AMANDA ANDERSON WON’T LOOK at me. She won’t talk to me. I’m see-through, like hot stinky Patches breath. She stomps past me on the bus and squeezes in tight with Jessie Goat Gruff who has stitches under the bandage on her chin.
Jessie won’t talk to me, either. I can’t say, “You were shoving me, too!”
Because she’s the one with the stitches, not me. She’s got the right of way.
When we get to school, Amanda skips into Mrs. D.’s class, holding hands with Jessie.
“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. D. exclaims. “Oh, Jessie! You poor thing!” She cozies right up to Jessie and kneels down in front of her. A whole bunch of kids crowd around, too.
I slink in like an old raccoon that’s heading for the garbage cans. I slap my permission slip in Mrs. D.’s basket and slug over to my desk.
What if I were the one with stitches all over my face? And a broken leg? The whole entire school would be weeping and carrying on ’cause I just about killed myself on the playground.
I have a little smile on my face. Until Mrs. D. calls, “Lola, time for morning Share!”
I see that everyone is sitting on the carpet. I skunk on over there.
“Here, Lola!” Savannah says. She pats the seat next to her. She is wearing sparkly blue glasses. Why is Savannah so nice? I wouldn’t be nice to me.
But I sit down next to her anyway. “I like your new glasses,” I tell her.
“They’re my spare pair.”
Amanda could think of a good song to go with that. We’re the spare pair, the double-daring spare pair. Not some old underwear.
Well, better than that. I give Amanda a little wave but I’m still see-through.
“Who would like to share?” Mrs. D. asks.
Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael’s hand shoots up like a rocket. So does Savannah’s. But Gwendolyn starts talking. “I have something important to say. My mother is picking me up after school for a special trip to New York City. We’re having dinner with my father at Tavern on the Green.”
My head sinks so I use my fist to prop it up. I stare as hard as I can at Harvey’s shoe, which has a wad of gum stuck to the bottom. I swallow some air and hiccup. I haven’t seen my mom for a hundred years. Or my dad.
“How wonderful, Gwendolyn,” Mrs. D. says. “Savannah?”
Savannah has her arm flapping in the breeze. I feel her big eyes on me from behind her spare pair. Her arm falls down.
“Um … I forgot,” she says.
Jessie’s hand pops up. “I went to the emergency room and got stitches,” she says. “My doctor said I was very brave.”
“They always say that,” Harvey says.
“I’m sure you were brave,” Mrs. D. says. “Any more Shares?”
There are more Shares. Loads more.
But I don’t have anything to share, so I just keep my mouth shut.
Finally it’s time for Writing Workshop. I get out my purple notebook and my watermelon-smelling pencil and I write a story:
Once upon a time there were two puppies who were best friends. Then an old skunk came along and tried to squirt the puppies. And a koala came along and tried to hang on to them. But the puppies ran away and left the skunk and the koala alone to squirt and hang on to each other.
By the way, the puppies were named Amanda and Lola.
The End.
We have math and Spanish and then it’s time for recess.
“Savannah, be careful with your glasses,” Mrs. D. says. “Your mother called to say that they are your only extra pair.” Mrs. D. gives Savannah a Sugar Bun smile. “And I’m sure you’re very glad to have her back, aren’t you?”
Savannah nods her head like a Savannah Bobblehead. And I am Mom-sick and I can’t even remember what she looks like. What if she decides to stay in California forever? What if she’s got on some purple cowboy boots and she’s sitting on a palomino pony and she never wants to come back? What if every kid in California wants a Lola dress and Mom has to stay and make them?
Mrs. D. calls us in alphabetical order. Except she skips over Jessie and me.
The class and Miss Nimby head out for recess. Mrs. D., Jessie, and I stay put.
Jessie raises her hand. “Am I in trouble?” she asks. “Or are you looking out for my chin?”
“Come here, girls,” Mrs. D. says.
We go up there.
“Who would like to explain what happened on the playground at recess yesterday?”
“I’m the one with stitches,” Jessie quivers. “Tell Lola to explain. It’s all her fault.”
“It is not! I was there first, trying to say sorry to Savannah. And you shoved me. You made me lose my balance.”
“You didn’t have to grab me!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But I got hurt!”
“Well, so did I. On the inside.”
“Jessie, is it true that you pushed Lola?”
Jessie folds her arms tight. “Well, maybe. It’s Savannah’s fault for swinging with sharp cowboy boots.”
“What do you have to say to each other?” Mrs. D. says.
“Watch where you’re going?” I ask. “Try again, Lola.”
“Sorry, Jessie,” I say.
“Sorry, Lola,” she says. Then, “You’re lucky you didn’t get stitches,” Jessie adds on to her I’m-not-sorry sorry.
“You’re lucky the whole class doesn’t blame you, including your own best friend that you’ve had your whole life.”
“My stitches hurt,” she says.
Mrs. D. stands up with her travel mug. “Let’s go to Nurse Ramirez’s office and get you some ointment. Lola, you may now join the class for recess.”
They wheel out of the room. But I stand there sputtering like Grampy Coogan’s lawnmower. I go over to the window. Fishsticks. There’s Savannah swinging Double Dippers with Amanda.
This whole mess is Savannah’s fault. She’s the best-friend-hogger. She’s the Spare-Pair-Wearer and Pointy-Purple-Boot-Attacker. Now Amanda thinks I’m bad. Maybe I AM bad.
I walk over to Savannah’s desk and look at the picture of Savannah’s mother taped there. She still has a photo, even though her mom got out of California. My mom’s stuck there.
Maybe she likes it there better. Maybe she’s getting a golden tan and she’s surfing.
Maybe the girls there are nice and whispery like Savannah and don’t have to be told twice to clear the table.
Now Savannah has her mom back. And I still don’t have my mom back. Or my dad.
Picking up a fat black pen, I give her mom glasses, just like Savannah’s. Plus, a fat mustache under the mom’s nose. Dot, dot, dot: freckles.
All the air squelches out of me. I drop the pen and run out of the room.