Read Online Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio - Free Book Online Page A

inch, the top drawer. In slow motion, she picked up a Ping-Pong paddle, then held it up high for the class to see.
    I gasped, but my hands stayed put.
    With the paddle held upright in her hand, she strode toward me.
    I abruptly closed my eyes, and she disappeared like melting celluloid blotting out an actor when the film projector breaks.
    â€œYou think you can make me disappear?” she said.
    I pressed my hands against my ears.
    â€œYou think you can shut me out?”
    My eyelids were tightly shut.
    â€œYou think I’m not important?”
    I held my breath.
    â€œWell, listen up!” she screamed. “Mrs. Eleanor Stilton is your teacher, and you’d better accept it!”
    I bit my bottom lip and sat rigidly still.
    Whack! The paddle burned my right hand.
    â€œDo you hear me?”
    Whack! It burned my left. Whack, whack, whack!
    My ears tingled. My jaw ached.
    â€œDo you understand?”
    I tried to speak. Syllables dissolved.
    Whack, whack, whack!
    My face melted. My hands fell from my ears. My eyes flew open.
    â€œWho is your fourth grade teacher?” the pointed face asked.
    â€œYou are,” I muttered.
    â€œAnd what is my name?” the voice thundered.
    â€œMrs. Stilton,” I said.
    â€œFinally!” The voice gasped relief. “Students, this was your very first lesson. I hope you’ve paid attention.”
    â€œYes, ma’am!” resounded the frightened voices of Mrs. Stilton’s fourth grade class. The loudest of which was mine.
    By lunchtime, the enormity of my situation had seeped into my mind like the odor of turnip greens permeating the air. I understood that some awful harm was confronting me. From now on, every answer I gave would have to be precise; every word would have to be calculated, ensuring my survival. If I didn’t control myself, the urge to jerk, pop, and repeat words would take over, and something horrible—the worst thing ever to happen to me—would occur.
    At the table, Emma Richards sat beside me. She held her nose while she slipped a smidgen of turnip greens into her mouth. “I can’t taste them this way,” she said.
    â€œDon’t eat them,” I told her.
    â€œI gotta,” she said. “Mrs. Stilton heard me telling Sallie Mae how much I hate this stuff, and she said I had to eat all of it. Every mouthful of it, she told me. I seen what she done to you.”
    â€œThen you best eat up,” I said, forking down mouthfuls of greens, hoping to show Mrs. Stilton what a good girl I really was. When she passed by my plate, it would be sparkling clean. “I like greens,” I said, shoveling more into my mouth. “Pokeweed, collards, mustards. Patanni said that I’m like Essie, our milk cow, ’cause I like greens more’n meat.”
    â€œI like chicken and dumplings,” Emma said. “That’s about the only thing I really like, except for candy.”
    â€œI like pull candy,” I said. “Miss Emily Tanner makes the best in the world.”
    â€œIt’s too gooey.” Emma made a face. “I like proper sweets like those chocolates in Valentine boxes.”
    I stuffed more turnip greens between my lips and, with a full mouth, proclaimed, “I like blackberry cobbler. My grandma makes the best.”
    A hand tapped my shoulder, and I glanced up. “You like what?” Mrs. Stilton asked.
    â€œI like vegetables,” I said, with the glob of greens mashed in my mouth. I smiled and tilted my plate upward so that she could see how clean it was becoming.
    Mrs. Stilton popped me on the shoulder. “You’re talking with your mouth full,” she said, “and ruining everybody’s meal.”
    I quit smiling, closed my mouth, and swallowed. “Patanni calls me a cow,” I tried again, “’cause I like vegetables more than meat.”
    â€œThen you’d be called a vegetarian,” Mrs. Stilton said, “and