ALSO BY LAUREN MYRACLE
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Thirteen Plus One
Peace, Love & Baby Ducks
The Fashion Disaster That Changed My Life
The Life of Ty: Penguin Problems
DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS
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Text copyright © 2014 by Lauren Myracle
Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Jed Henry
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myracle, Lauren, date.
The life of Ty : non-random acts of kindness / Lauren Myracle ;
illustrated by Jed Henry.
pages cm
Summary: "In the second book of the series, seven-year-old Ty Perry
discovers that being kind is part of being Ty"—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-698-13754-7
[1. Kindness—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Brothers and
sisters—Fiction.] I. Henry, Jed, illustrator. II. Title. III. Title:
Non-random acts of kindness.
PZ7.M9955Lhn 2014
[Fic]—dc23 2013032576
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
Version_1
To Mirabelle, who cartwheels through life, spreading kindness wherever she goes
Contents
COVER
ALSO BY LAUREN MYRACLE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
Today, my big sister Winnie tells me I have crazy-boy hair. My bigger sister, Sandra, pulls into the drop-off lane at Trinity, where I go to school, and glances back at me. She says, “Whoa, dude, it is. Did you stick your finger in an electrical outlet?”
“No,” I say huffily. I am not the sort of person who would stick his finger into an electrical outlet, and my sisters know it. Except then I imagine what it would be like if I did stick my finger into an outlet. Would it mainly hurt and be only a little bit interesting, or would it be mainly interesting and only hurt a little?
Would it really make my hair go crazy?
But how, exactly, would I wedge my finger into an electrical outlet? I’d have to take off the outlet cover. I’d have to use a screwdriver. I do like screwdrivers. I microwaved one once by accident, and it popped and made sparks, and Mom ran over and said, “Ty! What in heaven’s name? No. No microwaving hand tools. Understood?”
Hmm. Maybe I am the sort of boy who would stick his finger into an electrical outlet. Also, it might not have been an accident. With the microwave and the screwdriver. But not totally on purpose either?
“Here,” Winnie says, digging a hairbrush out of her backpack and tossing it to me. When Sandra drives me to school, she and Winnie always get to sit in the front, and I always get stuck in the back, because I’m seven and so that means I’m short(ish) and so that’s the law.
At least I don’t have to sit in a car seat anymore. My third sister, who is only one month old and named Maggie, sits in a car seat. It’s a cute car seat. It has jungle animals all over it. Even so, it smells like dangerous milk.
“Brush your hair and skedaddle,” Sandra says. “Winnie and I need to get to school, too.”
I drag Winnie’s brush through my hair. Sandra and Winnie watch.
“Stop staring at me,” I say.
“But you’re so cute,” Winnie says.
“And funny looking,” Sandra says.
“You’re making me feel like a monkey,” I say. “Like a monkey at the zoo, and I’m in a cage, and you two are outside the cage, just staring and staring.”
“That’s how it works at zoos,” Sandra says.
“Hey, do you think Mom would let me get a monkey?” I ask. “And I could give it to Teensy Baby Maggie?”
Sandra’s laugh bubbles over with delight. “Um, let me think. No.”
Winnie cocks her head. “Why would you give the monkey to Maggie?”
“Because I promised,” I say. I squirm. “I promised Maggie I’d get her a pet, because of . . . you know.”
At first she doesn’t. Then she does. “Ahhh,” Winnie says. “Because of Pingy, the penguin you stole from the Georgia Aquarium.”
“Borrowed!” I say. “Not stole!”
“Ty Perry, penguin thief,” Sandra says. She clucks. “Second grader by day, hardened criminal by night.”
I pinch the underside of my leg, and guess what? I’m not hard. I’m squishy. Plus, Sandra and Winnie snuck Pingy the penguin back to the aquarium when no one was watching. He’s back with his mommy penguin and his brother and sister penguins now.
My brain knows that’s good. My heart still misses him.
The car behind us edges out of line and pulls away. Another car takes its place. Kids push through the heavy glass doors of the school and are gobbled up by the building.
“Ty, we’re blocking traffic,” Sandra says.
I give Winnie her hairbrush. I open the car door and plant one foot on the asphalt.
“Have a good day,” Winnie says. “And don’t worry about Teensy Baby Maggie. I think she’s more interested in flopping her arms around than in getting a pet.”
I plant my other foot on the asphalt. I climb out of the car.
“Anyway,” Winnie goes on, “are you forgetting about Sweetie-Pie?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Sweetie-Pie is a cat. Your cat.”
“Well, technically. But I can share.”
Sharing a pet sounds about as fun as sharing a marshmallow. Someone always gets more. Plus, sometimes Sweetie-Pie scratches. Sometimes Sweetie-Pie hides under the sofa and then leaps out and nips my ankles.
Maggie needs a better pet than Sweetie-Pie, and it needs to be her own.
