her apron, and tied it around her waist. “Now, I’ve got a surprise for you. Guess who I was talking to on the phone?”
I shrugged. “Ms. Carpenter?”
“Nope. Guess again.”
“Dad?”
She made a buzzer sound. “Ehh. Wrong answer. I was talking to your Aunt Willa!”
“Wacky Willa!”
“Yes. She’s back in the country for a few months—until September.” She paused and smiled at me. “Actually, she’s having some renovations done on her condo and she’s going to stay with us for about a month!”
“Really? That’s awesome!”
My Aunt Willa was a photojournalist who spent a ton of time traveling around the world to pretty cool places. Because of some of the things she’d done just to take photos—like hang off the side of a mountain, swim with sharks, and crazy stuff like that—she’d nicknamed herself Wacky Willa.
She was also my favorite aunt. We both loved mysteries and the color turquoise and we agreed that pizza with pepperoni and pineapple was, without a doubt, the best in the world. Plus, she knew I collected turtles, so each time she went somewhere, she’d send me a new one for my collection. I had close to thirty turtles from all over the world.
“So, when does she get here?”
&nb
sp; “Tomorrow.” Mom shifted her feet and thought for a moment, then spoke. “Here’s the thing though, Ella. Since we’ve turned the guest room into my home office, she’s going to need to stay with you in your room.”
“Oh.”
My room was … well, my room. It’s not that I didn’t want to share; it was that I was very particular about how my room looked. A vein in my forehead began to throb. My room was like my desk at school—everything had its own special place. My furniture was evenly spaced along the walls and my books were alphabetized by title. My turtle collection was meticulously arranged on my dresser, based on which continent and then country the turtles came from. I liked my room a certain way and didn’t want someone coming in and changing things—even my favorite aunt.
“What about the sofa? It’s pretty comfortable and compared to camping I bet she’d love it.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s not going to sleep on our sofa for a month. Besides, she’ll need a place to store her things. I don’t want her feeling like she has to live out of a suitcase.”
“Maybe we could convert the garage into a bedroom? I know there’s no air conditioning, but she could sleep with the garage door open.”
“Ella.” Mom’s tone warned me her mind was made up, and once she was set on something, there was no convincing her otherwise.
I tossed my hands up in surrender. “Fine.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” she said (although, in my personal opinion, I thought it came out a bit sarcastic). “She’s also bringing Chewy with her. As long as he spends most of his time outdoors, your dad is okay with him being here.”
Chewy was a bulldozer disguised as a dog and he had the IQ of a walnut. Aunt Willa had found him as a stray puppy eating from her garbage can. He stayed with her friends when she traveled. We’d never had him at our house before because our backyard didn’t have a fence. But Dad had built one during his last vacation, which made us ready to Chewy-sit.
Mom opened the refrigerator door. “Now help me figure out what we should have for dinner. Oh! I know—how about some meatloaf?”
Dead Possums Are Fair Game Page 2
