Ms. Schulberger looked up quickly.
“Not to hit you!” Iggy said. “That wasn’t what I thought was going to happen. We were just using you for the finish line. I didn’t think we’d hit you.”
“Of course you were going to hit me. You were aiming for me. But really, Iggy, my question is why were you aiming for me? I thought we got along.”
“We do! We aimed for you because— because—” Iggy couldn’t remember why. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be fun.”
Her eyes got narrow. “What’s Puttzi?”
“You,” muttered Iggy.
“Why?”
Iggy looked up in astonishment. How could she not know? “Because of your car! It’s a putt-putt car.”
Ms. Schulberger blinked at him. Then she smiled. “Oh, Iggy. You’re a nut.”
Iggy laughed. “So are you! Sometimes we call you Puttzi the Nutzi!”
“Don’t call me that!”
“I’m sorry!” he said quickly. But she was smiling. “I wish I hadn’t banged into you,” he said.
“Me too,” she said, rubbing her knee.
“I’m going to try hecka hard not to do anything bad for the rest of the year,” said Iggy.
“That would be nice,” she said.
“I probably won’t make it,” he said.
He didn’t make it.
CHAPTER 19
EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES, PART THREE
Officially, extenuating circumstances are things that happen before the person does the bad thing. They are pieces of information that explain why someone did the bad thing.
So officially, there are no extenuating circumstances for Iggy’s desk-racing incident. Ms. Schulberger moving him to Orange doesn’t count. It’s nothing at all like not eating for two days.
Iggy was the one who discovered desk driving. Iggy was the one who suggested charging Ms. Schulberger when her back was turned. Iggy was the one who called it a race.
Why did he do those things? Not even Iggy could tell you why. All he could say was: I thought it would be funny.
That is not an extenuating circumstance.
But unofficially, I think we can say that Iggy’s sorriness became an extenuating circumstance. He felt so bad about what he had done that he actually made it better.
Of course, this wouldn’t have been extenuating if he had broken Ms. Schulberger’s kneecap.
But her knee was okay by the next week.
And he drew her a picture of a flower.
And he wrote “I’m sorry” two hundred times, in bundles.
All of this made Ms. Schulberger know that Iggy was really, truly sorry.
Even years later, when Iggy thought of the moment Ms. Schulberger turned and saw him and screamed, he felt bad. That’s how sorry he was.
That’s extenuating, isn’t it?
I hope so.
CHAPTER 20
THE REAL END
Look! You read a twenty-chapter book! What a good kid you are. Not as good as Jeremy Greerson, though. You can just forget about that.
photo credit: Amy Perl Photography
ANNIE BARROWS did none of the things in this book. As a kid, Annie was good and sweet and well-behaved. All the time, she was good. At least no one ever caught her doing anything bad, which is the same as being good. She was so good that birds landed on her fingertips and sang. She was so good that people gave her candy for no reason. She was so good that her teachers cried when she went to the next grade.
She got worse when she grew up.
SAM RICKS is the illustrator of the Geisel Award winner Don’t Throw It to Mo! and the Stinkbomb and Ketchup-Face books. He lives with his family in Utah.
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