Grant, who asks you if everything is all right at home, then gives you a piece of licorice and sends you back to class (which is pretty bad since one of my rules is Licorice is gross. But that’s not as bad as killing you).
I had to spend a lot of time with Mrs. Jenkins because my mom ended up going with Kevin to kindergarten and Mark ended up going with my dad to the second grade. And Mrs. Jenkins said, “I’ll take Allie upstairs and introduce her to Mrs. Danielson and Mrs. Hunter, then, if that’s all right with you,” and my mom and dad said, “That sounds great,” even though I shot them both looks saying Don’t! Don’t leave me alone with her!
But as usual, they ignored me. This happens a lot whenyou’re the oldest. Your parents just assume you can take care of yourself.
Except when you go over to your new friend’s house without telling them where you’re going first, of course.
So then I had to talk to Mrs. Jenkins all the way up the long stairs (which, at my old school, we don’t even have. We have RAMPS), which was pretty hard because her knees were creaking so loud they sounded like bags of potato chips being crumpled up inside her pants, and I couldn’t really hear what she was saying.
When we got to the first fourth-grade class and Mrs. Jenkins said, “This is room Two Oh Eight, Mrs. Danielson’s class,” I was really shocked, because when she threw open the door and I peeked my head inside what I saw looked like a classroom from a television show about life on the prairie, or something, not a modern-day classroom.
I mean, sure, it had big windows that looked over the playground (which had swing sets and a jungle gym and a baseball diamond—which my dad had pointed out with a wink we could use as our personal baseball diamondanytime we wanted, even when school wasn’t in session, since there was no fence around the grounds), and a chalkboard and everything.
And okay, the kids weren’t wearing pantaloons, or anything.
But they were sitting at these old-fashioned desks that had lids that lifted up in which they kept all their stuff (they didn’t even have lockers at Pine Heights Elementary School).
And Mrs. Danielson was wearing her hair in a BUN! And she had on a very boring gray pantsuit instead of something modern.
Worse, she had decorated her classroom with thought bubbles, like the kind that come out of cartoon characters’ heads. Inside the thought bubbles were words about where stories come from. And the words said things like, Stories come from ideas, and Ideas come from brainstorming, and After brainstorming comes outlining, and Good outlines come from good notecards, and Only after your notecards are in good order can you begin to write your story!
Things like that take all the fun out of writing stories.Things like that make me want to skateboard on High Street with no helmet on.
Mrs. Danielson was teaching a lesson on photosynthesis. We’d done photosynthesis last month! How behind were the kids at Pine Heights Elementary?
And for a class that was learning about photosynthesis for the first time, the kids in Room 208 certainly looked…bored. Which didn’t make any sense, because photosynthesis (the process by which green plants and some other organisms use sunlight to process foods from carbon dioxide and water) is super interesting, not boring at all.
Unless it is being taught in a boring way.
When she saw me and Mrs. Jenkins there in the doorway, Mrs. Danielson laid down her chalk and asked, “May I help you?”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Danielson,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “This is Allie Finkle. She might be joining your class in a few weeks.”
“Well, I don’t know where she’s going to sit,” Mrs. Danielson said, with a laugh that I have to admit soundedkind, if a little Wicked Witch of the Westish. “We’re a bit crowded here. But she’ll be very welcome, of course.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that (the not-knowing-where-I-was-going-to-sit
I had to spend a lot of time with Mrs. Jenkins because my mom ended up going with Kevin to kindergarten and Mark ended up going with my dad to the second grade. And Mrs. Jenkins said, “I’ll take Allie upstairs and introduce her to Mrs. Danielson and Mrs. Hunter, then, if that’s all right with you,” and my mom and dad said, “That sounds great,” even though I shot them both looks saying Don’t! Don’t leave me alone with her!
But as usual, they ignored me. This happens a lot whenyou’re the oldest. Your parents just assume you can take care of yourself.
Except when you go over to your new friend’s house without telling them where you’re going first, of course.
So then I had to talk to Mrs. Jenkins all the way up the long stairs (which, at my old school, we don’t even have. We have RAMPS), which was pretty hard because her knees were creaking so loud they sounded like bags of potato chips being crumpled up inside her pants, and I couldn’t really hear what she was saying.
When we got to the first fourth-grade class and Mrs. Jenkins said, “This is room Two Oh Eight, Mrs. Danielson’s class,” I was really shocked, because when she threw open the door and I peeked my head inside what I saw looked like a classroom from a television show about life on the prairie, or something, not a modern-day classroom.
I mean, sure, it had big windows that looked over the playground (which had swing sets and a jungle gym and a baseball diamond—which my dad had pointed out with a wink we could use as our personal baseball diamondanytime we wanted, even when school wasn’t in session, since there was no fence around the grounds), and a chalkboard and everything.
And okay, the kids weren’t wearing pantaloons, or anything.
But they were sitting at these old-fashioned desks that had lids that lifted up in which they kept all their stuff (they didn’t even have lockers at Pine Heights Elementary School).
And Mrs. Danielson was wearing her hair in a BUN! And she had on a very boring gray pantsuit instead of something modern.
Worse, she had decorated her classroom with thought bubbles, like the kind that come out of cartoon characters’ heads. Inside the thought bubbles were words about where stories come from. And the words said things like, Stories come from ideas, and Ideas come from brainstorming, and After brainstorming comes outlining, and Good outlines come from good notecards, and Only after your notecards are in good order can you begin to write your story!
Things like that take all the fun out of writing stories.Things like that make me want to skateboard on High Street with no helmet on.
Mrs. Danielson was teaching a lesson on photosynthesis. We’d done photosynthesis last month! How behind were the kids at Pine Heights Elementary?
And for a class that was learning about photosynthesis for the first time, the kids in Room 208 certainly looked…bored. Which didn’t make any sense, because photosynthesis (the process by which green plants and some other organisms use sunlight to process foods from carbon dioxide and water) is super interesting, not boring at all.
Unless it is being taught in a boring way.
When she saw me and Mrs. Jenkins there in the doorway, Mrs. Danielson laid down her chalk and asked, “May I help you?”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Danielson,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “This is Allie Finkle. She might be joining your class in a few weeks.”
“Well, I don’t know where she’s going to sit,” Mrs. Danielson said, with a laugh that I have to admit soundedkind, if a little Wicked Witch of the Westish. “We’re a bit crowded here. But she’ll be very welcome, of course.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that (the not-knowing-where-I-was-going-to-sit
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