I nodded and tried to smile. It was sweet of him to act so nice, especially since I hadn’t been one of his best pupils. He pointed out an empty seat in the front row, and I sat down, very aware that my classmates must be staring at me. I tossed my head and pulled out a notebook, pretending not to care.
I did care, though. I cared a lot. I cared about other kids thinking I was dumb. I cared about whether they were laughing at me. And I cared about the fact that I was sitting there in a class full of strangers, while down the hall my old math class, full of people I’d known since kindergarten, was going on as usual.
I tried to concentrate on what Mr. Peters was saying. He was talking about how to make a bar graph, which was one of the few things I was ever good at in math. I think it had to do with the fact that they often come out looking like some kind of cubist drawing.
Eventually, math class was over. As if on automatic pilot, I moved through the rest of my day. In social studies, Mr. Redmont made a point of being friendly to me. He even made sure to introduce me to everyone in the class, without making it obvious that I’d been demoted from eighth grade. (Not that everybody didn’t already know. Believe me, news travels fast in a small school like SMS.) Science wasn’t too bad. Ms. Spacey turned out to be nothing like her name, and I liked my lab partner, a boy named Josh Peterson. And Ms. Chiavetta seemed like a good English teacher.
Still, I felt like an alien creature. The worst part was lunch. Since each grade eats at a different time, I didn’t have one single friend in the cafeteria. I ate lunch alone, which was not a fun experience. Somehow the Yodels I’d brought tasted like cardboard, and not even the Fluffernutter sandwich my mom had let me bring (for a special treat) could make me happy.
All in all, it was a miserable day. I felt just about as invisible as I had in my nightmare.
That afternoon at our BSC meeting, my friends tried to cheer me up, but I was too bummed out. Eventually they gave up and started talking about all the usual stuff. Like how much homework they’d been given that day, and why Mr. Fiske always wears such ugly ties, and how Shawna Riverson could possibly think that purple eyeshadow is attractive. All eighth-grade gossip. Mal and Jessi didn’t seem to mind listening, but I sure did. Every word reminded me that I was out of the loop.
The only good part of the day came that night, after dinner. I was up in my room attacking my math homework (and studying for a quiz) when I suddenly realized that I actually understood what I was doing. Awesome! At that moment, my phone rang. It was Stacey, “just checking in” to see how I was feeling. Excitedly, I told her about the graph I was making. She was nice and supportive, and I didn’t feel as if she were looking down at me in the least.
Maybe, just maybe, as Stacey pointed out, there was a silver lining to seventh grade after all.
I forgot to mention one other thing that happened at our BSC meeting on Monday night. Mrs. Rodowsky called to let us know that Jackie had come home from the hospital that weekend. They’d kept the news quiet at first, since they wanted Jackie to have a calm first few days at home. But now he was feeling fine and ready to return to normal life, which included going to school, seeing friends, and doing just about anything he wanted — as long as he didn’t overdo.
Mary Anne was the one who took the call, and after she hung up she was quiet for a while. Then, just as the meeting was breaking up, she made an announcement. “I think we should have a welcome home party for Jackie,” she said. “Just a small one. We don’t want to overwhelm him. And nothing too fancy. In fact, I think a spontaneous party would be best. I’m going to call some kids and see if they can come over to my barn tomorrow afternoon.”
“That sounds great!” said Kristy. I could tell she wished she’d thought of it. “But I can’t come,” she continued. “I have to sit for David Michael.”
“Bring him!” said Mary Anne.
“I’m sitting for Matt and Haley Braddock,” said Abby. “Can I bring them, too?”
“Definitely,” Mary Anne replied.
Mary Anne arranged everything with Mrs. Rodowsky, who suggested that the party not be a surprise, since “that might be a bit too much excitement for Jackie.” Then Mary Anne made a few more phone calls and rounded up a group of kids. Some were Jackie’s teammates from the Krushers, the softball team Kristy coaches (Matt, David Michael, Jake Kuhn, Nicky and Margo Pike, Buddy Barrett). Some were just friends (Charlotte Johanssen, Jessi’s sister, Becca, and the Arnold twins). All the kids were excited about helping to welcome Jackie home.
