Amber Brown Is on the Move

by Paula Danziger

And so is Mrs. Holt.

  None of us are happy campers. Mrs. Holt has called this meeting because I am not doing well on the state practice tests. That was what she told me after school two days ago . . . . . that she had e-mailed my parents to come in for a meeting with her and Mr. Robinson.

  As if my test scores weren’t bad enough, her e-mail created a new problem: Who should come to the meeting? Max is now my official stepfather. Dad is still my dad. They don’t get along that well. This is mostly because Dad still has a hard time with Mom being married again. It’s even worse now that Max is living in what used to be Dad’s house, even if it’s only until we move.

  Despite all this, Mom felt they should both be at the meeting.

  “Dad is your dad,” she told me, “and he has to be there. But you spend most of the week with me and Max, so he needs to be there too.”

  She sent me out of the room when she called Dad to talk about it. Even from upstairs I could tell that it was not a happy conversation.

  Max looks so worried that I wonder if this is the first time he ever had to go the principal’s office. Maybe he was a perfect kid. Or maybe it’s because, until me, he never had a kid of his own. I’m sure not perfect.

  “Does this mean that Amber won’t go on to fifth grade?” he asks Mr. Robinson.

  Mr. Robinson shakes his head. “We are getting ahead of ourselves, Mr. Turner. Our goal today is to help Amber focus so she can pass the tests.”

  “I know Amber can handle the material,” Mrs. Holt says. “She just doesn’t seem to focus.”

  I shrink back in my seat. I wish this wasn’t true, but it is. What with all the planning for the wedding and then all the fuss about moving, I’ve had a lot on my mind this spring.

  Looking straight at me, Mrs. Holt says, “Your test scores are way below where they should be, Amber. I know you can do better. Much better.”

  I like Mrs. Holt, but I know what she means. Right now, I’m taking a nose dive to the bottom of the aquarium.

  Then Dad makes things even worse.

  “I don’t think it’s entirely Amber’s fault,” he says. “She’s had a lot of distractions at her mother’s home lately.”

  Mom’s face turns red. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or furious. What I can tell is that she wishes she hadn’t made that phone call to Dad.

  Max gets a look on his face that makes me think that if he and Dad were ten years old, there would soon be a circle of kids around them shouting, “Fight! Fight!”

  Mr. Robinson must see this too because he uses his principal-on-the-playground voice to say, “Let’s focus on the issue at hand, which is actually Amber’s focus . . . . . or more precisely, her lack of it.”

  Mom and Dad at least have been through this before. This is not the first time a teacher has said, “Amber loses focus.”

  You’d think everyone wants me to grow up to be a camera.

  “We feel Amber should be enrolled in our Saturday Academy,” Mr. Robinson says.

  I groan. Saturday Academy is a program the district runs in April and May to help kids prepare for the state tests. I’ve stayed out of it so far, and I do not, do not, do not want to have to spend my Saturdays in school.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Dad says.

  I glare at him. Saturday is the only whole day that I have with Dad. He usually picks me up from school on Friday afternoon. We go to his apartment. We hang out together all day Saturday. Then on Sunday he takes me back to Mom and Max.

  “What happens if she still can’t pass the test?” Max asks.

  Now Dad and I both glare at him. I am having a hard time deciding who to be angry at.

  “We don’t get the results of the final tests until August,” Mr. Robinson says. “However, depending on how Amber’s schoolwork and practice tests go between now and June, we may recommend that she get more help during the summer.”

  “I don’t want more help!” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and sinking deeper into the chair. “I’m supposed to go to camp with Brandi and Kelly.”

  “Then I suggest you use your energy more wisely for the rest of the year,” Mr. Robinson says sternly.

  The first time I was in Mr. Robinson’s office, I was upset and he helped me calm down. That was when he taught me how to drink cream soda through a chocolate Twizzler.

  Now he is upset with me.

  Everyone is upset with me.

  Even I am upset with me.

  What I really want to focus on right now is getting out of this room.

