diamond-studded leash attached to an emerald-studded collar.
It had been a terrible disappointment to walk into the house one day and find an envelope waiting for her on the hall table with her poem and a form rejection slip inside. At the bottom of the form there was a handwritten note:
We’re sorry we can’t use this in an upcoming issue, but your writing shows promise. Do try us again when you are older.
Older!
Andi thought. She would be eleven the first of December. That was less than two months away.
“What’s the matter, Andi?” her father had asked her at dinner that night. “You’re so quiet.You must be off in space somewhere, composing a new poem.”
Andi drew a long breath and made her announcement.
“No,” she said. “I’m not. I’ve decided not to be a famous writer. In fact, I’m never going to write a poem again.”
There was a moment of total silence. Everyone at the table turned to stare at her. Even Aunt Alice stopped talking.
“Why, Andi,” Mrs. Walker said finally, “you’ve always loved writing! How can you simply decide to stop?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Andi said. She did not want to talk about it any further because she was afraid she might cry. She had been so sure that she would become famous within the time limit that she had set for herself. “I’m going to be something more interesting like a — a — helicopter pilot or maybe a ballet dancer.”
“You’re not graceful enough to be a dancer,” Bruce said. “You can’t be a pilot either because you can’t stand heights. You wouldn’t even look at the pictures I took of the Grand Canyon because you said they made you dizzy.”
“Then I’ll be a teacher like Mom,” snapped Andi, blinking back tears. “Or like Mom
used to be,
before she had to quit work.”
The thought of prickly Andi patiently teaching school was so inconceivable that no one could think of a single comment, and the rest of the meal took place at a very quiet table.
The next day at school the subject came up all over again. This time it came from Miss Crosno, Andi’s teacher.
“Who was it,” she asked, “who turned in a poem along with the English compositions this week? There isn’t a name on it, and I don’t recognize the handwriting.” When no one in the class raised a hand, she continued, “It’s called ‘Bebe.’ It’s about a child who loses her dog.”
“Oh!” Andi was so startled that she spoke before she could stop herself. “That’s mine, but I didn’t mean to turn it in. I guess I just got an extra paper mixed in with the composition sheets in the notebook.”
“I’m glad I got to see it,” Miss Crosno said. “It’s a very nice poem with a great deal of feeling. Would you like to come up front, Andi, and read it to the class?”
“No, thank you,” Andi said.
Then, because this sounded rude even to her own ears and, after all, Miss Crosno would be the one who would be making out report cards, she added, “I never read my poems to anybody but my family. If they’re not good enough to be published, they’re not good enough for people to have to listen to.”
“Do you submit your poems to magazines?” Miss Crosno asked. “Which ones do you send them to?”
“The ones on Mom’s coffee table,” Andi said. “But I don’t any longer. I’ve done it for two years now and used up about a million envelopes and stamps, and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere, and I think that’s enough.”
That day at lunchtime, when Andi was unloading her tray at the corner table in the cafeteria where she usually sat and read, she was surprised to find another tray suddenly placed beside her own.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Debbie Austin asked her.
Debbie had not tried to speak to her since asking her to play double jump rope in the school yard, and Andi could not imagine why she was doing so now.
“Sit wherever you want,” she said.
Debbie was unloading her tray and did not seem to notice the
It had been a terrible disappointment to walk into the house one day and find an envelope waiting for her on the hall table with her poem and a form rejection slip inside. At the bottom of the form there was a handwritten note:
We’re sorry we can’t use this in an upcoming issue, but your writing shows promise. Do try us again when you are older.
Older!
Andi thought. She would be eleven the first of December. That was less than two months away.
“What’s the matter, Andi?” her father had asked her at dinner that night. “You’re so quiet.You must be off in space somewhere, composing a new poem.”
Andi drew a long breath and made her announcement.
“No,” she said. “I’m not. I’ve decided not to be a famous writer. In fact, I’m never going to write a poem again.”
There was a moment of total silence. Everyone at the table turned to stare at her. Even Aunt Alice stopped talking.
“Why, Andi,” Mrs. Walker said finally, “you’ve always loved writing! How can you simply decide to stop?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Andi said. She did not want to talk about it any further because she was afraid she might cry. She had been so sure that she would become famous within the time limit that she had set for herself. “I’m going to be something more interesting like a — a — helicopter pilot or maybe a ballet dancer.”
“You’re not graceful enough to be a dancer,” Bruce said. “You can’t be a pilot either because you can’t stand heights. You wouldn’t even look at the pictures I took of the Grand Canyon because you said they made you dizzy.”
“Then I’ll be a teacher like Mom,” snapped Andi, blinking back tears. “Or like Mom
used to be,
before she had to quit work.”
The thought of prickly Andi patiently teaching school was so inconceivable that no one could think of a single comment, and the rest of the meal took place at a very quiet table.
The next day at school the subject came up all over again. This time it came from Miss Crosno, Andi’s teacher.
“Who was it,” she asked, “who turned in a poem along with the English compositions this week? There isn’t a name on it, and I don’t recognize the handwriting.” When no one in the class raised a hand, she continued, “It’s called ‘Bebe.’ It’s about a child who loses her dog.”
“Oh!” Andi was so startled that she spoke before she could stop herself. “That’s mine, but I didn’t mean to turn it in. I guess I just got an extra paper mixed in with the composition sheets in the notebook.”
“I’m glad I got to see it,” Miss Crosno said. “It’s a very nice poem with a great deal of feeling. Would you like to come up front, Andi, and read it to the class?”
“No, thank you,” Andi said.
Then, because this sounded rude even to her own ears and, after all, Miss Crosno would be the one who would be making out report cards, she added, “I never read my poems to anybody but my family. If they’re not good enough to be published, they’re not good enough for people to have to listen to.”
“Do you submit your poems to magazines?” Miss Crosno asked. “Which ones do you send them to?”
“The ones on Mom’s coffee table,” Andi said. “But I don’t any longer. I’ve done it for two years now and used up about a million envelopes and stamps, and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere, and I think that’s enough.”
That day at lunchtime, when Andi was unloading her tray at the corner table in the cafeteria where she usually sat and read, she was surprised to find another tray suddenly placed beside her own.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Debbie Austin asked her.
Debbie had not tried to speak to her since asking her to play double jump rope in the school yard, and Andi could not imagine why she was doing so now.
“Sit wherever you want,” she said.
Debbie was unloading her tray and did not seem to notice the
Similar Books
