Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit (5 page)

I knew what I was going to do for the front cover . . . . . . draw a picture of Anastasia and show that inside the box would be an author trading card. I was going to make up one about Lois Lowry, with facts and a Xeroxed picture.

So I did have a lot done, but I scrunched it up when I was mad and then never finished the report.

I read the book and loved it.

I did most of the work.

It’s only a book report.

So what’s the big deal?

“I can’t believe you didn’t do your book report. Amber, what’s going on? You’ve been acting so weird.” Brandi puts a tuna fish sandwich on her tray.

I take a sandwich and a bowl of red Jell-O.

I, Amber Brown, love red Jell-O. I love the way it squishes through my teeth while I’m eating it.

I, however, don’t feel good about having to talk about why I’m acting so weird.

I try to make a joke about it. “People have always said that I’m weird.”

Putting my tray down on the counter, I grab my ponytails and pretend they are motorcycle handlebars, and make engine noises.

Usually this makes her laugh.

This time it doesn’t.

She does smile, though, and says, “That kind of weird is what I like about you . . . . This is a different kind of weird.”

We continue to go through the line.

“You’re in a lousy mood sometimes, and you’re not as much fun as you used to be . . . . . and you won’t talk about what’s bothering you.”

I pretend to have trouble making up my mind about whether to choose chocolate milk or regular milk.

Brandi sighs.

We pay for our food and sit down.

At the table on the right, some of the sixth graders are blowing straw wrappers at one another.

At the table on the left, some of the third graders are having a competition to see if they can make milk come out of their noses.

I unwrap my peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwich and add some potato chips to it.

Naomi and Alicia join us.

So does Hannah Burton.

Having to sit next to Hannah Burton is enough to make me lose my lunch . . . and I’m not talking about misplacing it.

She takes out her lunch, which she’s brought from home.

It’s Chinese food, probably leftovers.

I love Chinese food.

But I would never ask Hannah to share it.

Hannah takes out a pair of chopsticks and starts using them.

She’s such a show-off.

I love Chinese food but I hate chopsticks.

The only way that I don’t drop everything when I use them is if I spear the food.

“Nice work, Amber. I can’t believe that you didn’t do your book report. Couldn’t you find a book to match your interests? Did the library lend out the last copy of
Where’s Spot?”
She picks up some cold noodles with sesame sauce on them and chopsticks them into her mouth.

“Are you enjoying your lunch? Worms with worm doodoo, isn’t it? Mmmmmmm, good.”

Hannah puts the chopsticks down for a minute, and then she picks them up again. “You are just so immature, Amber. Late growing up . . . . . . late turning in your homework.”

I wonder what Hannah Burton would look like with chopsticks up her nose.

Seeing Hannah with the chopsticks reminds
me of last year when our class studied China, and Justin and I dueled with our chopsticks.

Why couldn’t Hannah have moved to Alabama instead of Justin? Maybe she could have even moved to China.

Tiffani Shroeder joins us.

She opens up her lunch bag, looks inside, and says, “I’m going to kill that little goof-ball.”

“What is it? What has Howie done this time?” I know who she is talking about. “Goofball” is one of the cleaner things that Tiffani calls her younger brother.

Tiffani pulls something out of her lunch bag.

It’s a Barbie doll wrapped in a piece of bologna. One of its arms sticks out through the bologna. The other arm sticks out of the top.

“It’s Lunch Meat Barbie.” I giggle.

“I’m going to get that kid.” Tiffani shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m going to get him.”

“Is that your whole lunch? Want some of mine?” I offer her half of my sandwich.

She looks back into the bag. “No, thanks. The little creep put this on top of the lunch that my mom made for me.”

The rest of her lunch looks absolutely normal.

I was hoping that Howie had done more. . . . .like included Barbie-Q chips or something . . . but for a five-year-old he does pretty well.

We continue to eat and talk.

Hannah Burton drops
moo goo gai pan
on her sweatshirt.

