a look at the chrysalides. Please let Matilda be one of them soon, he thought, ignoring the excited hubbub around the return of the missing caterpillar. He pulled a chair off the stack at the back of the room and headed for his desk. That was when his eyes met Ms. Samsonâs. She knows, he thought, looking right back at her without blinking. Well, whatâs she going to do about it?
âGood morning, Chance,â she said. âDid you hear that our missing caterpillar has returned?â
âYeah, thatâs great,â Chance said as he settled down at his desk and waited for what she would do next.
Then his eyes met Kenâs. Chance couldnât decide which was stronger in Kenâs expression, anger or curiosity.
Ms. Samson didnât give him time to find out. The class was to study their spelling words, she said, with small chalkboards and partners, while Ms. Samson herself took the two caterpillars who had recently attached and whose chrysalides were now fully formed and found them their spots on the butterfly bush.
Two days later, one of the remaining caterpillars died. The whole class trooped outside in the rain to bury the tiny creature. Three children cried. Chance did not. But his stomach knotted up at the idea that tomorrow they might be burying Matilda. Or the day after that. And if they did, it would be his fault.
âCrybabies,â he hissed as the class trooped back into the classroom.
âMs. Samson,â Ralph called instantly, infuriatingly.
âTattletale,â Chance said, at full volume now.
âTake your seat, Chance,â Ms. Samson said. âIâll speak to you after school.â
Mark had to wait outside the closed classroom door.
âWhat did you do now?â Mark asked when Chance was released.
âI didnât do anything. Leave me alone!â Chance took off at a run. Mark kept up, and when they burst through the door together, he was good and mad. They both stopped in the front hall to fling off their coats and catch their breath.
âIâve been way nicer than you deserve, kid. I helped you save your little stolen petâs life. I let you wake me up in the middle of the night and shove a bunch of leaves in my face. And right this minute I couldnât tell you why I bother.â
âYouâre not so nice,â Chance said, but by the time he said it, he was halfway up the stairs.
Chapter 15
Chance sank his teeth deep into his last pencil. It felt good, chewy with a slight crispness to the paint. He worked his way down from the eraser end, examining the perfect tooth marks after each chew.
Ten bites, evenly spaced, and on the tenth, snap. That was the formula. On the tenth bite, he gripped the tip of the pencil between his fingers, sank his teeth a little deeper, and drove his chin down toward his chest hard. The pencil snapped.
Satisfied for the moment, he tossed the halves into his desk where they joined the jumbled, crumpled mess that had gathered since his arrival in Ms. Samsonâs class. The math paper he was supposed to be working on would soon be added to the mix.
It was a page of word problems. Butterfly word problems, but butterflies were no different from dandelions or teacups where math was concerned. Actually, math, reading and writing combined. Thatâs what word problems were.
Pencil disposed of, Chance looked around the room. Ken sat next to him.
He was carefully coloring in the butterflies on his page with pencil crayons. Kenâs page was different from Chanceâs. Ken had a baby page. At least, thatâs what Martha and some of the other kids, the Martha clones, called it. All pictures and numbers, no words.
It seemed as if Ken didnât care when they said that, because he didnât understand English. He was even newer to the class than Chance was. And he had moved a lot farther to come here. All the way from Hong Kong across the Pacific Ocean, Ms. Samson said. Ken didnât
âGood morning, Chance,â she said. âDid you hear that our missing caterpillar has returned?â
âYeah, thatâs great,â Chance said as he settled down at his desk and waited for what she would do next.
Then his eyes met Kenâs. Chance couldnât decide which was stronger in Kenâs expression, anger or curiosity.
Ms. Samson didnât give him time to find out. The class was to study their spelling words, she said, with small chalkboards and partners, while Ms. Samson herself took the two caterpillars who had recently attached and whose chrysalides were now fully formed and found them their spots on the butterfly bush.
Two days later, one of the remaining caterpillars died. The whole class trooped outside in the rain to bury the tiny creature. Three children cried. Chance did not. But his stomach knotted up at the idea that tomorrow they might be burying Matilda. Or the day after that. And if they did, it would be his fault.
âCrybabies,â he hissed as the class trooped back into the classroom.
âMs. Samson,â Ralph called instantly, infuriatingly.
âTattletale,â Chance said, at full volume now.
âTake your seat, Chance,â Ms. Samson said. âIâll speak to you after school.â
Mark had to wait outside the closed classroom door.
âWhat did you do now?â Mark asked when Chance was released.
âI didnât do anything. Leave me alone!â Chance took off at a run. Mark kept up, and when they burst through the door together, he was good and mad. They both stopped in the front hall to fling off their coats and catch their breath.
âIâve been way nicer than you deserve, kid. I helped you save your little stolen petâs life. I let you wake me up in the middle of the night and shove a bunch of leaves in my face. And right this minute I couldnât tell you why I bother.â
âYouâre not so nice,â Chance said, but by the time he said it, he was halfway up the stairs.
Chapter 15
Chance sank his teeth deep into his last pencil. It felt good, chewy with a slight crispness to the paint. He worked his way down from the eraser end, examining the perfect tooth marks after each chew.
Ten bites, evenly spaced, and on the tenth, snap. That was the formula. On the tenth bite, he gripped the tip of the pencil between his fingers, sank his teeth a little deeper, and drove his chin down toward his chest hard. The pencil snapped.
Satisfied for the moment, he tossed the halves into his desk where they joined the jumbled, crumpled mess that had gathered since his arrival in Ms. Samsonâs class. The math paper he was supposed to be working on would soon be added to the mix.
It was a page of word problems. Butterfly word problems, but butterflies were no different from dandelions or teacups where math was concerned. Actually, math, reading and writing combined. Thatâs what word problems were.
Pencil disposed of, Chance looked around the room. Ken sat next to him.
He was carefully coloring in the butterflies on his page with pencil crayons. Kenâs page was different from Chanceâs. Ken had a baby page. At least, thatâs what Martha and some of the other kids, the Martha clones, called it. All pictures and numbers, no words.
It seemed as if Ken didnât care when they said that, because he didnât understand English. He was even newer to the class than Chance was. And he had moved a lot farther to come here. All the way from Hong Kong across the Pacific Ocean, Ms. Samson said. Ken didnât
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