  Instead, I, Amber Brown, am enrolled in Saturday Academy.

  Maybe I should mail myself to Alabama after all. I’ll just make sure to pack a bucket.

  Chapter

  Four

  Miss Isobel is standing in the middle of the multipurpose room or, as I like to call it, the cafetorinasium. It’s after lunch, so the janitor has cleaned up . . . . which means that the room now smells like disinfectant mixed with a hint of broccoli.

  We get a lot more vegetables at lunch than we used to. Sometimes they are mixed vegetables . . . . . which I definitely have mixed feelings about. Tiffani Schroeder, on the other hand, is completely happy. That’s because she’s a vegetarian.

  I would like to be a pizzatarian.

  Miss Isobel is smiling. She gives us a little curtsy. “Ladies and gentlemen, please get into two lines. Ladies on my right, gentlemen on my left. Mrs. Holt, please help them line up by size, shortest to tallest.”

  This is the moment we’ve all been dreading . . . . . the moment when we discover who we will have to dance with.

  I keep eying the other line to find out who I’ll get. But Mrs. Holt won’t stop moving us around. Every time I think I’ve figured out my partner, she changes the line again. When she moves me ahead of two other girls, I am annoyed. I thought I was taller. I feel taller.

  Kelly and Hannah are behind me. Brandi is right in front of me. Tiffani Schroeder is at the very front because she is the shortest. It’s kind of odd that she’s shortest because she’s the only one of us who needs a bra. I don’t even need a training bra. I have nothing to put in it.

  I realize I am losing my focus.

  Miss Isobel claps. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now have our first promenade. You will walk toward me. When a pair reaches me, the gentleman will bow to his partner and offer his arm.”

  Miss Isobel must have a very good imagination if she sees any gentlemen here. The boys are all looking as if they would rather lose an arm than offer one.

  Miss Isobel turns to them. “Gentlemen, you need to understand the history and traditions of dance. The reason you offer your left arm is because in olden times, your right arm had to be free for your sword. Your job during the dance is to protect your partner and make her feel safe.”

  I expect the boys to fall on the floor giggling, but they are listening to her as if they can’t wait to draw their swords and protect her.

  “Now, gentlemen, stand up straight!”

  They do.

  “Show me your bows.”

  The boys bow. Every one of them ends up with his head at a different level. Miss Isobel laughs, but it is a pretty sound, not mocking. “This is a good start,” she says. “However, I would like you to only go this far.”

  She demonstrates with a little bow, then says, “Now, try again.”

  It’s startling. They actually do look like a line of gentlemen. Mrs. Holt looks astonished.

  Miss Isobel turns to us girls. “Now, the bow . . . . the bow, it is easy. The curtsy, however . . . . . ah, that must be practiced if one is not to fall upon one’s face.”

  She is not telling me something that I don’t already know!

  Then she does tell us something that I don’t know: how to do it!

  Demonstrating as she speaks, she says, “Put your right foot behind your
left foot. Not up tight to the heel . . . . give yourself room! Now, briefly bend the knees . . . . just so . . . . and bow your head and shoulders slightly forward. Smile! That is most important! All right, now you try.”

  We try. Some of us are a bit wobbly, but no one falls over.

  “Good, good. Now try again. Again! Ah, very good!”

  It actually feels very good to hear her say that.

  “And so, we begin. Music, please!”

  A march begins. We are moving!

  Tiffani and Eric pair up first. We could see that coming. Brandi, who is right in front of me, leans back and whispers, “I miscounted! I’m getting Fredrich.”

  And sure enough, when Fredrich gets to Miss Isobel, he bows to Brandi and offers her his arm. I notice that he makes the best bow of any of the boys.

  Brandi puts her hand on his elbow, which even Fredrich can’t get into his nose.

  I’m next and . . . . OMG! . . . . I’m getting Bobby!

  Suddenly Fredrich looks very good, nose-picking or not. Bobby is the goofiest boy in our class. Or maybe the second goofiest. It’s hard to tell from day to day who is worse, Bobby or Jimmy.

