I’m-one-breath-away-from-yelling-at-you look.
I’m glad that Mom can’t come to our performance, since she thinks dance is one of life’s great joys and what’s going on here feels like the opposite of joy. Joey looks all stiff, and suddenly I remember Plymouth Rock and the way he tipped his head back and whirled around with the minicyclone and the wind and his tangly hair all lit up in the sun, so when the music stops on the record player, I jump up and say, “Miss Gallagher, I’d really like to be the turkey. My mother is a dancer, and I’ve inherited her genes, so I think I could add some inspiration.”
Everyone stares at me. Miss Gallagher smiles the kind of smile a grown-up makes when they think they understand you better than you understand yourself.
“That’s a generous offer, Naomi,” Miss Gallagher says, “but it wouldn’t be fair to the other students, who are sticking with their designated roles.”
I know that I should just sit down, but I keep standing, because I also know that life isn’t always fair and is filled with things like mean older brothers and dancer mothers who can’t dance.
“Does anybody mind if Joey and I switch parts?” I ask. “Not at all!” Sally shouts in her dance-party, not classroom, voice. I look around and everyone else is shaking their heads no, even Tommy, who would be the only boy left dancing if Joey became a Pilgrim.
Miss Gallagher walks over to me, still smiling, but I can tell she isn’t happy. “Now, Naomi,” she says, “I really don’t think we can trust that this is a fair representation of your classmates’ true feelings, given your current situation with your moth—”
“Hey, Miss Gallagher,” Joey says. “I know all my lines.
Gobblegobblegobble!
” He starts flapping his arms. “I can fly, too.” He’s flying right at her.
“Gobblegobblegobble!”
He looks really mad.
Miss Gallagher gets red, scurries back to the record player, and says, “Let’s take it from the top.” She turns the music back on, louder.
Now I know that she thinks everyone feels sorry for me, which makes me want to run out of the roomand slam the door. Instead, I sit back down and bow my head like a good Pilgrim until the end of class.
On the bus, Dawn leans in and stares at me. “Don’t feel bad, Chirp,” she says. I just shake my head. If I talk, I might cry, since all of my mad got pushed down inside me and now my throat aches.
“Anyway,” she says, “I think it would be more fun to lead the prayer than be a turkey.” When I don’t say anything, she says, “Well, maybe you can be the turkey next year.”
When the bus drops Joey and me off, I don’t run ahead. Joey walks right next to me, kicking a rock.
“What’s cookin’?” he says.
I shake my head.
“You know who the real turkey is, right?” Joey says.
I shrug.
“Knock-knock,” Joey says.
“Who’s there?” I whisper.
“A stupid turkey teacher.”
I can’t help smiling.
Joey kicks the rock to me, and I kick it back to him, and he kicks it back to me.
“Hey, you want to see something?” Joey says.
“Okay.”
When we’re in front of our houses, Joey says, “Get your bike and meet me back here.”
There’s no reason to go inside, because nobody’s there and we don’t have any Oreos since Dad didn’t buy any because he doesn’t know that I always have them as a snack with a glass of milk when I come home from school. I go out to the shed in the backyard, pull on my blue jeans that I keep hidden there, take off my skirt and stash it behind the snow shovels, and grab Bluebird. Joey’s already in the road waiting for me, so he must not have had a snack, either.
Joey takes off and gets a good head start, but he doesn’t just leave me in the dust, because Bluebird has three gears and I’m riding standing up. I’m pumping, pumping, pumping, and the cold air hurts when I breathe. The harder I pedal, the more my legs burn, and the more my legs burn, the less my
I’m glad that Mom can’t come to our performance, since she thinks dance is one of life’s great joys and what’s going on here feels like the opposite of joy. Joey looks all stiff, and suddenly I remember Plymouth Rock and the way he tipped his head back and whirled around with the minicyclone and the wind and his tangly hair all lit up in the sun, so when the music stops on the record player, I jump up and say, “Miss Gallagher, I’d really like to be the turkey. My mother is a dancer, and I’ve inherited her genes, so I think I could add some inspiration.”
Everyone stares at me. Miss Gallagher smiles the kind of smile a grown-up makes when they think they understand you better than you understand yourself.
“That’s a generous offer, Naomi,” Miss Gallagher says, “but it wouldn’t be fair to the other students, who are sticking with their designated roles.”
I know that I should just sit down, but I keep standing, because I also know that life isn’t always fair and is filled with things like mean older brothers and dancer mothers who can’t dance.
“Does anybody mind if Joey and I switch parts?” I ask. “Not at all!” Sally shouts in her dance-party, not classroom, voice. I look around and everyone else is shaking their heads no, even Tommy, who would be the only boy left dancing if Joey became a Pilgrim.
Miss Gallagher walks over to me, still smiling, but I can tell she isn’t happy. “Now, Naomi,” she says, “I really don’t think we can trust that this is a fair representation of your classmates’ true feelings, given your current situation with your moth—”
“Hey, Miss Gallagher,” Joey says. “I know all my lines.
Gobblegobblegobble!
” He starts flapping his arms. “I can fly, too.” He’s flying right at her.
“Gobblegobblegobble!”
He looks really mad.
Miss Gallagher gets red, scurries back to the record player, and says, “Let’s take it from the top.” She turns the music back on, louder.
Now I know that she thinks everyone feels sorry for me, which makes me want to run out of the roomand slam the door. Instead, I sit back down and bow my head like a good Pilgrim until the end of class.
On the bus, Dawn leans in and stares at me. “Don’t feel bad, Chirp,” she says. I just shake my head. If I talk, I might cry, since all of my mad got pushed down inside me and now my throat aches.
“Anyway,” she says, “I think it would be more fun to lead the prayer than be a turkey.” When I don’t say anything, she says, “Well, maybe you can be the turkey next year.”
When the bus drops Joey and me off, I don’t run ahead. Joey walks right next to me, kicking a rock.
“What’s cookin’?” he says.
I shake my head.
“You know who the real turkey is, right?” Joey says.
I shrug.
“Knock-knock,” Joey says.
“Who’s there?” I whisper.
“A stupid turkey teacher.”
I can’t help smiling.
Joey kicks the rock to me, and I kick it back to him, and he kicks it back to me.
“Hey, you want to see something?” Joey says.
“Okay.”
When we’re in front of our houses, Joey says, “Get your bike and meet me back here.”
There’s no reason to go inside, because nobody’s there and we don’t have any Oreos since Dad didn’t buy any because he doesn’t know that I always have them as a snack with a glass of milk when I come home from school. I go out to the shed in the backyard, pull on my blue jeans that I keep hidden there, take off my skirt and stash it behind the snow shovels, and grab Bluebird. Joey’s already in the road waiting for me, so he must not have had a snack, either.
Joey takes off and gets a good head start, but he doesn’t just leave me in the dust, because Bluebird has three gears and I’m riding standing up. I’m pumping, pumping, pumping, and the cold air hurts when I breathe. The harder I pedal, the more my legs burn, and the more my legs burn, the less my
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