Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit

by Paula Danziger

  I love Chinese food but I hate chopsticks.

  The only way that I don’t drop everything when I use them is if I spear the food.

  “Nice work, Amber. I can’t believe that you didn’t do your book report. Couldn’t you find a book to match your interests? Did the library lend out the last copy of Where’s Spot?” She picks up some cold noodles with sesame sauce on them and chopsticks them into her mouth.

  “Are you enjoying your lunch? Worms with worm doodoo, isn’t it? Mmmmmmm, good.”

  Hannah puts the chopsticks down for a minute, and then she picks them up again. “You are just so immature, Amber. Late growing up . . . . . . late turning in your homework.”

  I wonder what Hannah Burton would look like with chopsticks up her nose.

  Seeing Hannah with the chopsticks reminds me of last year when our class studied China, and Justin and I dueled with our chopsticks.

  Why couldn’t Hannah have moved to Alabama instead of Justin? Maybe she could have even moved to China.

  Tiffani Shroeder joins us.

  She opens up her lunch bag, looks inside, and says, “I’m going to kill that little goof-ball.”

  “What is it? What has Howie done this time?” I know who she is talking about. “Goofball” is one of the cleaner things that Tiffani calls her younger brother.

  Tiffani pulls something out of her lunch bag.

  It’s a Barbie doll wrapped in a piece of bologna. One of its arms sticks out through the bologna. The other arm sticks out of the top.

  “It’s Lunch Meat Barbie.” I giggle.

  “I’m going to get that kid.” Tiffani shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m going to get him.”

  “Is that your whole lunch? Want some of mine?” I offer her half of my sandwich.

  She looks back into the bag. “No, thanks. The little creep put this on top of the lunch that my mom made for me.”

  The rest of her lunch looks absolutely normal.

  I was hoping that Howie had done more. . . . .like included Barbie-Q chips or something . . . but for a five-year-old he does pretty well.

  We continue to eat and talk.

  Hannah Burton drops moo goo gai pan on her sweatshirt.

  I like lunchtime.

  It’s a good time for me to forget my problems.

  The first bell rings, and we take our garbage and throw it in the bins.

  As I walk back to class, I hear Mrs. Holt call out, “Amber.”

  I walk over to her.

  She’s very nice, but I just know that she’s mad at me.

  She says, “Amber, I would like you to see me after school before you go to Elementary Extension.”

  I nod.

  I, Amber Brown, am in deep trouble.

  Chapter

  Ten

  The end-of-the-day bell rings.

  Everyone else gets up to leave.

  I just sit there.

  “I’ll see you in Elementary Extension,” Brandi whispers. “Good luck.”

  Hannah Burton smirks at me.

  Smirk. Smirk. Smirk. Hannah Burton is such a jerk is what I think.

  Everyone else leaves.

  It’s me and Mrs. Holt, alone in the room.

  My stomach hurts.

  I, Amber Brown, never used to get in trouble in school . . . . . not for grades and not for not doing my work . . . sometimes for talking and giggling, but not for big stuff . . . . I don’t know what’s going to happen.

  I walk up to Mrs. Holt’s desk and wait until she’s finished writing something in her marking book.

  I stand there and look at the clock, waiting.

  Something must be wrong with the clock. I feel like it’s hours and I’ve only been standing here for minutes.

  Mrs. Holt looks up.

  “I’ll turn the book report in tomorrow,” I promise.

  “Amber, bring a chair over and sit down here.”

  I get the chair and sit down by the side of her desk.

  Her desk is so big. Her chair is so much higher than mine.

  I look up, try to smile, and wait for her to say something.

  She waits, too.

  There really must be something wrong with the clock. It’s ticking loudly, very loudly.

  I can’t stand the quiet. “Mrs. Holt. I promise I’ll bring the book report in tomorrow.”

  “Amber, what are we going to do?” She puts down her pen and looks at me. “I’ve sent a note home. Do you want me to start sending home worksheets with your assignments on them so that your mother can see them and sign them? Is that what you want?”

  “No.” I bite my lip and try not to cry.

  She looks at her marking book. “You’re missing assignments . . . . not just the book report, but three math homeworks, two essays. . . . and you’ve gotten low grades on several tests. And it’s only October.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, even though I know she’s right.

  “I’m sure.” She nods. “Amber, I know you can do the work. I’ve checked your records, spoken to your old teachers.”

  “They’re not so old,” I say, and then I put my hand over my mouth.

  I can’t believe that I said that. It just came into my brain and out of my mouth.

  She looks at me for a minute.

  It’s another very long minute, and then she smiles.

  Mrs. Holt has a very nice smile, for a person who is probably going to flunk me.

  Amber Brown. Fourth Grade Failure.

  “Amber,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Amber Brown. Sorry Person.

  “As I was saying, I’ve been speaking with some of your past teachers.”

  I think . . . And they passed me . . . . Please pass me too . . . . but I don’t say it out loud.