  Mrs. Holt has always told us that everyone has a special talent, we just have to find it. Bobby has already found his . . . . he can make more different rude noises with his armpit than anyone else in the entire school.

  I think about that when I have to put my hand on his left arm.

  I trip when we are walking side by side. I don’t know how that is Bobby’s fault, and maybe it isn’t. I just know this is going to be a nightmare.

  “Stay in pairs and make a half circle around me,” trills Miss Isobel.

  This is when I realize that Roger Hart does not have a partner. Our class has always had more boys than girls, and since Roger is the tallest boy, he was at the end of the line. He looks upset.

  Miss Isobel smiles at him. “Ah, I am delighted to have someone left, especially a boy. So often I must dance with a girl. You will be my assistant. What is your name, young man?”

  Roger, who has never stammered before, stammers out his name.

  Miss Isobel smiles. “Good. Roger, you will help me with my demonstrations. Also, during our lessons you will rotate as the alternate when someone is absent.”

  I try to imagine Roger dancing with Tiffani. He is so tall and she is so short that she would look like a peanut next to him. Except that wouldn’t be allowed because we are a peanut-free school.

  That makes me wish Hannah Burton was a peanut.

  “Amber,” Bobby says to me, “we’re supposed to be facing each other.”

  I realize I hadn’t heard what Miss Isobel just told us to do and Bobby did. Wow. If Bobby is paying attention and I’m not, maybe I really do have a problem with focus!

  Miss Isobel says, “Today we will learn dance hold, but with pancake hands.”

  Bobby snickers. “Pancake hands should be easy for Fredrich. He already knows how to eat his finger.”

  I don’t laugh. Bobby makes a face at me.

  I think about what Miss Isobel said . . . . the gentleman should protect the lady. I wish someone would protect me from Bobby.

  “Make your hands flat, as if they are pancakes,” Miss Isobel tells us. “Lift them to shoulder height. Now place your palms gently against your partner’s. Keep your elbows easy.”

  “Elbows easy” makes me think of macaroni, and pancakes make me think of, well, pancakes. But maybe that’s because I don’t want to think of touching Bobby. But I do. I put my flat hands against his.

  Miss Isobel goes around the circle, adjusting people’s arms and hands. When she comes to us, she touches Bobby’s shoulders and says, “Straight and tall! A gentleman must show respect for his partner. You provide the frame for the lady. Think of her as a beautiful picture.”

  I expect Bobby to burst out laughing at the idea of me being beautiful, but he is listening to Miss Isobel more carefully than he has ever listened to Mrs. Holt.

  Also, his mouth is hanging open.

  I am afraid that in a minute I am going to have to tuck his tongue back in.

  I hope this will not be one of my jobs as his partner.

  When Miss Isobel has everyone standing the way she wants, she teaches us the box step.

  “Don’t we need music to do this?” Bobby asks.

  Miss Isobel smiles. “First we learn the step, then we add the music.”

  This is harder than it sounds. I have to take a step backward while Bobby goes forward. Then we go to the side. The problem is, I keep starting with the wrong foot. Every time Miss Isobel says, “Ladies start on the right,” I start on my left, and Bobby steps on my toes. The annoying thing is that not only does Bobby get it right, he’s actually kind of nice to me.

  He says, “Relax, Amber, you’ll get it.”

  But Bobby is wrong. I don’t get it. Then Miss Isobel starts the music, and it’s even worse. . . . . I keep putting my feet in the wrong place and bumping into his. I’m afraid Bobby will get mad, but he laughs . . . . . and it’s not a mean laugh. I can tell that he’s having fun.

  To my surprise, so am I.

  I bet it would be really fun if I could manage to do it right.At the end of the dance Miss Isobel tells the gentlemen to bow to their partners and the girls to curtsy.

  I am surprised to hear people applauding.

  “And now,” Miss Isobel says, “bow and curtsy to your audience.”

  When we turn toward the clapping, we see that several parents have been watching us. My dad is one of them. He is smiling. Even better, I can see that he is really proud of me.

