Hector and I played with our Puppet Pals every day at recess. I pretended to eat my Puppet Pal pizza. Hector made his Puppet Pal sun rise and set.

We held a battle between Hector’s Puppet Pal gorilla and my Puppet Pal zebra. The gorilla won. It wasn’t a fair fight. Gorillas have strong hands and feet, make scary noises, and climb and leap. Zebras just have stripes.

The more I played with Puppet Pals, the more bored I got. Instead of sitting on the playground, I would have rather played basketball, tag, or soccer. I even would have preferred to count our teacher’s nose hairs. I often did that during math lectures.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stopped pretending to change my Puppet Pal baby’s diaper. I told Hector, “I don’t like babies. I don’t like changing diapers. And I really don’t like Puppet Pals.”

“But Puppet Pals are so much fun for just about everyone,” Hector said. He looked confused.

“They’re not much fun for me,” I said.

“They’re not fun for me, because I don’t have any Puppet Pals,” Chandler Fitzgerald sobbed.

“Chandler, you can have mine,” I said. I gave him all my Puppet Pals, except the wasp.

He cried even harder.

“Now what’s wrong?” I asked.

“You didn’t give me your wasp,” he sobbed. “And I wanted new Puppet Pals.”

I rolled my eyes.

Then I walked over to Victoria. She was playing with a yo-yo that had a picture of a wasp on it.

I told her, “Since you collect wasps, I’ll sell my Puppet Pal wasp to you.”

She jumped up and down with excitement. After she paid me, she held the Puppet Pal wasp to her chest. “I love my new wasp!” she exclaimed. She kissed it and hugged it.

Gross.

Owen walked over to us. He stared at the Puppet Pal wasp in Victoria’s loving hand. Then he said, “Victoria, you look pretty today. You always look pretty. But today you look extra pretty.”

I said, “Owen, you sound phony today. You always sound phony. But today you sound extra phony.”

Victoria said, “You can compliment me all you want. But you will never get my wasp Puppet Pal.”

Next, Grace Chang walked up to us.

Emma G. and Emma J. followed her.

Grace put her long, scary, sharp, pointy, and evil fingernails on Victoria’s cheek. “Give me the wasp Puppet Pal or I’ll scratch your face off,” she said.

“Yeah. Give it to her,” Emma G. said.

“Yeah. Give it to her,” Emma J. said.

Victoria said, “I’m the smartest kid in third grade. Therefore, you are not. Therefore, I will outsmart you. Therefore, you’re toast.”

“Huh? Toast?” Grace scratched her head in confusion. She must have forgotten that her fingernails were long, scary, sharp, pointy, and evil. Scratching her head made it bleed.

Emma G. and Emma J. scratched their heads, too. Their fingernails were not long, scary, sharp, et cetera like Grace’s. So their heads did not bleed. But Emma J.’s barrette broke.

Victoria said, “I am the smartest kid in third grade. I understand physics and statistics. If you attempt to scratch my face off, there is a 78 percent chance that you will suffer a broken finger. There is a 46 percent chance of two or more of your fingers breaking. Think about that, Grace.”

Grace thought about it. She scratched her head again. It bled again.

The Emmas scratched their heads again. Their heads did not bleed. But large flakes of dandruff fell off Emma G.’s head.

“Your head is bleeding,” I told Grace.

“I’m confused, and I need a bandage,” she said. She ran away.

Emma G. said, “I’m confused, and I need dandruff shampoo.” She ran away, too.

Emma J. said, “I’m not confused, and I need a new barrette.”

“Also, I disagree with your statistical analysis, Victoria,” Emma J. continued. “You must have omitted several critical confounding factors. The chance of one finger breaking is 77 percent, and the chance of a two-finger breakage would be 45 percent.” Then she ran away, too.

Victoria said, “Perhaps I’m just the second-smartest kid in third grade. But I do have the best collection of wasps.”

The bell rang. Everyone lined up to return to class. Owen stood in front of me. He said, “Ha ha, Zeke. Na na na, Zeke. Nanny nanny boo boo, Zeke. You don’t have any Puppet Pals now.”

I told him, “The Puppet Pal fad will be over soon.”

Behind me, Grace said, “It’s not a fad. Puppet Pals are so much fun for just about everyone. I heard that on TV, so I know it’s true.”

Behind her, Emma G. said, “Yeah. It’s true.”

Behind her, Emma J. said, “Yeah. It’s true.”

I had no more Puppet Pals. Owen, the most popular boy in third grade, didn’t want to be my friend. And a lot of Emma G.’s dandruff had landed on me. I felt very happy anyway.

Mr. McNutty opened the door to let us into the classroom. He said, “Remember to focus on the lessons. Don’t play with your Puppet Packs.”

“You mean Puppet Pals,” Grace said. “Puppet Pals are so much fun . . .”

“. . . for just about everyone,” just about everyone in the class said.

Mr. McNutty said, “Here’s a math problem. There are 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day. So how many minutes are there in a day?”

Aaron raised his hand. He said, “The answer is a lot of minutes.”

Grace combed the fur of her Puppet Pal tiger. Owen squeezed the nose of his Puppet Pal clown.

I said, “Look at Grace and Owen. They know the answer.”

Mr. McNutty looked at them. Just as I had hoped, he saw them playing with their Puppet Pals.

He said, “Grace Chang and Owen Leach, I told you to put those Puppet Parts away.”

“Puppet Pals,” Grace said.

“Well, I’m taking those Puppet Pads,” our teacher said. He collected all their Puppet Pals. “You can have them back in one week,” he said. “Until then, you’ll pick up trash every day at recess.”

I smiled. For the first time, I was grateful for Puppet Pals.