  “You know, Amber, when I spoke to Mr. Cohen, he told me what he’d written in your ‘Passport to Fourth Grade’ . . . . how he loved your sense of humor, your sense of exploration . . . how you’re willing to try out new things even when they’re hard. I’ve been able to see some of that, but I’d love to see more of it . . . . and more of your homework assignments.”

  We smile at each other.

  “Amber, I know you can do the work. What’s wrong? Is it anything I can help you with? Is it anything anyone at the school can help you with? I know that there have been some changes in your life, and I’ll try to be understanding . . . . . but you must do your work.”

  “Everything’s okay.” I try not to cry. “I promise I’ll do the work. Don’t make me take one of those papers home.”

  She thinks for a minute.

  I sit there very quietly.

  “Okay. For now, I won’t make you take the paper home, but I do want you to make up your back work and turn in your book report tomorrow. Each day, your grade will go down one mark from what it would have been if you had turned it in on time.”

  I bite my lip. “Can I do extra credit?”

  She shakes her head. “In this case, you may not. Extra credit’s reserved for people who have tried their best and need an extra boost, or for people who are already doing their best and want to do more. YOU are not in either one of those categories.”

  She closes her marking book. “You have a chance to bring up your grade. Just make sure that you turn in all of your missing work.”

  I take the list of missing assignments that she hands me.

  She continues. “Tomorrow, the class will be given a major project. Do well on it. I can’t emphasize this highly enough. It will help bring up your grade for the marking period and will show me that you’re serious about doing well.”

  I nod.

  I, Amber Brown, may not be serious about a lot of things, but I am serious about this.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  “How-To” Assignment

  YOUR ASSIGNMENT: Giving Directions

  Be prepared to give directions to the class. Be logical. Be concise. You may show how to build, make, or
do something (for example, you may show how to build a fort, make a dress, do karate, play an instrument). Your directions must be clear.

  In addition to giving directions, create something original concerning what you are explaining (e.g., making a poster, a film, or a computer program).

  Your presentation can take between five and fifteen minutes.

  I look at the assignment.

  I have no idea what to do.

  “Think about it,” Mrs. Holt tells the class. “Tomorrow, let me know what you will be doing.”

  “How-To” . . . . . What does she want from me? What can I do to get the best grade possible? What will impress Mrs. Holt?

  How to do . . . . . . . I look around the room to try to come up with ideas . . . .

  How to redecorate the classroom . . . How to stop Fredrich Allen from picking his nose and chewing it . . . . . . . . . . . . . How to crochet those ugly dolls that cover toiletpaper rolls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How to keep from having to get a list of daily assignments signed by my mother . . . . How to find time to do this project while I’m still finishing my makeup work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How to have a worry attack about school . . . . How to not have a worry attack about school . . . . . . . . . . . How to come up with a great idea for this project.

  “Can we work together on the project?” Naomi asks.

  Mrs. Holt shakes her head no.

  My brain hurts from trying to think up a good project.

  I start to doodle and write on my notebook.

  I must, I must, I must improve my grades.

  I better, I better, before I have to take home a letter.

  Maybe I should just let Mrs. Holt write the letter and get my mother all upset.

  It would serve her right for going out with Max.

  And then she would have to tell my father and then he would get all upset.

  It would serve him right for going off to France and spending so little time with me.

  It would serve them both right for getting divorced.

  Amber Brown . . . . School Failure.

  Sarah Thompson and Phil Brown . . . . . My Parents . . . . . . . Family Failures.

  The lunch bell rings.

  I grab my lunch and head out the door.

  Brandi’s already rushed out.

  Some days she makes a fast dash to the girls’ room.

  She hates to ask for a pass in class.

  One of the boys always says, “Hope everything comes out okay.”

  Mrs. Holt smiles at me. “Your book report was very good, Amber.”

  “Thanks. What’d I get?” I need to know.

  “A C,” she says. “It would have been a B if you’d turned it in on time.”

  Walking down the hall, I think about it . . . . A C. Not a great grade, but not a bad one—“C” no evil.

  I laugh.

  Sometimes I just make myself laugh.

  Lunchroom.

  Sit down with my friends.

  “That little dirtbag.” Tiffani opens her lunch.

  This time, a Barbie arm is coming out of the lid of a yogurt.

  “It’s Cultured Barbie,” I say.

  “Maybe your project should be ‘Things to Do with a Barbie Doll,’” Brandi suggests. “I bet that Howie could be a great help.”

  “I think . . .” Tiffani grins . . . . “it could be ‘Things to Do to a Little Brother.’ . . .”

  “Brother Ka-Bobs,” Bobby suggests. “Or what about . . . . . . Little Brother Sushi?”

  “EW . . . . . . GROSS . . . . Stop it. I’m eating.” Alicia makes gagging sounds.

  Bobby can’t stop . . . . “Microwave Brother . . . Brother McNuggets.”

  Bobby used to be an only child, just like me.

  Then his mom got remarried and just had a baby boy.

  I don’t think he’s overwhelmingly happy about not being an only child.

  I, Amber Brown, can understand that.

  “I know what I’m going to do for my project,” Brandi says. “I’m going to show everyone how to do sign language.”

