the time she had to stand in front of the room with gum on her nose as punishment for blowing a bubble in a class where the teacher did not allow gum. That reminds my father of the teacher who said, “Brooks, I want the gum in the garbage can in three minutes or you’ll have detention.” My father said, “But the flavor’s not gone. What if I stand in the can—I can still chew it and thegum will be in the garbage.” He never expected the teacher to say yes, but she did.
Finally my father says, “I hate to break up one of the best times I’ve had for a while, but there’s homework to be done, and the kids have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Hoo ha—six o’clock,” I say as we leave.
CHAPTER 10
J oyce Kilmer High School—it’s so different from my school in New York. There are some things that are alike, but not many.
It’s so big, from seventh grade up, in one building. That’s like my old school, but here there are about three thousand kids. I’m used to about five hundred, from kindergarten up.
My old school was in a small brownstone building. Kilmer looks like it was once a giant car factory, only here they turn out students instead of cars.
My old school didn’t even have a song. Here they sing one based on a poem by Joyce Kilmer, “Trees.” I hate it.
About the kids—most of them are okay, but a few, who act as if they have a screw loose, should probably be recalled. There are about six towns that the kids come from, so there are eleven different types, like at most schools. There are the jocks, the brains, the skidders (who hang out in Woodstock, kind of hoods—the name comes from Skid Row, and there was once even a sign in some store that said NO SKIDDERS ALLOWED ), the in crowd, the social outcasts (who don’t have a friend to their names), and the regulars.
I guess I’m a regular, who some people think is a brain. I’m not sure I like being put in any group, but it’s certainly better than being a social outcast.
I’m sitting in a boring math class, trying to figure out what the letters in my name spell when rearranged. Phoebe Anna Brooks. It’s so hard. Finally I get one—Phone breaks a boon. That explains why I like to make telephone calls in between doing different homework assignments.
The bell rings.
Rush to lunch to get in line.
Try to get in front. The few edible things go fast, like cottage cheese and fruit, which they haven’t yet figured out how to ruin.
Today’s lunch is chicken a la king. Yesterday’s was chicken croquettes. The day before that was chicken. I bet tomorrow we’ll have spaghetti with chicken sauce. Puke. I’d bring my lunch, but nobody does, except for Alfie Fitch and he’s a social outcast who totes his in a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.
After paying for a meal that they should pay me to eat, I join Rosie and the other kids.
There’s only one seat left, and it’s at the end of the table next to Dave. He’s in some of my classes—smart, funny, and very cute. Once I asked Rosie about him, and she said he used to go out with her friend, the one who had to move away because of the custody decision. “Now,” she said, “he’s up for grabs. Lots of girls would love to go out with him but he doesn’t seem interested.”
Even though it doesn’t show, I’m a little shy and nervous when I like a guy in the beginning. I just try to act as if I’m not.
I set my tray on the table and sit down, acting very calm.
Calm, ha! I’m so calm, I forget that I’ve got myknapsack on my arm. I’ve just hit Dave in the head with it. I can tell he’s noticed, since he looks like he’s trying to cover up pain.
“I’m so sorry. Would it make it any better if I just died right here and now of embarrassment?” I whisper.
He touches the left side of his head. “You don’t have to do anything that extreme. However, you’ve just knocked out all the stuff I’ve ever learned by hitting me on the left side of the brain.”
That’s what
Finally my father says, “I hate to break up one of the best times I’ve had for a while, but there’s homework to be done, and the kids have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Hoo ha—six o’clock,” I say as we leave.
CHAPTER 10
J oyce Kilmer High School—it’s so different from my school in New York. There are some things that are alike, but not many.
It’s so big, from seventh grade up, in one building. That’s like my old school, but here there are about three thousand kids. I’m used to about five hundred, from kindergarten up.
My old school was in a small brownstone building. Kilmer looks like it was once a giant car factory, only here they turn out students instead of cars.
My old school didn’t even have a song. Here they sing one based on a poem by Joyce Kilmer, “Trees.” I hate it.
About the kids—most of them are okay, but a few, who act as if they have a screw loose, should probably be recalled. There are about six towns that the kids come from, so there are eleven different types, like at most schools. There are the jocks, the brains, the skidders (who hang out in Woodstock, kind of hoods—the name comes from Skid Row, and there was once even a sign in some store that said NO SKIDDERS ALLOWED ), the in crowd, the social outcasts (who don’t have a friend to their names), and the regulars.
I guess I’m a regular, who some people think is a brain. I’m not sure I like being put in any group, but it’s certainly better than being a social outcast.
I’m sitting in a boring math class, trying to figure out what the letters in my name spell when rearranged. Phoebe Anna Brooks. It’s so hard. Finally I get one—Phone breaks a boon. That explains why I like to make telephone calls in between doing different homework assignments.
The bell rings.
Rush to lunch to get in line.
Try to get in front. The few edible things go fast, like cottage cheese and fruit, which they haven’t yet figured out how to ruin.
Today’s lunch is chicken a la king. Yesterday’s was chicken croquettes. The day before that was chicken. I bet tomorrow we’ll have spaghetti with chicken sauce. Puke. I’d bring my lunch, but nobody does, except for Alfie Fitch and he’s a social outcast who totes his in a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.
After paying for a meal that they should pay me to eat, I join Rosie and the other kids.
There’s only one seat left, and it’s at the end of the table next to Dave. He’s in some of my classes—smart, funny, and very cute. Once I asked Rosie about him, and she said he used to go out with her friend, the one who had to move away because of the custody decision. “Now,” she said, “he’s up for grabs. Lots of girls would love to go out with him but he doesn’t seem interested.”
Even though it doesn’t show, I’m a little shy and nervous when I like a guy in the beginning. I just try to act as if I’m not.
I set my tray on the table and sit down, acting very calm.
Calm, ha! I’m so calm, I forget that I’ve got myknapsack on my arm. I’ve just hit Dave in the head with it. I can tell he’s noticed, since he looks like he’s trying to cover up pain.
“I’m so sorry. Would it make it any better if I just died right here and now of embarrassment?” I whisper.
He touches the left side of his head. “You don’t have to do anything that extreme. However, you’ve just knocked out all the stuff I’ve ever learned by hitting me on the left side of the brain.”
That’s what
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