MRS. SPANGLE ASKED ME TO HELP Natalie take her pencil case out of her desk, and I said, “Only if she gives me a quarter,” and now my initials are on the board again. I do not think this is fair because I am tired of being Natalie’s buddy, and plus, I need some coins if I am ever going to get my fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses.
Mom made me stay in my room all of last night except for dinner, which was not even worth it because it was pork chops, and I hate pork chops. And then she took Timmy with her to the bank to use the magic coin machine, and I got to do nothing. Plus, I never even found the dime I had lost, so now I am back to having no coins at all, and this week is turning out not so hot.
I pull Natalie’s stupid pencil case out of her desk for her, and she does not even thank me. I plop it down so that it makes a loud noise, and Mrs. Spangle tells me to “Knock it off,” so I do, but only because I do not want to miss recess.
“Psst,” I whisper to Natalie. “Did you fall off your bike?”
“Huh?”
“Did you fall off your bike? Is that how you broke your wrist?”
“Did you fall roller-skating?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did you fall down the stairs?”
“No, Mandy,” Natalie answers, like I am a dope or something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, that is ridiculous,” I tell her. “The best part of breaking a bone is telling the story of how you did it. Everybody knows that.” But Natalie just looks down at her cast through her glasses and doesn’t answer me. “And also, your cast is a boring color.” If I were lucky enough to have a cast, I would pick a stand-out-and-shout color, but Natalie’s cast is white. And I hate white things.
“Open to the next clean page of your writing journals, please,” Mrs. Spangle tells us. “I’d like you to write a five-sentence summary of the last story you read in your reading group. Who can remind us what a summary is?”
Natalie shoots her good hand in the air.
“Yes, Natalie?” Mrs. Spangle calls on her.
“The main idea of what happened in the story, with some details,” Natalie answers, and she looks pretty proud of herself.
“Excellent answer,” Mrs. Spangle tells her, and I cross my arms because I did not think it was so great. “Natalie, are you going to be okay writing with your left hand again?” Natalie broke her right wrist, and because she is right-handed, she has to use her left hand to write now.
“I think so,” Natalie answers.
“Just try your best,” Mrs. Spangle tells her. “The rest of you have fifteen minutes—remember, five sentences all together.”
I uncross my arms to begin writing, and Mrs. Spangle circles the room to watch us work. When she gets to our group, she leans over Natalie’s shoulder.
“You’re doing a beautiful job,” she tells her. “Maybe you were meant to be left-handed after all!” Natalie grins an enormous smile at her, and I look down at her journal to see her work. Her handwriting looks pretty awful, and I am positive I could do a better job with my own left hand.
Carefully, I move my pencil from my right hand to my left, grip the whole thing in all of my fingers, place the point on the journal, and press down.
And I press a hole right through the paper.
I lift the pencil back up, rearrange my fingers so only three are on top, and try again. And this time, I draw a thick line down the entire page.
Hmm. This writing with my left hand business is harder than I thought.
I place just two fingers on top of the pencil and try once more, and now my hand is steadier. I decide that before I do anything else, I better learn to write my own name with my left hand. Slowly, I make the shape of an M at the top of the paper, followed by an a and then an n.
Just as I am finally getting to the curlicue of the y, Mrs. Spangle calls out, “Time’s up. Everyone, please place your journals in the basket on my desk so I can check them during lunch. Leave them open to the page you were working on.”
Uh-oh.
I look down at my journal—at the hole and the line and my wobbly name across the top. I have not written any part of the summary except the words “In the story,” and I know this is going to be a problem.
“Natalie, come here for a second,” Mrs. Spangle calls. “Mandy can bring up your journal for you.” I watch Natalie walk to Mrs. Spangle, who whispers something in her ear. Natalie smiles and nods.
“Class,” Mrs. Spangle begins, “Natalie and I think it would be a nice idea if each of you had a chance to autograph her cast. What do you think?”
My class whoops and cheers, but I do not even let out one “Wahoo.” Natalie returns to her seat, and Mrs. Spangle hands her a package of colorful markers for everyone to use to sign their names.
“Mandy, can you put my journal in Mrs. Spangle’s basket, please?” Natalie asks as one classmate after another comes over and writes his or her name gently across Natalie’s cast.
“Only after I get to sign,” I tell her. “I have to be your buddy, so I should have gotten to go first.” I pick up a black marker, because Natalie is the one who chose the boring old white cast and her boring old black glasses, so she should not get to have any fancy-dancy colors. I place the marker in my left hand with two fingers on top.
“Stand back, everybody,” I say. “I am going to show you how easy it is to write with your left hand.” Before Natalie can let out one peep, I place the marker on the cast and try to drag my hand into an M shape. It is harder to write on the cast than I had thought, because it has a lot of bumps and ridges, so I have a little trouble.
Actually, I have a lot of trouble.
So much trouble that by the time I am finished signing my name, Mandy takes up half of Natalie’s cast.
“Mandy!” Natalie screeches with so much exclaim that it does not sound like Natalie at all. She shoots her left hand in the air and waves Mrs. Spangle over. “Look what Mandy did.” She points to my signature.
Mrs. Spangle looks at me out of the side of her eyes, and it is a pretty scary look, if I am being honest. Without a word, Mrs. Spangle approaches the board and places a check mark next to my initials.
“Oooh, Polka Dot’s in big trouble,” Dennis whispers.