by Nancy Krulik
“George! It’s 0-800 hours. Gotta get a move on! Front and center!”
His dad’s deep voice echoed through the halls of their new house. It was a lot bigger than their old house. Even with all their furniture, it felt empty. In fact, the long upstairs hallway would be great for skateboarding—except his mom never let him skateboard in the house.
George grabbed his backpack and headed downstairs. For a second, he thought about sliding down the banister. Then he stopped himself. That was something the oldGeorge would do. Now, besides being the new kid, he wanted to be a new George. And the new George didn’t do dumb stuff like that—dumb stuff that got him into trouble.
The last time George slid down a banister was at his old school. He’d flipped over the side of the staircase and wound up with a black eye and a bloody nose. And not just a regular bloody nose. A supercolossal bloody nose. The kind that turns your nose into a blood fountain. The school nurse said she’d never seen anything like it. It had been sort of gross. But sort of cool, too.
“Got everything, honey?” George’s mom asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Pencils? Notebooks? Lunch?”
“Check, check, and check,” George said.
“That shirt looks really nice on you,” his mother told him.
George looked down at his new green T-shirt. It had a picture of a guy on a skateboard flying right across the middle of it. It was really cool. The perfect first day of school shirt.
“Thanks,” George told his mom.
“Okay, soldier,” his dad said. “Ready to march?”
“Yes, sir,” George answered. He saluted his dad. His dad saluted back and then gave him a big bear hug.
“Then let’s go,” George’s dad said.
As George headed to his new school, he thought about Cherrydale Elementary School. Not to brag, but everybody there liked him. He was famous for being the funny kid—the class clown. Of course, pranks also got him into more trouble than anyone else. It seemed to George that he’d spent as much time in the principal’s office as in class.
But that wasn’t going to happen in Beaver Brook. No more class clown! George was turning over a new leaf. He was through with getting in trouble. He was going to act differently from now on. Sodifferently, in fact, that he’d decided to start school with a new last name. His dad’s last name was Brennan. And that was the last name George had used all his life. There was nothing wrong with that name. But from now on, George was using his mom’s last name: Brown. New name, new George.
“George Brown,” George murmured quietly under his breath. “George Brown.”
“What did you say?” his dad asked him.
“I was just trying out my new name,” George explained.
“Oh,” George’s dad replied.
“You’re okay about this, aren’t you, Dad?” George asked his father.
“Sure.” Only his dad didn’t sound so sure. “I guess it’ll just take a little getting used to. But I understand wanting to change things up. Look at me. I’ve traveled all over with the army. New people, new cities. Lots of changes.”
That was true. His dad’s job was the reason the family was always moving. It was why George always seemed to be the new kid.
“But we’re going to stay at this base for a while,” George’s dad continued. “At least I hope so. Your mom is really excited to have opened her own store here in Beaver Brook. I don’t think she wants to pack up and move again.”
“Yeah, I guess,” George said. Having a dad in the army was cool. But having a mom who owned the Knit Wit Craft Shop—a store that sold yarn, knitting needles, and beads—was, well . . . not so much.
George kept up with his dad’s long strides, trying to ignore the nervous feeling in his stomach. His mom called it having butterflies in your belly. But that wasn’t what it felt like. It was more like worms. Big, long, slimy, nervous worms slithering around inside.
They turned a corner. There it was. George stopped and stared at his new school. It was a red-brick building with a flagpole in front. Over the door it said EDITH B. SUGARMAN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. Except for the name, it looked pretty much like all the other schools George had gone to.
“Edith B. Sugarman?” George wondered. “Is that somebody famous?”
His dad shrugged. “Never heard of her. But the name doesn’t really matter. Your new school has a fine reputation.”
George didn’t agree at all. Names did matter. A lot. And no one knew that better than George Brown.
