“Well, number one,” I tell Cynthia, my voice as cold as an ice cube, “I don’t owe you anything. And number two, why should I take the blame for something you did?”
“Because it doesn’t matter for you,” she says, like she’s eager to explain. “You’re already the kid in our class who messes up, and I’m already the kid who has the perfect record. So all I’m asking is that you take this teensy-weensy blame for spilling Ms. Sanchez’s water bottle, and we’ll be even about recess and the principal and the clashy Band-Aids. You won’t owe me anymore. I mean, it could have been you who knocked the water bottle over, right?”
“Wrong,” I tell her. “I wasn’t the one swinging my Fist of Doom through the air for no reason, Cynthia. I was just trying to turn in my Treasure Island map, that’s all.”
“And I was trying to help,” she says, lying again. “It was an accident.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But you caused it.”
“Listen,” Cynthia says for the third time, like she really needs to tell me something. “You don’t understand. I just can’t get in trouble with Ms. Sanchez, EllRay. You’re used to it, but I’m not.”
Cynthia’s probably right about one thing, even though Ms. Sanchez is my teacher, too. I guess I am getting used to being in trouble, not that I ever planned for my life to turn out this way. But before I can think up an actual reply, there is a tap on my shoulder.
It’s Emma McGraw.
“Ms. Sanchez says she wants to see you in the classroom, EllRay,” Emma tells me, not looking at Cynthia. “Right away.”
“But I didn’t get to eat yet,” I say, thinking of the big sandwich I helped my mom make this morning. It has turkey bologna on it, and pickles, and no mustard, and everything. “I’m gonna starve.”
No wonder I’m the littlest kid in our class!
“She says you can bring your lunch with you,” Emma says, still not looking at Cynthia, who is giving her the STINK-EYE.
“Oh, okay,” I say, and I stomp off to the boys’ picnic table to get it.
That sandwich had better still be in my lunch sack, that’s all I’m saying.
“Have a seat, Mr. Jakes,” Ms. Sanchez says, looking friendlier than I thought she would, considering.
“Okay,” I say cautiously, and I sit down in the chair she has pulled up next to her desk. But I don’t open my lunch sack, because I don’t want to have turkey bologna flapping in my mouth when my teacher starts asking me complicated questions.
“So, what happened this morning?” Ms. Sanchez asks.
“Well, I got up,” I say, stalling. “And then I took a shower, and—”
“EllRay,” Ms. Sanchez interrupts. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay,” I say again. But I don’t blab the truth right away, because I’m thinking.
1. Maybe Cynthia’s right.
2. Maybe I should take the blame for knocking over that water bottle.
3. After all, Cynthia needs to be perfect, and it’s already w-a-a-a-y too late for that for me, even if we’re just talking about the last couple of weeks.
4. So what difference would it make to me if I took the blame?
5. Maybe I’m already doomed!