The next day, right after school, Nicky and Margo showed up early at Mary Anne’s. “We want to help decorate,” Nicky announced, holding up a tattered roll of red crepe paper. “This is leftover from my birthday party.”
“And I brought some napkins,” added Margo, showing Mary Anne a stack of brightly colored napkins. “They’re leftover from my birthday party.”
“Wonderful,” said Mary Anne. “I’m just finishing up a banner. Want to help?” She led them to a table in the back of the barn, where she’d laid out an old bedsheet. Painted on it in huge purple letters were the words JACKIE’S BACK!
“Cool,” said Nicky.
“Let’s put some stars and stuff on there, too,” said Margo, reaching eagerly for a paintbrush — and, in the process, knocking over the pot of yellow paint. “Ooops,” she said. “Sorry!”
That was the first accident.
“No problem,” said Mary Anne. “If you moosh the paint around a little and make some rays coming out, I bet you can make a sun out of that spill. Why don’t you try? I’m going to go check on the snacks.”
Mary Anne was pouring ginger ale into the punch bowl when Kristy and David Michael arrived. “Look what we brought!” said David Michael, holding up a round grayish object.
“Nice,” said Mary Anne, looking a little puzzled. She added some grape juice to the punch and stirred.
“It’s a softball from an important Krushers game,” explained Kristy. “We’re going to have all the Krushers at the party sign it. And later we’ll have the rest of the team sign it, too. But we’ll present it to Jackie today.”
“It’s a real honor to have your team give you a signed ball,” said David Michael. He tossed the ball into the air and caught it, tossed it and caught it, tossed it and — dropped it into the punch bowl.
That was the second accident.
“Yow!” he cried. “Uh-oh.”
“Um, no problem,” said Mary Anne, using the ladle to fish it out. “A little softball flavoring never hurt anyone.” She handed the ball, now tinged a sickly pink, back to David Michael. Then she turned to greet Matt and Haley Braddock, who had just arrived with Abby.
“Hi, Matt,” she said, smiling and waving. “Hi, Haley.”
Matt smiled back and gestured with his hands.
“Hi! He says it was a great idea to have this party,” translated Haley. Matt, who’s seven, is profoundly deaf and communicates with American Sign Language. He’s also excellent at reading lips. Haley, who’s nine, does a lot of interpreting for Matt. They’re great kids.
“My mom helped me make these,” Haley continued, holding out a plate full of Rice Krispies treats.
“Yum!” said Mary Anne, taking the plate. “Thanks a lot! Hey, how about if you guys go check on Nicky and Margo? I bet that banner’s just about ready to hang up.”
“I’ll give them a hand,” offered Abby.
The third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh accidents happened as the group hanging the banner took a tumble off the bench they were standing on. Except for a banged knee (Abby), and a bruised elbow (Matt), nobody was hurt. They just stood there and laughed, after they’d dusted themselves off. Then they climbed back onto the bench and hung the banner, which looked terrific. (Mary Anne told me later that it wasn’t nearly as good as one I would have made, but that it was “very colorful.”)
Soon the Arnold twins arrived, and so did Charlotte and Becca. Jake Kuhn, who’s eight, was the last to show up — before Jackie, tha
t is. He came with his baseball glove. Jake’s always ready for a game of catch.
Accident number eight happened when Nicky and Jake started tossing a softball around. One of Jake’s throws went wild and shattered a small window.
“Oh, no!” cried Jake. “I’ll help fix it tomorrow. I know how, since I’ve broken a bunch of windows at my own house.” He was blushing.
“It’s okay, Jake,” Mary Anne reassured him. “But I think that’s enough indoor softball for today.” She shook her head. “If this is what happens before the Walking Disaster arrives,” she said to Abby and Kristy, “I’m not sure I want to be here for the rest of the party.”
