by Rachel Vail
I should really get some practice.
Right after I finish relaxing and playing these video games.
April 26, Monday
I should have practiced.
I hate gym.
I hate Mr. Calabrio.
I hate the word hustle.
And I more than anything hate shoelaces that untie and trip a person and make him fall on his butt in front of the whole third grade.
Too bad if butt is a bad word.
I think shoelaces is a much worse word.
April 27, Tuesday
Pajama Day is Friday.
I forgot all about voting for that dumb thing until I had to go miss recess on such a nice day to hang up posters about it.
Maybe I could lie to everybody and say I voted against it, so they will not hate me.
I know lying is wrong but so is making kids come to school in their pajamas.
April 28, Wednesday
People seem weirdly excited about Pajama Day.
I don’t get it at all.
I’m just glad Xavier Schwartz and Gianni Schicci don’t want to beat me up for it.
I don’t know about the girls because I am not talking to them. If they don’t want to invite me to their parties, that’s just fine with me. I don’t even care.
April 29, Thursday
I know you have to stay silent during a fire drill.
I was totally trying to stay silent.
It was Xavier Schwartz who was talking, saying we should wear glow-in-the-dark pajamas, and did I have some, and I just whispered that yes, I had Batman glow-in-the-darks from last year. I thought that would be the end of it and we could be silent the rest of the time but no, because it turned out that Xavier Schwartz also had glow-in-the-dark Batman pajamas from last year.
What I didn’t say: They sold them in the store. Lots of people probably have them.
What I did say: nothing. I just smiled.
But we both got sent to the principal’s office, where we had to sit and wait on the bad-kid chairs once again.
I used to be terrified of getting sent to sit on the bad-kid chairs.
At the rate I am going, soon they will name one of the bad-kid chairs after me.
April 30, Friday
I wore my glow-in-the-dark Batman pajamas.
So did Xavier Schwartz. (I mean, he wore his. He didn’t wear mine, too.)
It was kind of cool, like we were a team or something. We went into the coat closet together when Ms. Termini left the room and we glowed. Then we scrambled back to our seats and nobody told on us, not even my thunderously loud pounding heart.
It was funny seeing everybody in pajamas, to tell the truth. Noah, the lunatic, even wore his big dinosaur slippers. Daisy wore a flannel nightgown. The Montanas wore little shorts with flowers on them and tank tops. Gianni Schicci had grown out of his glow-in-the-darks so he wore stripey pajamas like a lot of other kids, but his were blue and green on the top and red and orange on the bottoms.
But the funniest was the teachers.
May 1, Saturday
Walked twice and only struck out once.
Out in deep left field, I had my first-ever moment of imagining playing for the Yankees.
But then I got over it.
May 2, Sunday
Dad planted begonias and petunias and a bunch of other flowers with silly names this morning. Elizabeth and I helped for a little while but then we got bored so we went inside. The best part of gardening is the bad words Dad says when he is trying to dig out the rocks.
We all had to go out and admire the garden when he was done. It did look good, though too pink in my opinion.
While Dad showered and then napped, I played Atom Blaster. Elizabeth practiced piano. Mom did stuff on her computer.
And Qwerty dug up everything Dad had just planted in the garden.
May 3, Monday
There is something worse in gym than relay races.
It is called gymnastics.
There is a reason people don’t normally climb up ropes or hang upside down by their knees.
It is called we are not monkeys or bats.
May 4, Tuesday
The violin recital is in two weeks.
I am back to thinking about moving to New Jersey.
I have a feeling the orchestra teacher, Mrs. Phillips, would be a big supporter of that idea. Even my best song, which is “How Ya Doin’,” is pretty painful for everybody, including me.
I even practiced it.
Once.
Snakey looked ready to attack me. And for the first time ever, all the stuffties were united behind him. Including Bananas.
(Of course, not Wingnut.)
Thinking about how Wingnut would be on my side if I hadn’t lost him, I had to put down my violin and be sad for a while. Some people think all there is in life is responsibilities and practicing things, when sometimes a person has to take time to feel bad about his tragedies.
May 5, Wednesday
Today is Cinco de Mayo. That is a Mexican holiday.
So we had an assembly and did a dance around a hat.
May 6, Thursday
Today is Seis de Mayo.
That is not a holiday anywhere, apparently. So we didn’t dance around any clothing at all.
Instead we started writing poems to our mothers, because Sunday is Mother’s Day.
We do an awful lot of poetry in third grade. Enough is enough already, I think.
A lot of words that look like they’d rhyme with mother don’t. Like bother. And some words that do rhyme with mother are useless, like brother and smother.
And in student council I voted yes on the bake sale. Because, who would vote against a bake sale?
May 7, Friday
My poem for Mom:
She is my mother
I don’t have another
Or even a brother
Though sometimes she’ll smother
Me with her kisses and other
Mom things, she’s my mother!
So I love ’er.
May 8, Saturday
I hate my poem.
