Don't Ever Change by M. Beth Bloom Page B

my mom had a jar that she filled with quarters. It was a big jar, with like a thousand quarters—which used to seem like a thousand dollars, but is really only like two hundred and fifty bucks, which is still a lot. I was seven, and my parents decided that was a good age for me to start receiving an allowance. They said they’d give me a quarter for each chore I did. That was the plan, that there was no set weekly amount; I could earn however much I wanted if I just did the work . So I asked my mom what jobs there were, but each week she’d only be able to think of, like, three or four jobs because I was so short and sort of clumsy and also because my older sister’d already done most of the important chores. So every Friday I only earned like four quarters, which I thought was unfair, since I was willing to do more work. My dad told me to start inventing new chores, like ironing his ties or separating the mail—Job Creation, he called it—but that felt like a hassle, because there was a chance my mom wouldn’t even consider those real chores , and then I wouldn’t get more quarters.
    “I tried to make my mom an offer that I’d do any work she wanted, all week long, for a flat fee of two dollars, or eight quarters. To me that seemed more than fair; she could take advantage of the situation if she wanted and have me washing her hair or something and for only two dollars! I don’t know if any of you get an allowance, but I just don’t think that’s a lot to ask, even with the economy or whatever. But my mom said no. She told me she wasn’t bargaining and that I had to earn those quarters, quarter by quarter. She called it ‘incentive.’ Have you heard of incentive? It means, like, motivation or encouragement or inspiration .
    “So—I was thinking about the journals, which I know some of you want to use as diaries or for doodling or writing notes to each other, and I had this cool idea: we’re going to take everyone’s favorite things that they write this summer—if it’s a story or a poem or a letter or even just like a rant or an essay about something you love or hate—and we’ll make a collection. I’ll make a zine—have you heard of a zine? It’s like a magazine but smaller and photocopied and indie, like independent . I’ll bind the collection like a little book, and then you’ll have a memory of this summer you can keep forever. It’ll be all our cool thoughts and feelings, and it’ll be just for us, though you can show it to your parents if you want. Then they’ll see how you’re these smart writers and how you didn’t just have fun this summer, you also used your brain .
    “This is your incentive to care about what you write and care about each other’s writing too. It’s incentive to love your journal and to love writing and to love our group!”
    When I finish, no one says anything. A few girls look down at their journals, in a daze. But I can see wheels turning in Billie’s head, just like I saw those Harry Potter ideas light up Trevor’s face.
    I tell them tonight’s assignment is to think of something you’re really good at and then describe precisely how to do it in as few sentences as possible. I tell them this kind of writing is called Second Person, which makes me feel how Mr. Roush must feel when he’s teaching a classroom of semi-attentive young minds about Second Person: excited .
    After camp, out by the bus, Alyssa comes over and tells me there’s nothing that she’s so good at, that she knows so well , that she could describe how to do it in just a few steps.
    “No way, you’re good at a bunch of things,” I say.
    “Not really,” Alyssa says.
    “What about that cool friendship bracelet?” I ask, pointing to her wrist.
    “I didn’t make that.”
    “Okay,” I say, looking all over Alyssa. I look at her shoes and her shirt and then up around her face, but all I notice is her sleek black eyeliner, perfectly straight, with the tiniest flick at the edge of