The Waffler (11 page)

T
iny Mrs. Tuttle
charged toward the nut-free table, trailed by Principal Edwards. When she got there—which took about ten seconds—she spluttered, “Montana Greene! I honestly don't know what to say, Monty. This is so unexpected.”

It was like she had said “one two three, eyes on Monty,” and everybody had obeyed. Monty could
feel
everybody's eyes on him. He could feel the eyes of Mrs. Tuttle and Principal Edwards. Also the eyes of his mom and his dad. And his stepmom. And stepdad. And his sister Sierra and his friends, Jasmine and Lagu. Plus all their Buddies, and all the parents of all the Buddies.

The only person at the table who wasn't silently watching him was Little A, who crowed, “Buh! Buh! Buh!” It was more a sound than a word, but Jasmine whispered, “She's saying Buddy!”

“Buh-
dee
,” coached Sierra in a soft voice. “Buh-
dee
.”

“Buh!” agreed Aisha.

After Little A had broken the silence, Kieran's mom spoke up. “Kieran just adores Monty,” she said. “She said he reads them stories at recess because there isn't time during the school day. And I want to publicly thank Monty for going the extra mile.”

Aisha crowed, “Buh!” again, and then another woman spoke.

“I'm Finn's grandmother,” she said. “And I never saw Finn so excited about school as the day he came home and said Monty was his Big Buddy.”

Lagu's parents were speaking to Lagu in Sudanese. Lagu listened, then said, “My parents say that Monty is helping Winnie learn to read. They say he's a special boy.”

This was out of control. It was worse than Thanksgiving dinner, when everybody said what they were thankful for. Now everybody was saying nice things—about him! For a second Monty didn't know what to do, because he was starting to feel something he had never expected to feel, not in a million years—sorry for Mrs. Tuttle.

He felt sorry for Mrs. Tuttle because she was standing right where he usually stood: in the make-up-your-mind hot seat. Now Monty was the one with X-ray vision, able to see inside somebody else. He could see what his teacher was trying to decide. Should she stay mad at him? Or not? Monty knew how hard it was to get un-mad at somebody. But he knew what to do: throw himself on the mercy of the court, like Mr. Milkovich said. And for extra credit, Monty threw in Leo's puppy-dog eyes.

“I know you told me to make up my mind and pick one Buddy,” he said, “but I
couldn't
. But none of the Buddies knew it wasn't okay with you. So if you have to take me, I get it,”—he held out his hands for imaginary handcuffs— “but let my Buddies go.”

One two three, eyes on Mrs. Tuttle. Everybody was watching her, waiting to see what she would say. Was she going to stay mad? Or show mercy?

“Buh!” crowed Aisha.

Tiny Mrs. Tuttle heaved a big, tired sigh. “I don't think we'll put you in jail, Monty,” she said. “Not today, anyway.”

Monty figured that even if his teacher wasn't acting mad, she wasn't exactly un-mad, either. This was more like a truce. But a truce with Mrs. Tuttle was a good deal for him. He'd take it.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

The principal put her hand on his shoulder and leaned down so her white hair and yellow glasses were right next to his face. “Mr. Greene,” she said, “some of your decisions have been better than others, but you
are
making decisions. From now on, feel free to sit wherever you like at lunch. I don't think anybody could call you a waffler anymore.”

Principal Edwards and Mrs. Tuttle moved on to make the rounds of the other tables. Monty took a swig of orange juice and another bite of blueberry muffin. Today was: the Culminating Event. The weather was: Snowy. And Monty was: Not a waffler.

Not a waffler!

Everything was just about perfect, except for one thing.

“I wish Leo were here,” he said.

“So did he,” said Monty's dad as he pushed the black box he'd been holding across the table. “He had an idea of something special he wanted to get you. He chipped in everything in his piggy bank, and your mom and I made up the rest, and, well—this is from all of us.”

“Buh!” said Aisha.

“She's saying
box
!” said Jasmine.

Monty undid the clips. He lifted the lid. Inside a golden instrument was nestled in black velvet.

“A trumpet,” announced Lagu.

“No way!” said Sierra.

“Way,” contradicted Jasmine. “
Way
way!”

“Mom,” said Monty. “
Dad
. Thanks!”

Now he could switch instruments, and nobody would accuse him of waffling. Monty wasn't sure whether his decision not to decide—his refusal to choose—made him more of an unwaffling waffler or a waffling unwaffler. But either way, he knew that
sometimes
he knew what he wanted. And when those
sometimes
came along, you had to stand up. Speak up.

There were good and bad things about being a twin. Getting lumped together in a parent's bad mood—not good. Getting dragged around to soccer tournaments to see your twin sister score goals—not good. But always having someone around—someone who knew exactly what you meant, someone who stuck up for you—good.

Maybe tomorrow he would go back to trying to avoid getting noticed. But today he was going to say what he wanted.

“Hey, Mom, Dad,” he said one more time, “I don't want to flip-flop anymore. I want to go back to how things were before. Me and Sierra together.”

“Me, neither,” Sierra said. “I mean, me, too. I mean—I don't want to flip-flop anymore either. I want to go with Monty.”

“That sounds good to me, too,” said their mom. She reached across the table and took one of Monty's hands in hers, and Sierra's hand in the other. “You two belong together.”

This time, Monty didn't mind being half of “you two.”

Monty's dad agreed. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, nodding, and he started talking to Monty's mom about which house Monty and Sierra should go to this afternoon.

“Dad, pronto!” said Monty. “While we're young, please?”

“Ouch!” said Sierra. “He got you, Dad!”

While his whole family was laughing, Monty felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Jasmine, crowned in pink heart barrettes.

“Are you never going to sit here at lunch anymore?” she asked. “Now that you don't have to?”

It looked like needing to make up your mind never stopped.

“No way,” he said. “I'm not a jerk! I'll sit here sometimes.”

Monty figured that sometimes he would sit with Jasmine here at the nut-free table. Because she didn't have a choice, and he did. And sometimes he would sit with Lagu at the regular fourth-grade table. He would even sit with Tristan, if Tristan stopped calling him Waffles. Which he should, because Monty wasn't a waffler anymore.

One of the best things about a Culminating Event was how long it took. By the time the families left, all Mrs. Tuttle's class had time to do was troop upstairs to get their coats and hats and mittens from their locker and head out for recess.

Outside, Monty headed for his favorite farthest-away place. The sky was blue and the playground was white—sort of. The snow that had fallen was mostly trampled, but on the other side of the fence, the jungly place where nobody went, the snow still lay clean and white. Monty yanked off his mitten so he could stick his hand through one of the diamond shapes made by the chain links. Scooped up a handful of clean, white snow. Nibbled it. It tasted like the sky, like if you could make a sky-flavored snow cone.

It had been a busy morning. Monty listed all the things that had happened so far.

Throw yourself on the mercy of the court and have the judge show mercy. Check.

Be declared not a waffler. Check.

Get a trumpet! Check.

Stop the flip-flop. Check.

Monty took another nibble, wondering if his rat would like snow. He added that to his list, one more thing to do: check out whether his pet liked snow. He could do that later today, after school. Right after he and Sierra got home.

I am grateful for frontline readers Ann Harleman, Frances Lefkowitz, Ihila Lesnikova, and Elizabeth Searle; for Edite Kroll, my agent; and my editor, Lucia Monfried; and for the help and support of Gregory, Lydia-Rose, and Zora Kesich.