Jumping the Scratch by Sarah Weeks

” Miss Miller shouted, clapping her hands right next to my head, startling me so badly, I actually jumped up out of my seat, banging my knee painfully against the sharp edge of the desk. “Have you heard one word that’s been said?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I heard everything,” I lied, rubbing my knee as I felt the color rise hot in my own cheeks.
    â€œGood,” she said. “Then you won’t mind repeating it for us, will you?”
    She stared bug-eyed at me, waiting for my response.
    â€œUm…you were saying that you’re so thrilled that Arthur, um, that it’s an honor that Arthur—” I began.
    â€œExcuse me,” Miss Miller said, her lips quivering with emotion. “Whom, may I ask, are you referring to as Arthur? ”
    I slowly raised my arm and pointed at Arthur, who was standing right there next to her, looking pinker and more uncomfortable than ever.
    The whole class erupted in raucous laughter.
    â€œWho would like to explain to James his embarrassing mistake? Who would like to tell him who our guest this morning really is?” Miss Miller said, looking around. “Yes, Mary Lynne?”
    Of course it would be Mary Lynne. Miss Miller’s class pet stood up, her round face contorted in a junior version of the same contempt Miss Miller was just barely managing to contain herself. She was dressed in her Sunday best, her white-blond hair curled in ringlets and pulled back with a shiny blue ribbon.
    â€œOur guest this morning is Mr. Anthony Stone,” she said. “He is a published author who lives in Traverse City, and he has come to talk to all the fifth grades about how to become better writers.”
    â€œThank you, dear,” said Miss Miller, before turning back to me. “ Author , not Arthur ,” she said. “Mr. Stone is our visiting author .”
    I wanted to cry, or scream, or beat my fists against the wall, I was so humiliated. I wanted to run out the door and keep on running, all the way back to Battle Creek. Instead I sat there pretending not to care, tasting butterscotch, and feeling the button pressing into my cheek. It had left a mark. Four round, raised bumps inside a perfect little pink circle. A reminder that no matter what, you don’t ever let anybody know how you feel.

10
    AFTER THE LAUGHTER AND JOKING DIED DOWN, WE were told to go over to the meeting rug and sit cross-legged with clipboards and pencils in our laps. I took my usual spot in the corner as far away from everyone else as I could get and still be technically on the rug. I hated rug time. People sat so close, you could smell the soap on their skin and whether or not they’d brushed their teeth that morning. Knees and elbows were always bumping into me, and I worried about the rug’s not being clean.
    Audrey Krouch plopped down next to me in her stiff dress, the back of her neck streaked with red where she’d been scratching herself. Arthur—I never called him that out loud again, but he will always be Arthur to me—stood uncomfortably before us and started to teach.
    â€œDoes anybody know what descriptive writing is?” he began.
    His voice was so soft, it was hard to understand what he was saying unless you kept your eyes on his lips the whole time he was talking.
    Mary Lynne raised her hand with the usual accompanying sharp gasp to indicate how eager she was to be called on.
    â€œDescriptive writing is writing that describes something,” she said, flashing a triumphant smile first at Arthur and then at Miss Miller, who was sitting on a chair at the edge of the rug with her own pencil poised over a clipboard, nodding approvingly.
    â€œShow-off,” Audrey muttered under her breath. Then she leaned closer to me and whispered, “She’s got a big wart on her finger. Did you ever see it? Disgusting. ”
    â€œLet’s start with some examples,” Arthur said.
    He reached into his bag and pulled out a