Maybe if I make her a pop-up card to go with it, she’ll get distracted and not notice the poem.
The last line doesn’t rhyme. Ms. Termini called it a slant rhyme. She said I was using a poetic license. But I never got a poetic license so there’s no way I can use mine. Anyway, what the heck is a “slant rhyme”?
I have a feeling the “slant” in that sentence of “You used a slant rhyme” is teacher-talk for “bad . . .” or, “Tough tomatoes on you, pal, that doesn’t . . .”
Maybe I will quickly make Mom some jewelry or clothes or some food with wheat germ in it like she likes. And I could just slip my dumb slanted poem under her door tonight when she isn’t looking, and maybe she won’t find it for a while.
Yes, that is definitely what I am going to do, and then I will have done my weekend homework by giving her the card without having to face her about the slantiness of my poem.
If Elizabeth’s poem is better than mine, I will be so ashamed.
May 9, Sunday
It isn’t stealing if you pay.
That’s what I told Elizabeth, but she isn’t sure. I am not 100% sure, either, but I am, like, 87–89% sure we didn’t steal those flowers from Mrs. Edmundson’s yard. Because we left her $3.47 in pennies from our combined penny collections right where the flowers used to be.
How else were two kids who can’t drive and don’t have permission to walk into town supposed to get flowers for their mother on Mother’s Day? (I gave 174 pennies, because I am older so I wanted to give extra.)
I wanted to also give Mom something that would last, so I took the bear down from my shelf, the one I painted at Noah’s party that is my best work of art ever. I love it more than any of my other paint-on-pottery. I wrapped it up in wrapping paper. It is not a cube or a box; it is bear-shape, so the wrapping job was extremely difficult and took a very lot of tape.
I will
miss having that bear on my own shelf but as much as I love that thing, I love my mom infinity times more.
So it is worth it.
I think.
May 10, Monday
She loved it.
All the presents.
She even climbed up to the top bunk and cuddled me and said she loved finding the beautiful poem on her floor when she woke up, and she will trea sure the bear forever and the flowers as long as they last. She put them in her best vase.
Then she read to me. That is maybe a baby thing because for goodness’ sake I have known how to read myself for years now, but I still loved it anyway. It was very cozy.
So yesterday was a very good Mother’s Day for me, too.
Especially because Elizabeth didn’t even write a poem. She made a trivet out of mosaic tiles. It was extremely lumpy but I just complimented the color pattern instead of mentioning how much pots would wobble on it. She looked very proud when I told her it was a good pattern.
Now I am lying here, not sleeping, but for once not because I am scared. I’ve got Snakey on the lookout and Qwerty down below. No, I am not sleeping because of smiling.
May 11, Tuesday
The answer to the violin musical question of “How Ya Doin’ ” is:
Not well.
Very not well at all.
May 12, Wednesday
Gianni Schicci and Xavier Schwartz are BOTH coming over for a playdate tomorrow.
It is a favor to their moms, who have to do some PTA thing at school.
I am not overreacting. My mother does not know those guys.
I have to pray for an earthquake or something.
I told Qwerty about it while I was walking him.
The good thing about a dog:
How much he agrees, automatically, with whatever you are saying.
The bad thing about a mom:
How much she doesn’t.
May 13, Thursday
I knew it.
Didn’t I tell her it would be a disaster?
And I am not even talking about the window that broke from practicing forward rolls on my bed and Gianni’s foot going through it (the window, not the bed). A window can be replaced, good as new, no problem, is what Mom said.
What I am talking about is the damage to Snakey.
May 14, Friday
This morning at the cubbies, Gianni Schicci and his mom were waiting. Snakey was in a big blue bag. His eye had been sewn back on and the rip in his neck had gotten stitches. Gianni had sworn that his mom was an ace at sewing up stuffties because she is a doctor who works in the emergency room at the hospital so she gets a lot of practice on people.
I tried to act like it was no big deal again, so Gianni and now his mom wouldn’t know I still love my stuffties, even the ferocious ones who barely cry when they get their eye popped off and their neck ripped open while being used as a sword even though I said, “Please stop using my snake as a sword” in my most serious I mean it, mister voice.
Gianni’s mom whispered something to Gianni. He fished around in the blue bag and pulled out a small wrapped thing. I wasn’t sure what to do about that because it wasn’t my birthday; it wouldn’t even be my birthday for another month and no way was Gianni Schicci getting invited to it, not after what he did to Snakey. Probably not even before that, but definitely not after. So why was he handing me a present?
He didn’t look too happy about it, either.
His mom said, “Gianni is very sorry he was rough with your stuffed animal, aren’t you, Gianni?”
“Sorry,” Gianni said.
I wanted to say that’s okay but since it was a lie, it got stuck.
“Gianni of all people knows how precious a person’s stuffed animals are, right, Gianni?”
Gianni just turned funny colors at that.
