Amber Brown Goes Fourth (5 page)

Her blond hair has three strands all woven with different colors of string and with three beads on each one . . . one at the top and two at the bottom. Two of the sections start at the top of her head and end at the bottom of her hair. The third one starts at the back of her ear and is about two inches longer than her hair.

Mrs. Holt returns to the front of the room, writes our math assignment on the blackboard, and gives us time to begin our homework.

Before starting, I write a note to Brandi.

I sign it with the special signature I’ve practiced for someday when I become famous, and then pass it to Brandi.

She reads it, writes something on it, and passes it back to me.

She’s got it signed with her own special signature, too.

I think I’m going to have a new best friend.

I write back to her.

Brandi looks at my note, smiles, and then frowns.

She writes on the paper and then passes it back to me.

I look at her.

She is staring straight ahead.

“Brandi,” I whisper.

She whispers back, “I am NOT Justin.”

Mrs. Holt says, “Amber. Brandi. Quiet, or I’m going to have to separate you.”

Fourth grade just went from worse to even worse . . . . and it’s only the first day.

Four days of fourth grade and I, Amber Brown, don’t want to go forth. I just want to stay home.

So far, I’ve had mumps, measles, another case of chicken pox, a sore throat that went all the way down to my toenails, a heart attack, headaches, and food poisoning.

So far, my mother has made me go to school anyway.

My mom is no pushover.

I just don’t want to go to school.

It’s not that it’s SO bad.

Mrs. Holt is a good teacher. She’s just not Mr. Cohen.

The kids in the class are fine . . . . all except for Hannah Burton, but that’s no different from last year.

And I like Brandi, even though I don’t think she likes me very much.

I just miss Justin.

I, Amber Brown, think everyone in the world should have a best friend.

I walk around the playground at recess, silently taking the “Justin tour.”

Passing by the swings, I think about how in the first grade we used to take turns pushing each other and pretending that we were birds. We would yell, “Dodo birds . . . . . . . . doo doo.”

Walking by the jungle gym, I remember how Justin and I organized our kindergarten class to compete in the Jungle Gymboree Olympics. I won a blue ribbon for hanging
upside down the longest time while singing the Sesame Street song.

By the water fountain, I remember the time we were studying whales, and Justin and I filled our mouths with water and pretended to be whales with hiccups. We got very wet.

Near the hopscotch area, I remember the time I fell and Justin helped me get the pebble out of my knee.

I think about the time Justin organized our third-grade class, at Halloween, to all scream at once to our teacher, “Mr. Cohen, Mr. Cohen.” Justin said that we were “I scream Cohens.”

I stand under the tree and look at everyone on the playground.

It looks like most of them have a special friend.

The tree is a special place.

It’s where I told Justin that my parents were getting a divorce and how bad I felt about it.

He didn’t say much to help me, but just being able to tell someone helped.

There’s no one in my class that I can tell how I feel . . . . . . . or have that much fun with.

I really miss Justin.

Brandi walks slowly past me.

I want to call out to her and ask her to join me, but I don’t.

She looks back as if she’s going to say something but she doesn’t.

I turn away from her as the bell rings.

Recess and the Justin tour are over.

I sure hope that things are going to get better soon.

I, Amber Brown, want to declare the first week of school a “do-over,” like when you mess up at some sports thing and get to start again at the beginning.

If I could just snap my fingers and yell, “Do-over,” there are a couple of things that I would do very differently.

I would not mention Justin to Brandi . . . . . . especially not in a comparing way.

I would try not to care so much that she doesn’t seem to want to be my friend.

I would try to just be happy that most of the kids are friendly . . . . . not to be so
unhappy that I don’t have a best friend . . . and that I don’t know how to make one.

I would not show up for the first day at Elementary Extension. Since my name wasn’t even on the list, I could have hidden out in the bathroom or something until my mother picked me up.

But now I’m on the list and I’ve got to sit there with a group of kids from kindergarten through sixth grade. I think they should change the name from Elementary Extension to Kids Being Held Captive in the Cafeteria Waiting for a Grownup to Pick Them Up.

I would try not to think about all of the things that are bugging me . . . . my parents getting a divorce, Justin and his family so far away, Max so near.

But even if it would work to snap my fingers and yell, “Do-over,” it would never work.

First of all, I can’t even snap my fingers. . . . . .  Instead of the snap sound, I make a sort of thwip sound.

And second, I, Amber Brown, know that just wanting something a whole lot doesn’t mean that I’m going to get it.

And I hate knowing that.

“Amber,” my mother calls up the stairs. “Supper time.”

I walk to the steps and call down, “In a minute.”

Washing my hands, I continue to think about all of the stuff that’s driving me nuts.

On the way downstairs, I practice snapping my fingers.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

I go into the dining room.

Usually we eat at the kitchen table, but tonight Mom said we should do something special . . . . . take some time for ourselves to talk and hang out.

She’s so busy now. Because she has to leave work early to pick me up, she has more work to do at home.

I look at the three place settings on the table.

I thought it was going to be just the two of us.

Maybe she’s asked Max to dinner.

I thought she said that she was going to wait a little while before she brought him over to the house.