  “I know sign language,” Bobby says.

  “The only sign language you know could get you suspended.” Jimmy starts to laugh.

  They are so immature.

  Brandi ignores them. “I’m going to teach some sign language and then show how a song we all know can be signed and interpreted. It’s really beautiful.”

  “How do you know it?” I am surprised.

  I thought I knew mostly everything about Brandi. I guess not.

  When she moved here a year ago, Justin and I were still best friends, so we didn’t really get to know each other until last month, and I guess it takes a while to learn everything.

  She says, “Remember my cousin in California, the one who taught me to make the braids?”

  I do remember. She made Brandi feel much better after she moved here and felt bad about not having any good, close friends.

  “Well,” Brandi continues, “her best friend is deaf, and they taught me to sign. I’m really good at it.”

  She moves her hands and signs something.

  “What did you say?” I want to know.

  She smiles. “I said, ‘Do you want to share my brownie?’ ”

  Licking my lips, I nod.

  She makes a sign. “Yes.”

  I repeat the sign.

  She hands me half her brownie.

  “What’s the sign for thank you?” I ask.

  She shows me.

  I make it and then start eating the brownie.

  School brownies are not great.

  My mom and I make really great ones.

  And then I get an idea.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  AMBER BROWNies.

  Sitting on my bed, I start taking notes.

  How to make AMBER BROWNies.

  That’s it.

  I’m going to show how to make brownies.

  Brownies . . . . . cakelike chocolate squares that are brown.

  Not the Girl Scout kind of Brownies.

  I know just making brownies is not going to be enough to get an A . . . . . . . . . . but I, Amber Brown, will do the best brownie project ever.

  I’ll explain . . . . the best explanation ever.

  I’ll experiment . . . . . . . brownies with marshmallows, candy bits, fudge, tuna fish, to name a few ingredients.

  I’ll create an AMBER BROWNie cookbook.

  I’ll write to famous people and ask them for their recipes for brownies and I’ll ask them to tell me brownie stories, memories.

  I’ll prepare a brownie questionnaire.

  I’ll create computer pictures of brownies.

  I’ll design Brownie Barf Bags for people who have eaten too many tuna brownies.

  I’ll make up a character and tell stories about him or her . . . . I don’t know yet who it will be . . . . maybe Santa Brownie or the Easter Brownie or who knows.

  I’ll write a brownie song.

  I’ll get an A.

  I’ll also probably gain a zillion pounds and get brownie pimples from all of the research that I’m going to have to do.

  But who cares . . . . . . I, Amber Brown, just have to get a great grade on this project.

  Putting down my pen, I get up and rush downstairs.

  “Mom!” I yell.

  “Amber!” she yells back. “Stop the yelling.”

  I rush into the kitchen. “Mom, we’ve got to go shopping.”

  I stop rushing.

  My mother is sitting with Max at the kitchen table.

  He’s not only sitting at the table, he’s sitting in the chair where my dad used to sit.

  “Hi, Amber.” Max smiles at me.

  “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.

  “Amber.” My mother does not look pleased. “You are being very rude.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” I say. “I didn’t know he was going to be here.”

&nb
sp; “Your mother didn’t either. I was just passing by and decided to drop in.” He smiles at my mother.

  I look at the flowers that are on the table that weren’t there when I went upstairs about half an hour ago. Next to the vase is an envelope that says, Sarah.

  Yeah, sure, I think . . . . . Max was just passing by.

  “I lied about the just passing by,” Max says.

  “I figured.” I grin at him.

  It’s hard not to grin at Max.

  But I try.

  I don’t want this guy to think that he can drop in whenever he wants to.

  “Mom.” I turn to her. “I need to go shopping. It’s for school. I’ve got to go to the grocery store.”

  “Amber, why didn’t you tell me this morning when I went to the store? I have to do some work this afternoon.” She shakes her head.

  “But Mom . . . . . it’s for school. I have to explain how to do something for school. I’m going to explain brownies. I NEED to go to the store. You don’t want me to fail, do you?” I plead.

  “No, I don’t want you to fail.” She sighs. “Explain what you need and when.”

  I tell them all of my ideas. “And I need to do the baking this weekend . . . either today or tomorrow . . . to test everything out, to make sure that it will work when I actually have to do it for the class. Please, oh please, oh please . . . . I just have to do a great job on this project. You have no idea how important this is to me. Please, oh please, oh please.”

  And I NEVER want my mother to find out just how important this really is to me, how I need to do well to make up for all the bad work and no work that I’ve been doing . . . . or not doing.

  “Sarah, I can take Amber to the store now . . . . . You can do some of your work while we’re gone, and then I’ll take you both out for pizza tonight.” He turns from her to look at me. “Not brownie pizza, though.”

  Brownie pizza, I think. It’s possible.

  My mother looks at him. “Max Turner, I told you that I had to work tonight. . . . that we would spend tomorrow together. You’re very sneaky.”

  I agree. Max is very sneaky.

  I bet he’s offering to help me just so that he gets to spend more time with my mother.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, “we can all bake the brownies.”