“So we repaired your snake as best we could,” she continued, “but we also went to Big Top and Gianni bought you a stuffed chipmunk. With his own money. He has been saving up to buy the stuffed chipmunk for himself, but he would like to give it to you as an apology. Right, Gianni?”
Gianni opened his mouth to say “yes” or maybe “right” but it was a lie so it got stuck.
Instead he shoved the package toward me.
I took it gently. “You don’t have to . . .” I started to explain.
“It’s okay,” Gianni said sadly, and walked into class.
I put Snakey and the still-wrapped chipmunk into my cubby and followed him in.
May 15, Saturday
On our way to the outfield, I called Gianni’s name.
He rolled his eyes and waited for me.
“We can share it,” I said. “The chipmunk.”
“whatever,” he said.
“Or it could be yours, and I would just keep it for you, for a while.”
“I don’t really care that much about stuffties anymore.”
I nodded. I was about to say, Yeah, me neither, but accidentally I said, “I do.”
“Yeah, well, but only really good ones,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “You had to use your own money?”
“I’m working on self-control,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m working on being brave.”
We nodded at each other.
Then we had to turn around and pay attention to the game.
I struck out twice and walked once, but because of the walk I got to third base, my best game ever.
May 16, Sunday
Mom and Dad are going away. They are all packed already and they signed the permission slip for my class trip to the science museum, and they have tickets for the plane and everything. They swear they told us about this many, many times but them going away for a full week is not something I would just forget. What kind of parents go away for a week and leave their children all alone?
Okay, fine, I get it that Gingy and Poopsie are staying with us, so technically we are not being left all alone. But Gingy and Poopsie are not parents. They are Grands. It is a whole different thing.
Elizabeth is totally psyched.
I am not so sure.
I am picturing a week of goofiness, no bedtimes, and food that jiggles. It could be great but it could be chaos.
Or it could be both.
I didn’t even know I was going on a class trip to the science museum, though that did sound slightly familiar.
I am not getting all my memos, Mom said might be the problem.
May 17, Monday
While Mom and Dad were on a plane flying away from me, I learned a terrible thing. We have to climb up the rope. All the way up to the piece of white tape wrapped around it way up high, a dangerously far distance from the gym floor. Or we don’t graduate from third grade.
I do not think it is good to encourage kids to be that far from the ground. Seriously. Have they thought this whole activity through?
I think it would be good if my parents call us from Bermuda where they are having their first-ever vacation together since I was born and say Bermuda is beautiful and they miss us so Gingy and Poopsie are bringing us down there to our new house.
Poopsie says nobody wears pants in Bermuda. I am pretty sure he is making that up. They walk around in their underwear? Gingy, who usually tells Poopsie to stop riling up the children with his nonsense, said it was true and Bermuda is famous for nobody wearing pants. Seriously? Even the visitors? I don’t know if Mom and Dad were aware of this Bermuda fact before planning their trip. Probably my grandparents are just being weird.
But even if not, walking around in underwear might be better than climbing a rope all the way up higher than Mr. Calabrio’s bald head.
Or going to Gianni’s laser-tag birthday party Sunday.
Even the invitation to it looks too wild for me.
I don’t want to say no to him without a good reason or he will think I don’t appreciate his gift of the chipmunk, which I do. I named him Schicci and let him sleep on the Pillow of Honor last night. (The chipmunk, not Gia
nni.)
But I do have a great idea of what to buy Gianni as a gift.
May 18, Tuesday
If I had to choose which is worst of:
A) Climbing a rope up higher than a gym teacher’s bald head
B) Practicing my squeaky violin
C) Hanging upside down by my knees so my shirt falls up
D) Getting driven somewhere by Gingy, the slowest driver on the planet
E) Walking my drooly dog every day because my parents went away
I would have to choose
F) All of the above
Welcome to my life as a third grader.
May 19, Wednesday
I fell off.
Xavier Schwartz was trying to teach me to hang by my knees on the jungle gym in the playground at lunch. He said it was all a matter of squeezing your feet toward your butt. Well, apparently I didn’t squeeze hard enough because just when I had the thought of I’m doing it! I was flying headfirst onto the black playground mat.
Everybody was standing above me asking if I was okay but I truthfully didn’t know. My teeth all hurt and the kids were making me seasick by swaying, so I had to close my eyes.
I realized I was walking into school with my arms around shoulders. Then I realized the shoulders belonged to Noah and Daisy, and also that my legs had been replaced with overcooked strands of fettuccine. I figured out that I was obviously dreaming, because I was barely friends with Daisy anymore and also legs don’t just become pasta. So I closed my eyes.
When I opened them I was in the nurse’s office, lying on a cot. What was making me feel sick was the nurse’s clock. Instead of going tick-tock-tick-tock on a steady beat, it would go tick and then wait a while in silence. Then in a rush it would suddenly tap out tocktocktocktocktock-tick-tock-tick . . . and then go silent for a while longer.
