because it is a cool-hot California day, and the November wind is blowing just the right amount, and my legs feel twitchy inside. They want to
move
.
Also, Cynthia hardly ever runs around on the playground. I guess she’s too busy rating her friends.
Annie Pat clutches her stomach. “I’m not so sure about the running-around part,” she tellsme. “I think I ate too much to run
anywhere
. In fact, I feel kind of funny.”
“Then we’ll walk,” I say, hurrying her along—because Cynthia Harbison’s eyes are now sparky, the way they get when she is looking for something to do.
Or someone new to bore.
“Ow, my stomach really
hurts
,” Annie Pat says softly as I slam-dunk our lunch sacks into the trash can and high-five myself.
“Come on,” I say, dragging her away from the third-grade lunch area. “It can’t be that bad, can it? All you ate was—”
“Two tuna-and-pickle sandwiches,” Annie Pat says, “and a hard-boiled egg and a sack of oatmeal-raisin cookies and a container of blueberry yogurt and two green apples. And some milk.”
And then she moans.
“Well, I ate that much food, too,” I point out, “and I’m even littler than you. How come I feel okay?”
“I don’t
know-w-w
” Annie Pat says, turning her last word into a howl.
A couple of fifth-grade boys turn to look at us. Annie Pat is bending over now, and she is clutching her stomach even harder than before. “She’s gonna hurl,” one of the boys tells the other. And then he steps back to enjoy the show.
“She is not,” I yell.
Although if Annie Pat
does
throw up, then she’ll have that empty feeling, too, I guess. And then we’ll match.
“I need to go to the nurse,” Annie Pat tells me in a begging voice.
“I’ll take you,” I say bravely, even though I usually do not like going anywhere near the principal’s office.
But my best friend needs me!
2
Who’s That?
“We’re almost there,” I tell Annie Pat, trying to encourage her. “Keep your mouth clamped shut, okay? The way an oyster does!”
Except with an oyster, it’s not only its mouth that’s kept clamped shut, it’s its
everything
.
I guide—okay,
drag
—Annie Pat through the breezeway that leads to where the school offices are. “Mmm,” she moans again, in an even more convincing way.
Lunchtime is almost over, and there are lots of grown-ups buzzing around Oak Glen’s front hall—the way bees buzz around the outside of a hivewhen they can’t figure out what to do next.
I haven’t seen this in person, of course, because I don’t have an authentic beekeeper’s outfit. Not yet.
But the school secretary is talking on her cell phone in the breezeway, where the reception must be good, and the custodian is about to get a drink of water from the drinking fountain, andthe kindergarten teacher is pinning drawings of wobbly people framed in faded construction paper onto a great big bulletin board, and the principal with his big black beard is shaking hands with a mom and her little girl.
Well, she’s not really a little girl—she’s
my
age. And she’s pretty, with a friendly, smiling face, black hair, and perfectly straight bangs that go almost past her eyebrows.
The girl looks at me.
“Who’s that?” I whisper, nudging Annie Pat in the ribs.
“Mmm!”
Annie Pat reminds me, her eyes wide.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “School nurse. Emergency.”
Annie Pat nods three times—fast. If she could open her mouth, she would probably be saying,
“Duh. Hurry!”
And so I do hurry, because I don’t want the poor custodian to have to go get a mop and a bucket of sawdust instead of that nice cold drink of water.
3
A New Kid in Class!
“Take this late slip to Ms. Sanchez, Emma,” the nurse says. “It will excuse you for being tardy. And please tell her that Annie Pat is going home early today with tummy trouble.”
Lucky Annie Pat! Even if she does look a little green and groany, lying on her
move
.
Also, Cynthia hardly ever runs around on the playground. I guess she’s too busy rating her friends.
Annie Pat clutches her stomach. “I’m not so sure about the running-around part,” she tellsme. “I think I ate too much to run
anywhere
. In fact, I feel kind of funny.”
“Then we’ll walk,” I say, hurrying her along—because Cynthia Harbison’s eyes are now sparky, the way they get when she is looking for something to do.
Or someone new to bore.
“Ow, my stomach really
hurts
,” Annie Pat says softly as I slam-dunk our lunch sacks into the trash can and high-five myself.
“Come on,” I say, dragging her away from the third-grade lunch area. “It can’t be that bad, can it? All you ate was—”
“Two tuna-and-pickle sandwiches,” Annie Pat says, “and a hard-boiled egg and a sack of oatmeal-raisin cookies and a container of blueberry yogurt and two green apples. And some milk.”
And then she moans.
“Well, I ate that much food, too,” I point out, “and I’m even littler than you. How come I feel okay?”
“I don’t
know-w-w
” Annie Pat says, turning her last word into a howl.
A couple of fifth-grade boys turn to look at us. Annie Pat is bending over now, and she is clutching her stomach even harder than before. “She’s gonna hurl,” one of the boys tells the other. And then he steps back to enjoy the show.
“She is not,” I yell.
Although if Annie Pat
does
throw up, then she’ll have that empty feeling, too, I guess. And then we’ll match.
“I need to go to the nurse,” Annie Pat tells me in a begging voice.
“I’ll take you,” I say bravely, even though I usually do not like going anywhere near the principal’s office.
But my best friend needs me!
2
Who’s That?
“We’re almost there,” I tell Annie Pat, trying to encourage her. “Keep your mouth clamped shut, okay? The way an oyster does!”
Except with an oyster, it’s not only its mouth that’s kept clamped shut, it’s its
everything
.
I guide—okay,
drag
—Annie Pat through the breezeway that leads to where the school offices are. “Mmm,” she moans again, in an even more convincing way.
Lunchtime is almost over, and there are lots of grown-ups buzzing around Oak Glen’s front hall—the way bees buzz around the outside of a hivewhen they can’t figure out what to do next.
I haven’t seen this in person, of course, because I don’t have an authentic beekeeper’s outfit. Not yet.
But the school secretary is talking on her cell phone in the breezeway, where the reception must be good, and the custodian is about to get a drink of water from the drinking fountain, andthe kindergarten teacher is pinning drawings of wobbly people framed in faded construction paper onto a great big bulletin board, and the principal with his big black beard is shaking hands with a mom and her little girl.
Well, she’s not really a little girl—she’s
my
age. And she’s pretty, with a friendly, smiling face, black hair, and perfectly straight bangs that go almost past her eyebrows.
The girl looks at me.
“Who’s that?” I whisper, nudging Annie Pat in the ribs.
“Mmm!”
Annie Pat reminds me, her eyes wide.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “School nurse. Emergency.”
Annie Pat nods three times—fast. If she could open her mouth, she would probably be saying,
“Duh. Hurry!”
And so I do hurry, because I don’t want the poor custodian to have to go get a mop and a bucket of sawdust instead of that nice cold drink of water.
3
A New Kid in Class!
“Take this late slip to Ms. Sanchez, Emma,” the nurse says. “It will excuse you for being tardy. And please tell her that Annie Pat is going home early today with tummy trouble.”
Lucky Annie Pat! Even if she does look a little green and groany, lying on her
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