It’s Monday and I have a blank copy of the baseball diamond behavior plan so I can get around my bases by the end of the day, and I’m all ready to start fresh and let things roll right off and stay out of everyone’s face, especially Alex Carter’s, when Ms. Meg says we’re going to do a project about our family trees.
She can forget about that right now, because I’m not doing it. No way.
Alex starts whispering something to Ronald, and I bet it’s something mean. They’re laughing and Ms. Meg gives them a look, so they stop. But when she turns away Alex goes back to whispering and laughing and he’s rolling up tiny little paper balls and tossing them into Oscar’s dark curly hair in front of him. It’s making me all hot and mad because he doesn’t have some stupid baseball diamond plan out on his desk to help him not be a jerk.
Already I regret writing him an apology this weekend, even though I wrote it as a haiku, which Ms. Meg told us is the earliest form of poetry. But that’s not why I chose it. I chose it because it’s short.
Alex, I’m sorry.
That is all I have to say.
That was the last time.
Ms. Meg also taught us that you can interpret poetry in lots of different ways, so while most people think the last line means I won’t hit him again, you could also interpret it to mean that I won’t apologize again.
But watching him laughing now with Ronald I’m wishing I never crumpled the apology haiku and tossed it in his cubby this morning because he doesn’t deserve to read it and he isn’t sorry about anything at all. And neither am I.
I ask to go to the bathroom and maybe when I come back I’ll have missed the whole project and everyone will be done and presenting their family trees to the class and Ms. Meg will say, It’s OK, Robinson, you don’t have to do it because we’re moving on to the next thing. Then we’ll just go on to a different project and I’ll keep on being cool and letting things roll right off like Jackie Robinson and I’ll get through the morning just fine and Ms. Meg will draw a smiley face on first base and send me off to recess with Mr. Danny.
Even though I take extra long in the bathroom and make laps around the fifth-grade floor, peeking my head in other homerooms to see if they’re doing stupid family trees too, which I can’t tell, when I get back Ms. Meg is still just explaining the project.
“You get to create your family tree however you want,” Ms. Meg tells us. Brittany and Chelsea are whispering about papier-mâché at the table behind me, and I picture sticking it across their mouths and letting it harden so all their stupid words are stuck inside their mouths forever and they can never giggle at Alex Carter again.
“Today we’ll start by doing a little writing just to get some ideas flowing about our families.”
Everyone is unzipping their book bags and taking out their notebooks like they’re excited to get started. Except me. Ms. Meg says my name and gives me a look like she’s trying to remind me that I’m only one strike away from serious trouble. I yank hard on the zipper of my book bag. My notebook is tucked in the pocket of my baseball glove, which makes me even more mad because I wish it were recess.
Candace has her head down on the table again, which is weird because she doesn’t seem like the head-down-on-the-table type of kid. I guess this project is so stupid that even the good students like Candace don’t want to do it.
Ms. Meg makes her way over and pats Candace on the back.
She sits up fast and whispers, “Sorry.”
Derek nudges my elbow. “Rob, you OK?” He’s really good at knowing when something’s wrong. “I can help you—”
“I’m fine,” I say, because he can’t help. Not with this.
Ms. Meg has her notebook projected up on the Smart Board. It says Family Tree: Quick Writes.
Quick Writes are basically writing prompts Ms. Meg gives us. They’re usually not so bad because we never have to write too much or for too long, but these ones will be bad.
Derek nudges me again and looks at me like he wants to know if I’m really OK, and I shake him off because I’m trying my best not to be mad at him just because his family tree will probably be easy to make and have lots of branches.
“Number one. I want you to write a list of three people who are important in your family,” Ms. Meg says.
I clench down hard on my back teeth and try to remember as many baseball stats as I can. Career leader, stolen bases: Rickey Henderson, 1,406. Single-season leader, home runs: Barry Bonds, 73, 2001. But Ms. Meg is giving me that look, so I start writing really slow:
Important People in My Family:
Grandpa
“I have seven so far,” someone whispers. And I’m trying to let it roll right off. I can see Derek’s list growing longer and longer in my peripheral vision, like I’m a pitcher and he’s got a good lead off first base.
“Next question,” Ms. Meg announces finally. “This time we’ll write for two minutes without stopping.” Kids moan, not because they only have one family member, but because they don’t want to write for two minutes straight.
“Number two,” she says. “Jot down any details you know of your birth. What have your family members told you about the day you were born? Ready? Set. Write.” And she starts the timer for two minutes.
Most career ejections of a MLB manager: Bobby Cox, 158. But it doesn’t work because before I know it I’m standing up and about to turn the whole table over because this is such crap and I’m not making some stupid family tree project. And everyone is biting their pencils and writing their stories and sketching these gigantic trees with moms and dads and cousins and branches sticking out everywhere and I wish I had Grandpa’s ax, because I’d raise it up high over my head and chop them all down in one big swing.
“Robbie.” Derek’s tugging on my arm, trying to get me to sit back down before I do something stupid.
But then the door creaks open and everyone looks and it’s Ms. Gloria, and it’s the first time I’m hoping she takes me, because if she doesn’t I’m going to break something.
“Robinson,” she says calm and low. “You look ready.” I’m thinking, Perfect timing, when she calls out, “Also, Candace, Oscar, and Alex. You’ll be coming with us too.”