Sandra clears her throat, which is code for, And now good-bye, and close the door or I’ll zoom off with it open—and who knows how many children will be knocked to the ground like bowling pins?
I shut the door, and my sisters drive away.
• • •
During morning meeting, Mrs. Webber tells us about an exciting project we’ll be working on this week. She’s the one who uses the word “exciting.” The project is that we all have to do a random act of kindness, because that’s what it says on the bumper sticker she shows us: Practice Random Acts of Kindness. Then, on Friday, we’ll stand up one by one and say what we did. She tells us that part’s called a recitation.
Taylor raises h
is hand. “Why?” he asks, without waiting to be called on.
“Well, because that’s what it’s called,” Mrs. Webber says. She’s sitting in her swivel chair, which she’s rolled to the center of the room. We’re sitting on the carpet in front of her.
“But why?” Taylor says.
“Because the word ‘recitation’ is related to the word ‘recite,’ and it’s important to know how to recite things—like reports and homework—in front of a crowd. The best way to learn is by practicing.”
“YES, BUT WHY?” Taylor says. Taylor has no problem speaking in front of a crowd. He sometimes has a problem not speaking in front of a crowd. When that happens, Mrs. Webber sets an egg timer for five minutes and gives it to him.
I have never been given the egg timer, and I plan to keep it that way. Just imagining it gives me the shivers.
Breezie, who likes to wear dresses, raises her hand. She wiggles it.
“Yes, Breezie?” Mrs. Webber says.
“He means why do we have to do random acts of kindness,” Breezie explains.
“Oh,” Mrs. Webber says. She crosses one leg over the other and swings her top foot back and forth. “Well, because we are one big human family, and kindness is important.”
Taylor’s hand shoots back up. He says, “But why do we have to practice them?”
“Practice them?” Mrs. Webber says. “No, that’s just what it says on the bumper sticker. To practice random acts of kindness just means to do random acts of kindness.”
I raise my hand. I don’t wave it all around.
“Yes, Ty?”
“Are our kindnesses supposed to be on purpose?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Um, apology accepted.”
“No, I mean . . . what?”
“Oh. Well, how can we do random acts of kindness on purpose?” I say. “If they’re random, they’re not on purpose. If they’re on purpose, how can they be random?”
Other kids nod.
“Yeah,” Elizabeth says. “They can’t be both.”
First Mrs. Webber frowns, and then she frowns even deeper, and then she lets go of her frown altogether. “You’re right, Ty,” she says. “Tell you what, let’s change it to non-random acts of kindness.”
“Okay,” I say, and I’m proud of her for listening, which grown-ups don’t always do. Especially when they’re wrong.
Lexie, who is sometimes my best friend and sometimes Breezie’s best friend, thrusts her hand into the air.
“Yes, Lexie?”
“I like your clogs,” Lexie says. “Are they made of wood?”
Mrs. Webber leans forward and squints at them. “Why, yes. Yes, they are.”
“They’re pretty,” Lexie says.
“Thank you. Did you have a question about the recitation?”
Lexie folds her hands in her lap. Her legs are crisscross applesauce, and she smiles sweetly. “Nope, I’m good.”
Mrs. Webber scans the rest of us. Her hair is already coming loose from the way she’s pinned it up. “Any other questions?” she asks. Like Lexie, she smiles sweetly, but her tone reminds me of Mom when it’s almost dinnertime and Teensy Baby Maggie is crying and the spaghetti is boiling so much that sploshes of water leap from the pot and sizzle on the stove.
I think of Mrs. Webber’s coffee mug, which says IS IT FRIDAY YET?
“No?” Mrs. Webber says. “Fabulous. In that case, let’s get started with our small group math.” She stands up quickly—too quickly—and her chair scoots backward. Her eyes widen and her arms spin like pinwheels.
Uh-oh.
She falls smack on her bottom, and her legs swoop up, and one of her wooden clogs flies off her foot.
“Ow!” Lexie cries. She doubles over and rocks back and forth. “Ow, ow, owwie, ow!”
“Lexie!” Breezie says. “Are you all right?”
“That was awesome!” Taylor says.
Lexie clutches her head. “Owww!”
Mrs. Webber pushes herself to a sitting position. Her dazed eyes move around and land on me.
“Ty?”
I gulp. “Yes?”
“Would you please get Mrs. Jacobs?” Mrs. Jacobs is Trinity’s assistant principal. She dresses like a lady police officer, but she’s nice.
I scramble up. “Uh-huh. I mean, okay. I mean yes!”
Mrs. Webber’s clog is on the floor right next to me. It must have hit Lexie’s head and then bounced off, and now it’s next to me, and guess what else? It’s also next to an electrical outlet, which is staring at me from the wall. A real live electrical outlet. I grab the clog quickly, because it looks creepy just lying there. And I don’t want to stick my finger into an electrical outlet, and I don’t want anyone else to, either.
