AS SOON AS I GET TO SCHOOL, I take out my sloppy ol’ braid that I gave myself at the crack of dawn this morning. BOING. My hair dances on my head on account of getting free. The morning bell rings.
“Gobble, gobble!” Harvey Baxter yells. “Look at me! I’m a turkey!” Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael yells at him to stop. I wonder if I’m going to get a haircut like Harvey Baxter.
“Harvey, Gwendolyn,” Mrs. D. says. Then she takes a swig from her travel coffee mug.
BUZZ.
CRACKLE.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” Principal McCoy says. “Please remember that school will be dismissed at noon today. All after-school activities are cancelled. I want to wish you all a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!”
I’m lined up, waiting to sharpen my pencils. I love a sharp pencil, even on a half day. Amanda and Savannah come rushing up.
“Was your mom happy to see Barkley? What did your mom say about that?” Amanda chews on her lip.
I cross my fingers behind my back. “She was one hundred percent happy to see Barkley. And Maizy.”
“Whew! I thought she would say no more dogs!” Amanda grins.
“My mom LUH-HUVS dogs,” I say. “And even if she doesn’t have time to come to our class party, that’s because she has eight and a half more dresses to sew.” And my whole face itches. ’Cause I’m a big ol’ liar and I’m probably going to get killed by Mom if she has time to kill me if she takes a sewing break. Maizy and Barkley barked all night long, and Patches howled back. It was kind of like a dog concert.
Once everyone gets here, Mrs. D. says, “Good morning, Tootsie Pops!” She does the roll call and then she announces, “Morning meeting!”
We run to the carpet because we want to sit next to Mrs. D.
“Today we’re going to make Thanksgiving Day cards for our relatives and friends.”
Sam’s hand shoots up. “When are we having our party?”
“After recess,” Mrs. D. says.
At recess, I line up for the swings with Savannah.
Harvey Baxter points at my head. “You look like an alien!”
I pat my hair knot and stick out my tongue. “So! I’ll zap you with my alien laser.” It’s handy having an older brother. I know just what to say.
But my face feels droopy. Savannah puts her arm around me. “I like your hair style,” Savannah says.
“It’s not really a style,” I say. It’s no fun having a hair knot. And getting all my hair chopped off is going to be no fun, too.
“Well, I think you’re lucky to have curly hair,” Savannah says. “My mom curls my hair and mousses it up and sprays it on picture day. That’s N-O fun.”
I pat my curly ol’ head. And I give Savannah a hug.
When it’s our turn for the swings, me and Savannah have a contest to see who can go the highest. I don’t have to keep slowing down and pushing up my glasses like Savannah does. I slow myself down and let Savannah win. It gives me a good feeling inside. I bow to the cheering crowds and get a gold ribbon for goodness. After recess, we kids go pouring into the classroom.
Ari’s dad is there. He gives Ari a high five. Fishsticks. My dad doesn’t have time for anything fun. He’s making lots of stuff ahead of time today, like cheese sauce and brine. I never ate brine before. I hope. He also forgot to wash the cloth napkins and Mom said no to paper towels.
“Mommy!” Amanda yells.
“Hello, sweets,” Amanda’s mom says. My tummy feels slimy like leftover salad. And my heart feels flat as a burnt pancake.
“Did you bring the pumpkin muffins?” Amanda asks.
I eavesdrop in case she forgot, and Amanda wings out of the room, bawling like a little tiny baby that I have to burp.
“Of course I did,” Mrs. Anderson says.
“All right, Jellybeans,” Mrs. D. says. “Take a seat. We’re going to make Thanksgiving Day cards.”
“You’re trying to get us under control.” Harvey Baxter pogos over to his desk.
“Yes, I am.” Mrs. D. hands out brown and orange paper.
“When everyone is finished with your Thanksgiving Day cards, it will be time to enjoy the nice feast prepared by Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Shapiro.”
Sam is the first one to finish his card. He wears his paper plate as a hat. Everyone lines up at the Thanksgiving buffet. Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Shapiro help the kids to not slop the cranberry sauce everywhere and only take one turkey-shaped sugar cookie.
“What key won’t open any door?” Mr. Shapiro asks. “A turkey!” He’s got lots of funny jokes like that.
“Lola,” Mrs. Anderson says when I get up close. “Your mom told me that Barkley was a surprise. I know you meant well, sweetie. But next time you really need to let the moms and dads in on the action. Okay?”
I nod. One time Patches ate a whole bowl of brussels sprouts right off the table. Now I know how he felt. No matter how hard I try to be a grown-up kid, I just keep on being a smelly rat baby.
Mrs. Anderson leans forward and whispers, “Now, don’t be sad, Lola. You’re such a good friend. It’s much nicer knowing our pets will be taken care of by friends.”
Next, I sit on the carpet next to Amanda and Savannah. “Barkley likes to be petted, but not when he’s eating,” Amanda says. “And he likes wet food mixed in with his dry.”
“Fishsticks,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Barkley will eat food off the counter if you don’t watch him, and if he does, he’ll be a real stinker.”
“A toot stinker?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better make a list,” I say. I shove the rest of my turkey sugar cookie in my mouth and run to my desk.
I grab a piece of paper and my watermelon-smelling pencil. I write
• Pet Barkley
• But not when he’s eating
• Mix wet dog food and dry food for Barkley
• Don’t let him eat off the counter
Mrs. Anderson comes over and looks at the list. “Excellent,” she says. “Amanda, it’s time to say goodbye. We have to catch our flight.”
“Gumdrops, let’s wish Amanda a wonderful Thanksgiving in Cancún!” Mrs. D. says. She lifts her travel mug.
“Bye, Amanda!” all the kids say.
I hug Amanda goodbye. I whisper, “Don’t worry about Barkley. I’ll take good care of him.”
After our party, we have Independent Reading. But I keep reading the same line over and over.
And instead of it saying Margaret walked down the country lane, it says Bald Lola got put in jail by her parents for ruining Thanksgiving.
Pretty soon it’s time for all the kids to pack up and go. Mrs. D. dismisses everyone from the classroom alphabetically. “Last but not least, Lola,” Mrs. D. says with a friendly smile. “It was very sweet of you to take care of Amanda’s dog. It’s a lot of work. You probably made Amanda feel very happy about her trip.”
I don’t feel sweet. I feel sour as a pickle. Sour as a rhubarb. Sour as a rhubarb and pickle sandwich.