The banner was hung. The crepe paper was dangling from the rafters. The napkins were piled, ready for use. Then, just as Mary Anne was putting the finishing touches on the snack table, Jackie arrived.
“Yay!” shouted the kids, rushing to greet him.
“Easy,” cautioned Shea, who had come with his little brother.
“That’s okay,” said Jackie, reaching out for high-fives and hugs. “I’m not made out of glass.”
But, Mary Anne told me later, he did look somewhat fragile. His face wasn’t as ruddy as usual; even his freckles looked faded. And his manner was subdued. This Jackie Rodowsky was not the rough-and-tumble kid we all knew and loved. This Jackie was a little more careful, a little slower in his movements, a little quieter.
As the kids thronged around the snack table, Mary Anne, Abby, and Kristy exchanged worried looks. “He’s still recovering,” whispered Kristy. “He’ll be himself again soon, I’ll bet.”
“Meanwhile, at least we don’t have to worry about any more accidents,” Mary Anne whispered back.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Abby, gesturing toward the group of kids. Nicky had just drenched himelf with punch. A Rice Krispies treat had found its way into Margo’s hair. And the plate of brownies was balanced precariously on the corner of the table.
“This is perfect for a party for Jackie!” cried Kristy. “The whole party is a Walking Disaster.”
Finally, the food was gone and all the kids had been cleaned up. Mary Anne asked Jackie — who’d been sitting in the honorary spot at the head of the table — what he’d like to do next.
“Could I say something?” asked Jackie.
“Absolutely,” said Mary Anne.
He turned to face his friends, and began his speech a little shyly. “Well, first of all I just want to tell you how cool it was to have those letters and cards you sent. All the kids in the hospital really, really appreciated it.”
“Hooray for Hospital Buddies!” yelled Margo.
“The other thing I wanted to say is this,” continued Jackie, gathering steam. “I’m never, ever going to ride my bike without a helmet again.” He looked around at all his friends. “And if I ever see one of you riding without a helmet, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
After that, the party went into full swing. The kids played hide-and-seek (always great in Mary Anne’s barn) and freeze tag until they were exhausted. Then they sat down for some more punch, and started to talk about Halloween.
Nicky told everyone how Jordan had helped him put together the “scariest mummy” costume ever.
Charlotte reported that she was going to be a doctor, and that her mom was letting her borrow a white lab coat and a real stethoscope.
Matt was planning to be a baseball player, and so was Jake Kuhn. They decided to trick-or-treat together.
“Too bad the kids at the hospital can’t trick-or-treat,” said Jackie.
“Oh, man,” groaned Nicky. “I never even thought of that. That’s awful!”
Everyone was upset by the thought of such a tragedy — being in the hospital for Halloween ranks right up there with having the measles on your birthday.
Then, suddenly, Carolyn came up with a terrific idea. “Why don’t we each split our trick-or-treat candy with a hospital buddy? That way they won’t miss all the fun.”
Kristy latched onto the idea and expanded it. By the time the party ended, the kids had planned everything, including a Halloween party in the children’s ward (Kristy was sure she could get permission). The kids in the hospital were going to love it, and so were our charges.
Jackie — and all the other kids — went home happy that evening. The party had been a real success, despite the Walking Disaster theme.
I hate to admit it, but I think I’ve learned something from the experience I’m going through. Here’s the thing: No matter how bad something seems at first, you can usually find some good in it. Also, things are often not as terrible as they first look.
Mature, huh?
That’s me, Claudia Kishi. The most mature seventh-grader on the face of the earth.
Sounds sickening, but it’s true. The fact is that by Tuesday afternoon I was feeling a whole lot better about being back in seventh grade. For one thing, I was starting to get used to the idea, and so was everybody else. For another, I was discovering that there were some real benefits to being older than everybody else in my classes. Namely: I had suddenly become sort of a mini-celebrity.
Let’s face it. Seventh-graders can be fairly dorky. There wasn’t one person in that whole grade who even approached the level of coolness I’ve attained — and they all knew it.
