Puppet Pandemonium (7 page)

I immediately freaked out. I hated problems like that. Gallons and quarts and cups always confused me. Teachers loved those kinds of questions. Before I could confess I had no idea how much ice cream they ate, Hannah started laughing.

“I just wrote across my paper, ‘It all depends on the flavor of ice cream they ate. If they ate nutty peach crunch, they didn't eat much. It's yucky’ “

Murray broke into a grin. “No wonder Mr. Sims called you to the front of the class.”

Hannah shrugged. “He doesn't grade those papers anyway. The warm-ups are just what he uses to get us started.”

“It's a snap,” Murray said, patting Hannah's red head. “They went every day to have ice cream for three weeks. That's twenty-one days. You divide—”

“Whatever!” Hannah took a deep breath. “As I was saying about school … when the tardy bell rings, our principal, Dr. Stovall, comes over the intercom to give announcements, and then we stand to say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

“Then school officially starts,” Murray finished as we walked into our classroom.

Mr. Sims was already there. Kids were sitting at their desks working. Hannah marched up to him.

“This is our new student, Baker Kennedy,” she said.

“I've been expecting you, Baker,” Mr. Sims said with a smile. He wore a blue oxford shirt and khakis, and his blond hair was spiky. He picked up a fat folder with my name written at the top. “I already know some things about you.”

“Like what?” Hannah asked.

“Like, you may go sit down, Ms. Wilson. I believe I can handle things from here on out.”

For once Hannah didn't say anything. She went to her desk.

Inside the fat folder were lots of papers for my parents to look over, as well as copies of all the class assignments so far.

“These are for you,” Mr. Sims said, handing me a stack of books. “You'll have to play a little catch-up, but you're a good student. Your fourth-grade teacher wrote a nice letter introducing you, so I feel as if we're friends already.”

I sat down at the empty desk next to Hannah. Mr. Sims had written out a schedule for me so I'd know what to expect. We had math first thing in the morning and then English, history, and an integrated curriculum that included science, language arts, and music on alternate days. In the afternoon we had social studies and reading. Gym was at the end of the day. I knew I'd have to work hard to catch up.

“Mr. Kennedy,” Mr. Sims said. “Would you like to stand up and tell the class a little something about yourself?”

I'd known that question was coming. It happens to new kids all over the world. I had seen it with my own eyes. When Ryan Morris had to tell about himself in third grade, he forgot his own name. He should have
just said that his dad managed the movie theater. He would have been golden after that.

Slowly I rose to my feet. “There isn't much to tell, really” I said.

Hannah poked me. “Don't be shy” she whispered.

I swallowed. “Well, um, my name is Baker Kennedy. I played first base on my Little League team back in Seattle. We were city champs. I don't have any brothers or sisters.” I started to sit down.

“What about your parents?” Mr. Sims asked.

“My mom loves to cook, and my dad works for a computer company in Dallas.” I looked down at my shoes. “Uh,” I said, “my dad grew up in Franklin.” I looked around the room. “He went to this school when he was my age.”

“Tell about your job in Seattle,” Hannah urged. I froze.

“You had a job in Seattle?” Mr. Sims asked.

“I, um, well, I worked with my grandmother. She's a puppeteer, and I worked on her puppet shows.” A hush fell over the room.

“Wow,” I heard someone say.

“Cool.”

“Maybe your grandmother can come and give us a puppet show sometime,” a kid said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don't know. She lives in Seattle.”

Mr. Sims looked past me. “Mr. LaBoon. Did you want to ask a question?”

My eyes traveled to the back of the room. A boy was waving his arm frantically in the air.

“He's too late to be in the play. Right?” the boy asked, frowning.

Mr. Sims ran his fingers through his spiky hair. “I'm counting on this class to produce a terrific play Bubba. And that means everyone will need to participate.”

I sat down. There was a note on my desk. Hannah had drawn a picture of a boy with water balloons coming out of his ears.

“Sorry” she wrote. “Forgot to tell you that Bubba LaBoon is in fifth grade too.”

