Hound Dog True by Linda Urban Page A

Mattie had seen a TV show about Buddhist monks, how they could breathe so deep and slow they seemed to stop time, to stop their own hearts from beating. Mattie tried that then. Breathed slow and deep, trying to stop her face from redding up.
    It did not work.
    Probably because I'm not a Buddhist,
she thought. And that's what she said.
    "I'm not a Buddhist."
    That was enough for Mrs. D'Angelo to tell her she could
sit down.
    Mattie did sit down.
    Sat holding her yellow notebook at a table Mrs. D'Angelo had pushed an extra chair up to.
    Sat in the place Mrs. D'Angelo said was
for now.
    Sat with four other kids—one of them that girl Star, though Mattie didn't know that yet. All Mattie knew was that she had said,
Not a Buddhist.
    Not exactly the kind of introduction that would have people rushing to make friends.
    Not that she knew how to make friends, really.
    She could be friendly, of course. After the newness of a place wore off, she'd been friendly. By then it was usually too late for true, tell-your-secrets-to friends, even the nicest people calling her
that shy girl
instead of Mattie.
    Not a Buddhist.
    Not a Buddhist. Not a Buddhist. Not a Buddhist.
    Took a whole half of that morning before she could concentrate on anything else.
    When finally she did settle, Mattie caught a glimpse of the whiteboard. There was her name sitting bold and friendly among the times tables and the spelling words. Like she was a lesson. Like Mattie Breen being bold-friendly was just as true as five times five being twenty-five or
weird
being spelled the way it was.
    I'm Mattie Breen,
she thought.
    She sat straighter.
    I'm bold and friendly,
she thought.
Fact-true, like it says on the board.
    That's when Mrs. D'Angelo started in on science. Started writing
Survival
on the board. Writing
of the.
Finding no room left on that big whiteboard for
fittest.
    "Forgive me, Mattie," she said, smiling.
    And then Mattie Breen got erased.

CHAPTER TWO
    U NCLE P OTLUCK SLIDES the new bulb into its socket and slips the gray cover into its place among the ceiling tiles. Mattie has to move so he can step down the ladder, but she's close enough to hear the hooting sound he makes on the third step.
    It's his traitorous knee that makes him hoot, the tiny sting of it when he's taking stairs or kneeling or getting up from having sat still for a movie. He's got surgery planned for a few months from now, come Christmas vacation. That's why this move was back to Uncle Potluck's, to the house where he and Mama and their brothers grew up.
    "I've planned it all out," Mama told Mattie. "Potluck will need some help around Christmas. By then I'll have some vacation time, and you'll be all settled in and comfortable at school." Mama's first two fingers fluttered on her thumb, like the piccolo player Mattie had seen once. Except when the piccolo man did it, he was making music. When Mama's fingers moved that way it meant she was making plans, her fingers moving as fast as the thoughts in her head. "It was time for a new job, anyway. My old boss was getting grouchy and there was talk of layoffs. And when the going gets tough..."
    Mama had waited then, like she always did. Waited for Mattie to say, "...the tough get going," which Mattie always said and Mama always took to mean that Mattie was fine with moving again, whether she was or not. This time, though, Mattie had been happy, since moving meant being with Uncle Potluck.
    "Mattie?" Uncle Potluck clatters the ladder flat. Puts it to his shoulder. "Will you carry the decedent?"—by which he means for her to get the box with the old light bulb in it.
    Down the main hallway of Mitchell P. Anderson Elementary they go. Uncle Potluck first, Mattie following. You can't tell he's got a traitorous knee when he's walking. He just walks, steady and strong, past the drinking fountain and the restrooms and the gymnasium/stage/cafeteria. At the administrative office, he stops long enough to salute the gold-framed picture of Principal