I go to Mrs. Webber and hold out her clog. She takes it. For a moment, I’m frozen, and then I dash to get help.
CHAPTER TWO
Lexie has to leave school early and go home, even though it’s the beginning of the day.
“Oh, my poor girl,” her mom says when she walks into Mrs. Webber’s classroom. We’ve settled Lexie in a beanbag in the reading nook. Breezie’s holding a frozen sponge from the office against Lexie’s forehead, and Hannah is rubbing Lexie’s feet. (She gently took off Lexie’s shoes first and placed them to the side. Sparkly black high-tops with rubber soles. No wood.)
Elizabeth and I are guarding Lexie from Taylor, who’s singing a rap song for her that involves dancing. His rap is okay, but his dance is on the wild side.
“Hi, Mom,” Lexie says.
Hannah lets go of Lexie’s foot and takes Lexie’s hand, which she pats. “See? Your mom’s here now. You’ll be fine.”
Lexie rolls her eyes. “I’m not a baby,” she says. “I got beaned by a flying clog, that’s all.”
Mrs. Webber rises from her big teacher’s desk, and she and Lexie’s mother join us in the reading nook.
“Charlene, I am so sorry,” she says. “Taylor, this is not the time for dancing.”
“Susan, please,” Lexie’s mom tells Mrs. Webber. “You didn’t kick her on purpose. I know that.”
“I didn’t kick her at all,” Mrs. Webber says. “Did someone tell you I kicked her?”
“It wasn’t my fault either,” Lexie says. “I was just sitting there being good. Right, Mrs. Webber?”
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Webber says, while at the same time Lexie’s mom cries, “Of course, sweetie! Accidents happen to everyone.” She pushes past Taylor and helps Lexie to her feet. “Let’s swing you by the Youth Clinic just in case, and then we’ll get you home.”
“Can I watch TV?” Lexie says.
“As much as you want.”
“And have popsicles?”
“Lexie could live on popsicles,” Lexie’s mom says to us with a laugh. She takes over the job of holding Lexie’s ice pack in place, and we walk as a group across the room.
Hannah gets jostled. She scowls at Chase and whispers, “Move! You’re crowding me!”
“You’re crowding me!” Chase says back.
“I’m sure Lexie’s fine,” Mrs. Webber says over their bickering. “But do call and let us know.”
“If I have brain damage, can I skip my spelling homework?” Lexie asks.
“Brain damage?” Taylor says. He darts from one side of our procession to the other, trying to worm into the center. “Oh, man, that would be so epic.”
“I know, right?” Lexie says.
“It would not be epic in the slightest,” Mrs. Webber says. “And, Lexie, good heavens. You do not have brain damage.”
Lexie shrugs. “You never know about me.”
Lexie’s mom laughs, which I don’t approve of. I don’t think Mrs. Webber does, either, because she gives Lexie’s mom a funny look.
“Well, we’re off,” Lexie’s mom says
. She flashes a smile with lots of white teeth. “Lexie? Can you say bye to your friends?”
“Bye to my friends,” Lexie says. “Hopefully I’ll be back tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll remember your names. But maybe you should wear name tags, just in case?”
“I’ll make sure everyone does,” Hannah says, still holding fast to Lexie’s hand.
Lexie’s mom pries off Hannah’s fingers. “Let go now. You need to let me take Lexie with me.”
“Wait!” I cry. Lexie’s high-tops. The cool black sparkly ones. It occurs to me that I would really like to have a pair of black high-tops like those. Then it occurs to me that it is time for me to stay on task, so I go back to the beanbag, grab Lexie’s shoes, and thrust them at Lexie’s mom. “Here.”
In my whole life, I hardly ever give people shoes. Today I’ve done it twice in one hour.
• • •
Morning recess feels strange. I file outside with the rest of the kids, but who am I supposed to play with?
In the olden days, I would have played with Joseph, who is my true best friend. But Joseph’s in the hospital. He has leukemia.
He won’t be in the hospital forever, and he’s going to be okay, but he isn’t here on the playground with me. That’s my point.
In the newen days, I usually play with Lexie—but Lexie went home.
Sometimes I play with Taylor, but Taylor is rough. There’s been enough roughness today already.
I sit under the play structure and sift through the sand and the rocks. I look up through the metal slats of the bouncy bridge. I gaze at bits of clouds. I fill my lungs up with air, then let it out in a whoosh.
“Can I come in?” a person asks. It’s a girl person, and she’s leaning over and peering at me, and it’s Breezie. Breezie! Her blond ponytail is perfect and shiny and swings back and forth. I wouldn’t mind touching it. I push my hands beneath me and sit on them.
She squats and duck-walks into the space under the bouncy bridge. I’m surprised, because she is not a duck-walking girl. She sits, carefully tucking her legs beneath her and fluffing out her skirt.
“It’s weird without Lexie here,” she says.
The Life of Ty Page 1
