Read Online The Best School Year Ever by Barbara Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Robinson
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her a bunch of stubby crayons for Howard. “I just heard about your little brother’s blanket,” she said. “Louella, you aren’t going to find it because I threw it away. The last time we had art I used it to wipe the pastels off the chalkboard and then I just threw it away. I’m really sorry, but I didn’t know it was Howard’s blanket. It looked like my car-washing rag.”
Louella shook her head. “We found Howard’s blanket.”
Miss Harrison shook her head. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better. No, as soon as I heard it was missing, I knew what I’d done and where it was—gone, in the trash.”
“She’s wrong,” Louella said.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I said.
Louella thought for a minute. “Well, Howard wouldn’t be wrong and he thinks it’s his blanket. You can’t get it away from him.”
We did get it away from him but we had to wait till he was asleep. Then we had to unfasten his fingers and quickly give him this old worn-out bathrobe of Louella’s.
“See?” said Louella. “It’s the same blanket.”
It certainly looked like the same blanket— old, faded, sort of dirty gray, with one corner that was especially old and faded and dirty gray. There was something else too—a capital H, scribbled and wobbly and almost faded out.
“It even has his initial on it,” I said. “ H, for Howard.”
“Huh-uh,” Louella said. “There’s no initial on Howard’s blanket.”
I started to show her the H, and then I saw the other initial. It was an I.
I.H. There was only one I.H. in the whole Woodrow Wilson School—Imogene Herd-man. “Louella,” I said, “Imogene didn’t find this blanket underneath a bush or anywhere else. This was her own blanket.”
Louella refused to believe this and you couldn’t blame her. It was hard enough just to imagine that Imogene ever was a baby, let alone a baby with her own blanket to drag around and hang on to.
“Besides,” Louella said, “if it was hers, she wouldn’t give it away. The Herdmans never gave anything away in their whole life.”
“But what about the initials?” I said.
“They aren’t really initials,” Louella said. “I think they’re just what’s left of the bunny pattern.”
I guess Louella believed this, but I knew better. They were Imogene’s initials, all right, and this was Imogene’s blanket. Maybe somebody took it away from her when she was a baby, and maybe she yelled and held her breath and turned purple, so she would know exactly how Howard felt. She would be sympathetic.
I could hardly wait to write this down on the Compliments for Classmates page in my notebook, but it looked too weird: “Imogene Herdman—sympathetic.”
Nobody would believe this and I would have to explain it and Imogene would probably wrap my head in chewing gum if I told everyone that she once had a blanket with a favorite chewed corner and everything.
Chapter 8
T wo or three times a year all the Herdmans would be absent at the same time and it was like a vacation. You knew you wouldn’t get killed at recess, you wouldn’t have to hand over your lunch, and you wouldn’t have to hide your money if you had any.
We even had easy lessons when they were absent. Boomer Malone said the teachers did that on purpose to give us all time to heal and get our strength back, but my mother said it was probably the teachers who had to get their strength back.
Nobody knew why they were absent. Nobody cared. They didn’t have to bring a note from home either like everyone else, to say what was the matter.
“Why bother?” the school nurse told my mother. “They would write it themselves, no one could read it, and it would be a lie. Besides, if they ever did have something contagious, they wouldn’t stay home. They’d come here and breathe on everybody.”
You never knew when they would be absent either, but nobody thought this made any difference till they were all absent on a fire-drill day and our school won the Fire
Louella shook her head. “We found Howard’s blanket.”
Miss Harrison shook her head. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better. No, as soon as I heard it was missing, I knew what I’d done and where it was—gone, in the trash.”
“She’s wrong,” Louella said.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I said.
Louella thought for a minute. “Well, Howard wouldn’t be wrong and he thinks it’s his blanket. You can’t get it away from him.”
We did get it away from him but we had to wait till he was asleep. Then we had to unfasten his fingers and quickly give him this old worn-out bathrobe of Louella’s.
“See?” said Louella. “It’s the same blanket.”
It certainly looked like the same blanket— old, faded, sort of dirty gray, with one corner that was especially old and faded and dirty gray. There was something else too—a capital H, scribbled and wobbly and almost faded out.
“It even has his initial on it,” I said. “ H, for Howard.”
“Huh-uh,” Louella said. “There’s no initial on Howard’s blanket.”
I started to show her the H, and then I saw the other initial. It was an I.
I.H. There was only one I.H. in the whole Woodrow Wilson School—Imogene Herd-man. “Louella,” I said, “Imogene didn’t find this blanket underneath a bush or anywhere else. This was her own blanket.”
Louella refused to believe this and you couldn’t blame her. It was hard enough just to imagine that Imogene ever was a baby, let alone a baby with her own blanket to drag around and hang on to.
“Besides,” Louella said, “if it was hers, she wouldn’t give it away. The Herdmans never gave anything away in their whole life.”
“But what about the initials?” I said.
“They aren’t really initials,” Louella said. “I think they’re just what’s left of the bunny pattern.”
I guess Louella believed this, but I knew better. They were Imogene’s initials, all right, and this was Imogene’s blanket. Maybe somebody took it away from her when she was a baby, and maybe she yelled and held her breath and turned purple, so she would know exactly how Howard felt. She would be sympathetic.
I could hardly wait to write this down on the Compliments for Classmates page in my notebook, but it looked too weird: “Imogene Herdman—sympathetic.”
Nobody would believe this and I would have to explain it and Imogene would probably wrap my head in chewing gum if I told everyone that she once had a blanket with a favorite chewed corner and everything.
Chapter 8
T wo or three times a year all the Herdmans would be absent at the same time and it was like a vacation. You knew you wouldn’t get killed at recess, you wouldn’t have to hand over your lunch, and you wouldn’t have to hide your money if you had any.
We even had easy lessons when they were absent. Boomer Malone said the teachers did that on purpose to give us all time to heal and get our strength back, but my mother said it was probably the teachers who had to get their strength back.
Nobody knew why they were absent. Nobody cared. They didn’t have to bring a note from home either like everyone else, to say what was the matter.
“Why bother?” the school nurse told my mother. “They would write it themselves, no one could read it, and it would be a lie. Besides, if they ever did have something contagious, they wouldn’t stay home. They’d come here and breathe on everybody.”
You never knew when they would be absent either, but nobody thought this made any difference till they were all absent on a fire-drill day and our school won the Fire
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