Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit (9 page)

I hang up the phone before we even have our kissing contest, which we always have at the end of a call. That’s where we make kissing sounds into the phone until one of us gets tired and quits and the other one wins.

No kissing contest this time . . . . . no winners.

I can feel myself start to cry.

The phone rings.

I run upstairs.

My Dad Book. . . .

I open the top drawer of my dresser, take it out, and sit down on my bed to think about the best ways to destroy it.

I could feed it into the garbage disposal.

I could take each picture out of the book and rip it into tiny, tiny, minuscule pieces.

I could take a picture of him and add drawings to it of what I think Judith and the little dweeb look like . . . and then I can rip it into tiny, tiny, minuscule pieces.

I could blow my nose on some of the
pictures. . . . put a little snot across my father’s face.

I could . . . . . . . . . . . . . . but I can’t.

I don’t want to destroy my Dad Book.

Opening it, I look at some of the pictures . . . . . . . the time my dad and I won the father-daughter race at my school. I wonder who’s going to win it this year.

Maybe they’ll have a mother’s boyfriend—daughter race this year and Max and I can win it.

Max.

I don’t know what to think about Max either.

I don’t know why everything had to become so complicated.

There’s a knock on the door.

It’s my mother.

I know.

Now’s the time for the mother-daughter talk . . . how it’s not easy for any of us
. . . . . how my parents have to make new lives . . . how we all have to try to be flexible and understanding . . . . how while they don’t love each other, they’ll always love me.

I don’t say anything.

There’s another knock on the door, and then my mother walks in and sits down with me on my bed.

“I know . . . . . . you love me . . . . you have to make a new life . . . . . Max is a wonderful person . . . . . . you and Dad may hate each other’s guts but you’ll always love me.” I look at her.

“Well, I guess that’s it.” My mother stands up.

She sits down again. “No. Actually, there is more. Do you want to say it . . . or should I say the rest of things that need to be said . . . . . and need to be done?”

“I think I said everything.” I shrug.

She picks up the Dad Book and opens it.

The page she has turned to is a picture of my dad, with me sitting on Santa’s knees.

She smiles at it and then looks at me.

“Amber, your dad is very upset that you hung up on him like that.”

“What do you care? You hate his guts.” I make a face.

She thinks for a minute. “Some of his guts I hate . . . . but, Amber, I don’t hate all of his guts.”

I laugh. “Just how many of his guts do you hate?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t try to make me laugh . . . . This is serious . . . . Don’t make a joke out of this. I know you’re upset. Your father told me what’s upsetting you . . . . Amber, you have a right to your feelings . . . . but you know that you have to be open to changes.”

“They’re not
my
changes. They’re yours . . . . yours and Dad’s . . . .” I am not laughing.

“You’re making changes too . . . . You’re getting older . . . . . You like different things.
. . . You even look different. Your dad and I have to get used to your changes too.”

“But I’m a kid. I
have
to grow and change and be different.”

“So do we.” My mother is trying to be calm. “Everyone in the world has to grow and change in some ways.”

“But everyone doesn’t have to like the changes.” I pout. “You don’t like everything I do.”

She pretends to pout. “And you don’t like everything
I
do.”

I pout more. “I’m sick of having to hear this all the time.”

“And I’m sick of having to say it all the time.” She makes a super pouting face and then she smiles. “Amber Brown, you have to get used to change.”

We both are quiet for a minute, and then she says, “And what’s this about you’re still not doing your schoolwork? Did you mean what you told your father?”

Great. I try to work really hard so that she doesn’t find out and then I tell on myself.

I tell her what’s going on.

I explain about how Mrs. Holt won’t give me extra credit.

“She’s right, you know.” My mother pats me on the head.

It makes me nuts when she pats me on the head.

“But I want extra credit . . . . . I want a gold star for all the stuff I’m going through.”

“It’s called living . . . . Everyone goes through real stuff . . . . No one gets a gold star for doing what they should be doing.”

“This is one of those great truths.” I look at her. “One of those mother-daughter moments I’m always going to remember . . . . . .”

“And cherish . . . . .” my mother says, and then she laughs. “And then someday you will be saying the same things to
your
daughter.”

“If I ever get married and have a kid, I’ll never get divorced.”

“I hope you never have to.” My mother looks at me and then gives me a hug.

I hug back.

Then we look at each other.

“Mom.” I hold her hand. “If I can’t have a gold star . . . . . . . can I at least have a brownie?”

She squeezes my hand and nods. “Let’s go down and get some before Max eats them all.”

“I bet he’s not eating the tuna-fish-and-jelly-bean brownie.”

“I bet he’s not,” she agrees. “And I bet you don’t either.”

We get up and go downstairs.

On the way, I think of a slogan to use on my project.

With AMBER BROWNies, You Get Your Just Desserts.

Progress Report

After some initial problems, Amber is doing quite well at school in her subject areas. She is turning in good work on time. Amber still needs to work very hard in math, but I can tell that she is trying.

Her attitude is much better . . . and her AMBER BROWNie report was a delight . . . . and quite tasteful!

Amber deserves credit for doing her best.

I look forward to watching her progress for the rest of the year.

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FOREVER

AMBER BROWN

I, Amber Brown, am on a search, not for gold, not for silver, not for treasure.

I, Amber Brown, am on a search for the perfect bowling ball. One that will help me beat my mom and Max, her friend.

I search.

Some holes are too far apart. Some are too close. Some balls weigh a ton. Some are an ugly color.

It is not an easy search, especially since my hair keeps falling in front of my eyes.

It’s not easy to give up wearing two
ponytails and try to let my hair grow to be the same length.

I blow up at my hair. It goes up, and then falls down in front of my eyes again.

Finally, I find a bowling ball. My fingers don’t get caught. It’s not too heavy. It matches what I’m wearing.

I just wish that they made glitter bowling balls.

I rush back to our lane and begin.