by James Howe
One thing I know is that bubeleh means “sweetheart” in Yiddish and that when someone calls you bubeleh, there’s a 99% chance you’re about to get your cheeks pinched. I also know that being twelve doesn’t mean you don’t know anything.
Remember the trucks?
I picked this term up from C-SPAN, which I was only watching because I dropped the remote while channel surfing and the batteries fell out and rolled under the couch and it took me about fifteen minutes to find them. After being stuck for one-quarter of an hour on C-SPAN, I have to ask: DO REAL HUMAN BEINGS ACTUALLY WATCH THIS? ON PURPOSE? SHOULD WE SEND HELP?
Mr. D: Look who was paying attention in class on Thursday!
Mr. D: Please tell me I’m right about this!
I’m sorry, Mr. D, but I couldn’t think of one. Life lessons are sort of about having answers, and all I have this time are questions.
Addie’s dad, remember?
Addie’s mom, but you probably figured that out.
This was when my palms turned clammy and I started mentally measuring the distance to the downstairs bathroom because I figured it was only a matter of time until I might have to throw up.
I had to look this one up. It means “a number of persons secretly united and using devious and undercover means to bring about an overturn, especially in public affairs, or to undermine or cause the downfall of a person in a position of authority.” Awesome.
Believe it or not, I have never told my parents about all the stuff Kevin has done to me. I’ve let them know he’s not real nice and that he picks on kids. I just never said who his main target is. I guess with the Gang of Five looking out for me, I never thought I needed to. Mostly, I guess I thought if I did say something to my parents, it would get back to Kevin and just make things worse.
Mr. D: THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sorry for the candid dialogue, Mr. D, but you can’t expect us kids to think you teachers are perfect and wonderful 100% of the time. We’re only human.
Mr. D: I’m not sure who I’m talking to. I just have the feeling when I write that I’m talking to somebody, the way I get the feeling these singers Aunt Pam gave me are talking to me when they sing. Do you ever get that feeling when you write?
I always remembered that from my fourth-grade report, but I never understood it—until today.
Total Fun, and Mr. D, I am so not brown-nosing. You asked us to tell the truth, and I am. I mean it.
Mr. D: I found this information on the Internet. Or most of it, anyway. I added some stuff of my own. I think you’ll be able to tell which is the stuff I added.