  That makes me happy.

  Sometimes my dad can be a pain. Even so, I, Amber Brown, am glad that he is my dad. And always will be.

  Chapter

  Five

  Dad and I walk to his new car. It is bright red and very sporty. Dad named it “the Hot Tamale.”

  Mom named it “Your father’s middle-aged-man-starting-over car.”

  Sometimes I think it is no surprise my parents got divorced.

  Dad says, “Amber, you looked so cute while you were dancing. I loved it.”

  I make a face. I didn’t want to be cute, I wanted to be elegant. On the other hand, given how many times I stepped on Bobby’s feet, I was closer to “elephant” than “elegant.”

  Dad’s car is parked next to a green VW Bug. “Now, that’s cute,” I say, pointing to the little car.

  “I am glad you like it,” says a voice from behind us.

  I turn around. It is Miss Isobel.

  “You’re the dance teacher,” Dad says. “I thought what you were doing with the kids was great.”

  He is wearing the same goofy grin that Bobby did.

  Miss Isobel smiles and nods modestly. “Thank you. And your daughter . . . . Opal, is it?”

  “Amber,” I say.

  She waves her hand, flicking her fingers. “Names. I am not so good at names. It is how you move that I will remember.

  Anyway, I was going to say, your daughter has a lovely smile.”

  I notice she does not say anything about my dancing.

  She extends her hand to Dad. “I am Isobel Godwin.”

  I half expect her to curtsy. Dad looks like he wants to bow. Instead he just says, “I’m Philip Brown, Amber’s father.”

  “And do you dance, father of Amber?”

  Dad says that he loves to dance. This is news to me.

  “You must visit my studio. I give adult lessons as well.”

  Miss Isobel digs in her purse, then hands him a card. It has sparkles on it. I love sparkles, but something about Miss Isobel is just a little too sparkly for comfort. She makes me want to turn off a light somewhere.

  When we get to Dad’s door, Mewkiss Membrane greets me by rubbing against my leg. Mewkiss Membran
e is a great name for a cat. As soon as I heard it, I knew I was going to like Steve Marshall and his kids. They are the ones who own the house where Dad rents his apartment. They live upstairs, and normally Mewkiss does too.

  “What’s he doing down here?” I ask.

  “Steve and the kids are gone for the weekend,” Dad says. “I’m taking care of Mewkiss until they get back.”

  Mom has allergies, which is why we never had a pet at home. When Dad moved out, I had thought maybe I could finally have a dog at his place. But he works such long hours during the week he says it wouldn’t be fair to a dog. So I have remained petless.

  At least I have Gorilla.

  I like Mewkiss, but he is not my ideal pet . . . . . he coughs up too many hair balls. Also, he likes leaving dead mice in the bathroom as presents for his people. I know this because one night I stayed upstairs with the Marshall kids. When I got up in the morning to go to the bathroom, I stepped on one of Mewkiss’s “presents.”

  I, Amber Brown, can tell you from personal experience that a dead mouse under your bare foot is not the best way to start your day.

  Also, waking up the other people in the house because you are screaming does not make them happy.

  According to Steve, dead mice are a cat’s way of saying it cares about you. That may be true, but I still think it’s disgusting.

  What is not disgusting is that every Friday night, Dad and I order Chinese food. Dad and I are both great at cooking with our fingertips. That is, we can grab the phone and minutes later have a delicious meal on the way to our door.

  When the food comes, Dad and I have a ritual. We open all the boxes and spread them out on the coffee table. We always get spring rolls, dumplings, and General Tso’s chicken, which we call “The Chicken of General Tso What?” We also get one new thing we have never tried before. We can eat the food in any order, including fortune cookies first if we want.

  This is way different from the way things are at home. Mom says that eating the fortune cookies first invites chaos. And Max believes that family dinners should be family time, without other distractions. So now we never eat dinner and watch TV at the same time. I think Mom worries that we had gotten into bad habits when Dad lived at home.