S
chool was going okay. I spent most of my time catching up on assignments. I didn't have much time to do anything else.

There were a couple of birthday parties I wasn't invited to, but Mom explained that they'd probably been planned before we moved to Franklin. That was okay. I didn't expect to be best friends with the whole class. But being left out did make me a little homesick for Seattle and my buddies back there.

Our gym teacher, Coach Renfro, was cool. During recess she would come out onto the field and throw footballs
around with us. When we ran track, she ran too, and she made a basket every time we played basketball.

“Okay, guys, listen up,” she'd say, blowing her whistle for good measure. “Ten times around the gym and no goldbricking along the way or you'll do fifty push-ups.” She always checked her clipboard during class. “Volleyball tournament against fourth in two weeks.” Check. Check. A cheer. “Football scrimmage next Friday.” Check. Check. More cheers. “Health test on Monday.” Big boos echoed throughout the room.

Hannah and Murray introduced me around, but it was hard to remember people's names. Everyone had an accent. Sometimes I couldn't understand what they said at all. So I smiled a lot. I hated feeling like a taga-long, but Dad kept reminding me that it would take time to make friends.

That was where Waldo stepped in. Or sat in. I practiced with him every spare moment I had. It was almost impossible to say Ws, Vs, and Ms without moving my lips, but I was improving.

One morning Mr. Sims asked us to write four sentences explaining the significance of a national holiday, like Memorial Day or Columbus Day. Hannah shared her Labor Day sentences with me.

Her words made me feel a little bit closer to fitting in.

“My room is beginning to feel like home,” I said one night at dinner. Mom had made one of her gourmet meals and I was stuffed. Really, she hadn't needed to go to the trouble. Pizza and chicken nuggets were fine by me. But I didn't want to spoil her fun. Fun that included Fiery Texas Toast. Texas Dragonfire Chili. Texas-style Brisket. Dad and I needed a gallon of water after every meal.

“Next time hold the New Mexico chilis,” I gasped after polishing off a plate of Cowboy Catfish. “And you can leave the catfish in the pond.”

Dad gulped his sweet tea. “I second the motion.”

“Bob!” Mom said. “You two just don't appreciate a sophisticated Texan dinner.” She cleared the table in a huff, but we both knew she wasn't mad. We had been her guinea pigs for a couple of years now. We expected weird stuff.

Dad had finally set up my computer, and Mom had just about finished arranging the furniture and unpacking all the boxes.

My first IM was from Sam.

I e-mailed a photo of our house.

∗   ∗   ∗

When I got home from school the next day, Mom was waiting at the door.

“Big surprise,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. Gram's head popped around the door.

“Gram!” I threw my arms around her. “You couldn't have come at a better time. I have tons of schoolwork, the fifth grade is having a play and I don't want to be in it, and Hannah says—”

“Whoa,” Gram said. “One thing at a time. Let me get settled and you can tell me all about it.” We spent the afternoon talking. I told Gram what was happening in school and she told me what was happening in Seattle. Sam lived next door to Gram, so it was easy for her to keep up.

“I'm glad I'm here for the festival,” Gram said when we sat down for dinner. “Your mom has told me all about it. It sounds really fun, Baker.”

There was so much to tell Gram that I thought I'd never quit talking. Then, just as I was about to bite into a chipotle meatball, I stopped. “Hey, Gram!” I couldn't believe I hadn't told her this. “Mr. Sims has already asked if you'd give a puppet show for my class! Did you bring Ricky Raccoon?”

Gram laughed as she spun a spaghetti noodle around her fork. “Do I ever go anywhere without him?”

B
efore I'd come to school in September, the class had researched famous people who had made a difference in America. On the board was the list of names they had discussed:

I had no idea how Mr. Sims intended to put all those people into one play, since they hadn't lived in the same period. But if I got to pull the curtain or work the props, I wouldn't have to worry about how the story came together. Maybe Mr. Sims would realize I was best at working behind the scenes and not onstage.

“Does anyone have a new name to add?” Mr. Sims asked.