The first thing I noticed Tuesday morning was that about ten seventh-grade girls came to school wearing their hair in Pebbles ponytails, just like the one I’d worn on Monday. One of them even asked me where I’d bought the scrunchie I’d been wearing. (When I told her I’d made it, she looked so impressed I thought she was going to faint.)
Next, I discovered that I’d never have to eat lunch alone again. Kids were shoving each other aside in their rush to find a spot at my table. The girls wanted to talk about clothes and hairstyles. The boys didn’t talk much at all; they just kind of stared at me. I wondered if some of them were trying to work up the nerve to ask me out.
In the halls, between classes, I was always surrounded by a bunch of kids. My entourage and I would pass Stacey or Kristy and I’d wave to her.
What a hoot!
Also, I was actually doing well in every single one of my classes. In science class I even went so far as to raise my hand when Ms. Spacey asked a question — and when she called on me and I gave the answer, it turned out to be right. I nearly passed out. I’m not sure if Ms. Spacey realized she was part of a historic occasion.
Next, I really impressed Ms. Spacey by predicting that adding one chemical to another would make the first one turn from red to blue. Then I impressed myself by writing up the lab results in my notebook.
In social studies, I felt on top of my reading for the first time in a long time. Not only that, but I was beginning to remember some of the things I’d learned the year before about the American Revolution. This time I wouldn’t forget them as soon as I passed the test, either. I understood now that it was important to learn things for keeps, not just for tests.
And in English, Ms. Chiavetta told me in front of the whole class that I’d structured my paragraphs “beautifully” in the essay I’d written after my first day in her class. (True, she did mention to me afterward that my spelling and punctuation needed work, but hey, I can’t change everything overnight.)
Best of all, believe it or not, was math class that morning. I knew we’d be taking a quiz, and I’d studied carefully the night before. Mr. Peters smiled at me as he handed out the question sheets, and I smiled back. Suddenly, math wasn’t something to be afraid of. What a great feeling.
I went over the quiz, answering each question in turn and leaving the questions I wasn’t sure about for later (a technique Rosa had taught me). Then I went over it again, taking more time with the questions I was unsure of. Finally, I went over it one more time, checking my work to make sure I hadn’t made any silly mistakes in addition or subtraction.
When I looked up at the clock, I was shocked to see that there was still plenty of time left in the period. That h
ad to be the first time I’d finished a math test so quickly. I looked around the room and noticed that most of my classmates were still hard at work on their tests. That made me panic. Had I missed a whole bunch of questions? I turned the test over, but the other side was blank. Then I turned it right-side up and checked over my answers again, just in case.
Finally, I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. I’d earned a little daydreaming time, hadn’t I? I thought about my art class. I was still glowing from last Thursday’s session.
It had been an excellent class. Serena McKay had things to say about art that I’d never heard before. She talked about the “spirit” of creativity, and told us that, as artists, we had an obligation to ourselves and to the community. An obligation to provide beauty, and an obligation to provoke thought and emotion.
Being called an artist by Serena McKay made me feel incredible.
She also talked about what it means to show your work to the rest of the world. She told us about her first show — and how nervous she was about it — and about other shows she’d had in famous galleries all over the country. She explained how she prepares for a show: everything from how to choose which pieces to exhibit to how to decide what to wear to the opening.
Later, as we worked on the pieces we were preparing to show, Serena stood by my easel. “You have quite an eye, Claudia,” she said. “I love this line here, and the way it intersects with this one,” she added. “And you use color in marvelous, subtle ways, which is unusual in an artist your age.”
I was thrilled. “Thank you,” I said quietly. I looked around at the other students after she left. One of them, a woman about my mother’s age who was at the easel next to mine, was looking at me. I could tell she’d heard what Serena McKay had said.
“She’s right,” she said. “Your work is excellent. I’ve been trying to reach your level for about fifteen years, and I haven’t made it there yet.” She made a face. Then she shrugged and smiled. “Still, I’ve had fun trying.”
I couldn’t believe it. This woman had been working on her art for longer than I’d been living! And yet, according to her, she wasn’t as good as I am.