said. “I don’t know.”
Mrs. Hunter looked confused. “You don’t know if you’ll be joining us?”
“I did tell her,” Mrs. Jenkins said, with a cough, “that both the fourth-grade classes are a bit full right now, so we’re not sure exactly where she’ll end up.”
“No,” I said, even though it’s Not polite to correct a grown-up. That’s a rule. “I mean, we might not be moving.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Hunter said.
Mrs. Jenkins said, “That’s not what your parents said to me downstairs, Allie.”
“Right,” I said. “But, well, see, we haven’t sold our old house yet.” And if things go the way I have planned, with the for sale sign and my rocks, we might end up not selling it—and moving—after all. But I didn’t say that out loud.
“I see,” Mrs. Hunter said. “Well, I really hope you do. We’d love to have you here in Room Two Oh Nine. We’re having story time right now—a little thing we like to do right before recess. I know fourth-graders are a little old for story time, but they seem to enjoy it, don’t you, class?”
“Yes,” chimed the class. They certainly seemed to be liking story time more than Mrs. Danielson’s class wasenjoying learning about photosynthesis, judging from their nonbored expressions.
“We’re reading from A Wrinkle in Time ,” Mrs. Hunter said, waving a copy of the book she had in her hands. “It’s one of my favorites.”
I just stared at her. I didn’t really know what to say.
Because A Wrinkle in Time was one of my favorites, too.
From somewhere behind the principal and me, a bell jangled, loud and old-timey sounding. Then a door flew open. The next thing I knew, students were streaming out into the hallway.
“Time for recess,” Mrs. Hunter said, slipping off the stool she was sitting on. “Class, please get your coats, and then get into your lines.”
Mrs. Hunter’s fourth-grade class scooted back their chairs, then raced to grab their coats from hooks on the wall opposite the windows. Then they got into two separate lines in front of the doorway, where they waited, giggling, until Mrs. Hunter said, “Well, go on.” Then they ran from the classroom—all except Erica, who lagged behind and asked, “Can Allie come with us?”
I looked at Mrs. Jenkins, who glanced at her watch, then nodded. “I’ll let your parents know where you are.”
“Come on!” Erica cried, grabbing my sleeve.
I didn’t bother asking Erica where we were going. I knew from past experience that wherever it was, it was going to be an adventure, possibly involving cutoff body parts.
And I wasn’t wrong. Erica led me down the stairs and out of the building, across the gravel school yard and toward the baseball diamond where some of the kids had started up a game of kick ball. At first I thought we were going to join them.
But to my surprise, Erica led us past the game and toward some bushes that grew alongside a high brick wall that separated the school grounds from the backyards of some houses next door to it.
I thought Erica would stop when we got to the bushes. But the next thing I knew, she was ducking down and crawling straight into them.
“Hey,” I said, putting on the brakes. “What are you doing ?”
“It’s okay,” Erica said, looking back at me over her shoulder. “Follow me.”
I hadn’t sensed that Erica might be crazy when I was playing at her house the other day. But what did I know? I don’t know that many people. My mom is always saying my uncle Jay is crazy. But that’s just because he spends all of his money on stereo equipment, instead of normal things, like dinner.
I looked around the playground. All of the other kids were running around, playing kick ball, or swinging on swings. None of the rest of them were crawling into bushes. The bushes were so thick, I couldn’t see Erica once she was inside them. Who knew what was going on in there? Maybe she was a murderer and she was standing inside with an ax, and if I crawled
Mrs. Hunter looked confused. “You don’t know if you’ll be joining us?”
“I did tell her,” Mrs. Jenkins said, with a cough, “that both the fourth-grade classes are a bit full right now, so we’re not sure exactly where she’ll end up.”
“No,” I said, even though it’s Not polite to correct a grown-up. That’s a rule. “I mean, we might not be moving.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Hunter said.
Mrs. Jenkins said, “That’s not what your parents said to me downstairs, Allie.”
“Right,” I said. “But, well, see, we haven’t sold our old house yet.” And if things go the way I have planned, with the for sale sign and my rocks, we might end up not selling it—and moving—after all. But I didn’t say that out loud.
“I see,” Mrs. Hunter said. “Well, I really hope you do. We’d love to have you here in Room Two Oh Nine. We’re having story time right now—a little thing we like to do right before recess. I know fourth-graders are a little old for story time, but they seem to enjoy it, don’t you, class?”
“Yes,” chimed the class. They certainly seemed to be liking story time more than Mrs. Danielson’s class wasenjoying learning about photosynthesis, judging from their nonbored expressions.
“We’re reading from A Wrinkle in Time ,” Mrs. Hunter said, waving a copy of the book she had in her hands. “It’s one of my favorites.”
I just stared at her. I didn’t really know what to say.
Because A Wrinkle in Time was one of my favorites, too.
From somewhere behind the principal and me, a bell jangled, loud and old-timey sounding. Then a door flew open. The next thing I knew, students were streaming out into the hallway.
“Time for recess,” Mrs. Hunter said, slipping off the stool she was sitting on. “Class, please get your coats, and then get into your lines.”
Mrs. Hunter’s fourth-grade class scooted back their chairs, then raced to grab their coats from hooks on the wall opposite the windows. Then they got into two separate lines in front of the doorway, where they waited, giggling, until Mrs. Hunter said, “Well, go on.” Then they ran from the classroom—all except Erica, who lagged behind and asked, “Can Allie come with us?”
I looked at Mrs. Jenkins, who glanced at her watch, then nodded. “I’ll let your parents know where you are.”
“Come on!” Erica cried, grabbing my sleeve.
I didn’t bother asking Erica where we were going. I knew from past experience that wherever it was, it was going to be an adventure, possibly involving cutoff body parts.
And I wasn’t wrong. Erica led me down the stairs and out of the building, across the gravel school yard and toward the baseball diamond where some of the kids had started up a game of kick ball. At first I thought we were going to join them.
But to my surprise, Erica led us past the game and toward some bushes that grew alongside a high brick wall that separated the school grounds from the backyards of some houses next door to it.
I thought Erica would stop when we got to the bushes. But the next thing I knew, she was ducking down and crawling straight into them.
“Hey,” I said, putting on the brakes. “What are you doing ?”
“It’s okay,” Erica said, looking back at me over her shoulder. “Follow me.”
I hadn’t sensed that Erica might be crazy when I was playing at her house the other day. But what did I know? I don’t know that many people. My mom is always saying my uncle Jay is crazy. But that’s just because he spends all of his money on stereo equipment, instead of normal things, like dinner.
I looked around the playground. All of the other kids were running around, playing kick ball, or swinging on swings. None of the rest of them were crawling into bushes. The bushes were so thick, I couldn’t see Erica once she was inside them. Who knew what was going on in there? Maybe she was a murderer and she was standing inside with an ax, and if I crawled
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