Chance and the Butterfly by Maggie De Vries Page A

seem to care when the other kids told substitute teachers about him either. “He can’t do that,” they would say, all serious, helping the teacher. “He doesn’t understand English.”
    Chance cared though. It made him mad, especially since half the time they were wrong anyway. And Chance suspected that when Ken sat there with his face all blank while they talked about him, he actually did understand. And if he did understand, then he cared too.
    Chance cared even more when they said stuff about him. “He’s always bad like that,” they would say loudly. “You have to put his name on the board.” Or, “You should keep him after school.” Or, “Send him to the principal.” As bossy as that, ordering around him and the substitute, both.
    He glanced at his paper again, but the words had done nothing to untangle themselves. He knew that if he tried, he would probably be able to find the word butterfly in every problem. And there’d be number words. He knew those. But there were other words too. And with Matilda sitting on that ledge, all alone like she was, he just wasn’t going to try.
    Right now, this very minute, Ms. Samson was attaching the last three chrysalides to the butterfly bush. The last three, that is, except for Matilda. Matilda was still a caterpillar. A munching, crunching caterpillar. A caterpillar who could not get enough green guck to eat. But caterpillar through and through.
    And Chance knew perfectly well that that was his fault.
    Every bit on purpose, he crumpled up his paper, his butterfly-word-problem paper, and threw it right onto Ken’s desk. Ken looked up, startled. And Chance grinned at him. He thought it was a friendly grin, like he was saying, “Forget the baby pages. Look at me!” And, Ken had stopped coloring. He was looking at Chance. But he wasn’t grinning back. Instead, he looked kind of mad.
    And one of the Martha clones was calling out, “Ms. Samson, Chance is being bad again.”
    â€œJulie, unless you are in physical danger, I do not appreciate tattling,” Ms. Samson said from the butterfly bush.
    â€œBut, Ms. Samson,” said another of the clones, “he’s bugging Ken. And Ken doesn’t even know English.”
    â€œAll right, Preeti,” Ms. Samson said. Her voice was sharp. But she did look over. She took in Ken’s angry face and the crumpled paper. The whole class watched, breathless, hoping, Chance knew, that she would do something. But Chance cut her off at the pass. He jumped up and grabbed the paper off Ken’s desk, knocking Ken’s pencil to the floor while he was at it.
    â€œPick up Ken’s pencil,” Ms. Samson said patiently. But not really. She wasn’t patient at all.
    Chance knew how to prove that. He could prove that Ms. Samson wasn’t patient every time. He did it by moving slowly.
    He headed for the recycling box.
    â€œI said, pick up Ken’s pencil, Chance,” Ms. Samson said, her voice a little tighter now.
    Chance tugged at the ball of paper until he found an edge. Then he smoothed it out. After all, they weren’t supposed to put crumpled paper in the recycling.
    Now she was striding in his direction. And her shoes made sharp noises, even on the carpet. She walked right up to Chance, towered over him. Chance looked up at her. He paused. Then, just as she was taking in a good, big breath to speak to him again, he strode as smartly as she had over to Ken’s desk, bent, picked up the pencil and handed it to Ken. He even tried a little smile, but Ken took the pencil from his hand without looking at him and without twitching a single muscle in his face.
    Chance sat down and scuffed at the floor with his foot. So now Ms. Samson was mad at him, Ken was mad at him, and Matilda was going to be a caterpillar forever. She was probably going to die a caterpillar. And she had turned out to be such a greedy little caterpillar. She