It must be because these are for the new teacher and she can’t have one missing. I wish she’d just go hang by Albert, the walking Google page who’d get a better grade than me if he just blew his nose into the paper. Maybe they think I can’t hear their words: Freak. The rest of the class is getting tired of me again. I always get headaches from looking at the brightness of dark letters on white pages for too long. Annoyed that the same word is spelled different ways on the same page. Whenever I do my best, they tell me I don’t try hard enough. Seven schools in seven years and they’re all the same. “C’mon,” she says, moving my lined paper toward me. I’ve been drawing pictures of myself being shot out of a cannon.

Please put it away.”Įmbarrassed, I slide my drawings underneath my blank writing assignment. If you weren’t drawing all the time, your work might be done. Teachers are like the machines that take quarters for bouncy balls. I know that, and it’s exactly why I don’t want to do it. “It’s so your new teacher can get to know you.” Like throwing up at your own birthday party. I’d rather write about something more positive. I can’t think of anything worse than having to describe myself.

I’m only asking for one page describing yourself.” Like he’s waiting for a firecracker to go off. Near her, Albert, a bulky kid who’s worn the same thing every day-a dark T-shirt that reads Flint-sits up straight. “Ally, why can’t you just act normal for once?” Oliver laughs, throwing himself on his desk like it’s a fumbled football. “What if I told you that I was going to climb a tree using only my teeth? Would you say I could do it then?” If my teacher were mean it would be easier. “Well, Ally? Are you going to write or aren’t you?” Mrs.

Fish in a tree by lynda hunt