yelled out.
Dancing with the music was hard. It was going so much faster than we had practiced. Mrs. Gibson was basically dragging me around to keep up with the music.
I looked at everyone else. They all seemed to be lost. Some people were bowing when they should have been going in a circle, while others were skipping around each other do-si-doing. After about a minute of out-of-control dancing, Mrs. Gibson turned off the music.
“Okay, now that we have all heard how fast it s,” she said, “let’s try it from the beginning. And remember, watch up here and follow us.” She pushed the button and hurried back.
The music started again and all of a sudden, without even my thinking about it, my legs were bouncing up and down to the rhythm. When the guy in the song started talking, I suddenly knew what I was doing. And not only did I know what I was doing, I was liking it. I looked around at everyone else. Some were getting it better than others, but no one was dancing as well as I was.
I couldn’t believe what was going on. I was skipping perfectly to the beat and I do-si-doed at exactly the right time. When the song ended, I actually felt a little sad, like I wanted it to go on longer.
A bunch of people came up to me and teased me about having to dance with Mrs. Gibson. David slugged me and said, “What’s wrong, too scared to dance with a girl? Baby Raymond has to dance with the teacher?”
“I’m not a baby!” I yelled. David just laughed and walked away. But maybe he was right. Did I look like a baby, having to dance with the teacher? I started going through the manly rules in my head when I felt a slap on my back.
“I really owe you one, hermano ,” Graham said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Are you serious?” Graham answered. “If you hadn’t volunteered to dance with Mrs. Gibson, it would have been me.”
“Whoa, I didn’t think of that,” I said. “You really do owe me one. I can’t believe it. I thought for sure she was going to ask for a volunteer to sit out and not have to dance.”
“Yeah, bummer,” Graham said. “But at least you’re not dancing with Lizzy.”
“I guess . . . although I’m still not sure what’s worse,” I said. “You know Lizzy got mad at me about her valentine poem. She said crinklier and stinklier aren’t real words. Even though she’s a girl, she obviously doesn’t understand poetic words like we do. And anyway, I actually think crinklier is a word.”
“Sure it is,” Graham agreed. “Like my shirt is much crinklier than your shirt.”
“Right,” I said. As we walked back to the classroom, we compared things that were crinklier than other things. We both agreed that nothing was crinklier than Lizzy’s face.
8
Being Mature
THE NEXT MONDAY at school, Mrs. Gibson passed out cards to each of us.
“Please take these invitations home and show them to your parents,” Mrs. Gibson said. “The maturation program is coming up this Friday for you and your parents.”
I had heard about the maturation program and about how embarrassing it is. I did not want to go. Graham, on the other hand, couldn’t wait.
That afternoon our class was in the library checking out books. Graham and I were in the back corner looking for a book about sports.
“This is going to be great!” he said in his loudest whisper. “You know, the maturation program.”
“I don’t want to go at all,” I said. “It will be so embarrassing.”
“Are you kidding? It will be great! I can’t wait to mature. We’ll get to shave, we’ll have deep voices, and all that good stuff. It means we’ll be that much closer to being men. Plus, if you really don’t want to feel like a baby, don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as you can about how to be mature? ”
I thought about that for a minute. “Maybe you’re right. Being mature is the exact opposite of being a baby.”
“Of course I’m right. After all,
Dancing with the music was hard. It was going so much faster than we had practiced. Mrs. Gibson was basically dragging me around to keep up with the music.
I looked at everyone else. They all seemed to be lost. Some people were bowing when they should have been going in a circle, while others were skipping around each other do-si-doing. After about a minute of out-of-control dancing, Mrs. Gibson turned off the music.
“Okay, now that we have all heard how fast it s,” she said, “let’s try it from the beginning. And remember, watch up here and follow us.” She pushed the button and hurried back.
The music started again and all of a sudden, without even my thinking about it, my legs were bouncing up and down to the rhythm. When the guy in the song started talking, I suddenly knew what I was doing. And not only did I know what I was doing, I was liking it. I looked around at everyone else. Some were getting it better than others, but no one was dancing as well as I was.
I couldn’t believe what was going on. I was skipping perfectly to the beat and I do-si-doed at exactly the right time. When the song ended, I actually felt a little sad, like I wanted it to go on longer.
A bunch of people came up to me and teased me about having to dance with Mrs. Gibson. David slugged me and said, “What’s wrong, too scared to dance with a girl? Baby Raymond has to dance with the teacher?”
“I’m not a baby!” I yelled. David just laughed and walked away. But maybe he was right. Did I look like a baby, having to dance with the teacher? I started going through the manly rules in my head when I felt a slap on my back.
“I really owe you one, hermano ,” Graham said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Are you serious?” Graham answered. “If you hadn’t volunteered to dance with Mrs. Gibson, it would have been me.”
“Whoa, I didn’t think of that,” I said. “You really do owe me one. I can’t believe it. I thought for sure she was going to ask for a volunteer to sit out and not have to dance.”
“Yeah, bummer,” Graham said. “But at least you’re not dancing with Lizzy.”
“I guess . . . although I’m still not sure what’s worse,” I said. “You know Lizzy got mad at me about her valentine poem. She said crinklier and stinklier aren’t real words. Even though she’s a girl, she obviously doesn’t understand poetic words like we do. And anyway, I actually think crinklier is a word.”
“Sure it is,” Graham agreed. “Like my shirt is much crinklier than your shirt.”
“Right,” I said. As we walked back to the classroom, we compared things that were crinklier than other things. We both agreed that nothing was crinklier than Lizzy’s face.
8
Being Mature
THE NEXT MONDAY at school, Mrs. Gibson passed out cards to each of us.
“Please take these invitations home and show them to your parents,” Mrs. Gibson said. “The maturation program is coming up this Friday for you and your parents.”
I had heard about the maturation program and about how embarrassing it is. I did not want to go. Graham, on the other hand, couldn’t wait.
That afternoon our class was in the library checking out books. Graham and I were in the back corner looking for a book about sports.
“This is going to be great!” he said in his loudest whisper. “You know, the maturation program.”
“I don’t want to go at all,” I said. “It will be so embarrassing.”
“Are you kidding? It will be great! I can’t wait to mature. We’ll get to shave, we’ll have deep voices, and all that good stuff. It means we’ll be that much closer to being men. Plus, if you really don’t want to feel like a baby, don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as you can about how to be mature? ”
I thought about that for a minute. “Maybe you’re right. Being mature is the exact opposite of being a baby.”
“Of course I’m right. After all,
Similar Books