I like lunchtime.

It’s a good time for me to forget my problems.

The first bell rings, and we take our garbage and throw it in the bins.

As I walk back to class, I hear Mrs. Holt call out, “Amber.”

I walk over to her.

She’s very nice, but I just know that she’s mad at me.

She says, “Amber, I would like you to see me after school before you go to Elementary Extension.”

I nod.

I, Amber Brown, am in deep trouble.

The end-of-the-day bell rings.

Everyone else gets up to leave.

I just sit there.

“I’ll see you in Elementary Extension,” Brandi whispers. “Good luck.”

Hannah Burton smirks at me.

Smirk. Smirk. Smirk. Hannah Burton is such a jerk
is what I think.

Everyone else leaves.

It’s me and Mrs. Holt, alone in the room.

My stomach hurts.

I, Amber Brown, never used to get in trouble in school . . . . . not for grades and
not for not doing my work . . . sometimes for talking and giggling, but not for big stuff . . . . I don’t know what’s going to happen.

I walk up to Mrs. Holt’s desk and wait until she’s finished writing something in her marking book.

I stand there and look at the clock, waiting.

Something must be wrong with the clock. I feel like it’s hours and I’ve only been standing here for minutes.

Mrs. Holt looks up.

“I’ll turn the book report in tomorrow,” I promise.

“Amber, bring a chair over and sit down here.”

I get the chair and sit down by the side of her desk.

Her desk is so big. Her chair is so much higher than mine.

I look up, try to smile, and wait for her to say something.

She waits, too.

There really must be something wrong with the clock. It’s ticking loudly, very loudly.

I can’t stand the quiet. “Mrs. Holt. I promise I’ll bring the book report in tomorrow.”

“Amber, what are we going to do?” She puts down her pen and looks at me. “I’ve sent a note home. Do you want me to start sending home worksheets with your assignments on them so that your mother can see them and sign them? Is that what you want?”

“No.” I bite my lip and try not to cry.

She looks at her marking book. “You’re missing assignments . . . . not just the book report, but three math homeworks, two essays. . . . and you’ve gotten low grades on several tests. And it’s only October.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I know she’s right.

“I’m sure.” She nods. “Amber, I know you can do the work. I’ve checked your records, spoken to your old teachers.”

“They’re not so old,” I say, and then I put my hand over my mouth.

I can’t believe that I said that. It just came into my brain and out of my mouth.

She looks at me for a minute.

It’s another very long minute, and then she smiles.

Mrs. Holt has a very nice smile, for a person who is probably going to flunk me.

Amber Brown. Fourth Grade Failure.

“Amber,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Amber Brown. Sorry Person.

“As I was saying, I’ve been speaking with some of your past teachers.”

I think . . . 
And they passed me . . . . Please pass me too
 . . . . but I don’t say it out loud.

“You know, Amber, when I spoke to Mr. Cohen, he told me what he’d written in your ‘Passport to Fourth Grade’ . . . . how he loved your sense of humor, your sense of exploration . . . how you’re willing to try out new things even when they’re hard. I’ve been able to see some of that, but I’d love to see more of it . . . . and more of your homework assignments.”

We smile at each other.

“Amber, I know you can do the work. What’s wrong? Is it anything I can help you with? Is it anything anyone at the school can help you with? I know that there have been some changes in your life, and I’ll try to be understanding . . . . . but you must do your work.”

“Everything’s okay.” I try not to cry. “I promise I’ll do the work. Don’t make me take one of those papers home.”

She thinks for a minute.

I sit there very quietly.

“Okay. For now, I won’t make you take the paper home, but I do want you to make up your back work and turn in your book report tomorrow. Each day, your grade will go down one mark from what it would have been if you had turned it in on time.”

I bite my lip. “Can I do extra credit?”

She shakes her head. “In this case, you may not. Extra credit’s reserved for people who have tried their best and need an extra
boost, or for people who are already doing their best and want to do more. YOU are not in either one of those categories.”