floor next to her, Mason tried not to scowl. He must not have succeeded, because she said, “Stop frowning! Fourth grade is wonderful. It will be your best year yet!”
That wasn’t saying much. Third grade had meant sitting next to Dunk Davis instead of sitting next to Brody Baxter. Second grade had been Mrs. Prindle, who didn’t like boys. First grade had been a broken arm, when Mason fell off the climbing bars. And kindergarten—well, the less said about Mason’s biggest kindergarten disaster, the better.
Beside him on the floor, Mason’s dog, Dog, snored peacefully. Dog obviously wasn’t impressed by the thought of fourth grade. Mason felt a surge of love for Dog, a three-legged golden retriever who had come to live with him two months ago.
“Go sharpen your pencils,” Mason’s mom said. “I’ll put your name on your notebooks. I just love brand-new school supplies, don’t you?”
Actually, Mason didn’t. The trouble with brand-new school supplies was that they were brand-new
school
supplies.
“I’m so glad you and Brody are in the same class again,” she went on.
That was one thing Mason was glad about, too.
“Do you remember that time when Brody was absent in preschool, and you went up to another child and said, ‘Let’s pretend you’re Brody’? Your teacher told me that. It was the cutest thing.”
Mason felt his scowl deepen. He had already heard the story fifty times. Maybe sixty.
“This year you’ll finally get to be in the Plainfield Platters!” his mom said.
The Plainfield Platters was the huge school chorus that practiced before school two mornings a week, open to all fourth and fifth graders. As far as Mason could tell, all fourth and fifth graders were in it. But surely, in the history of Plainfield Elementary, there must have been at least one fourth grader who wasn’t.
“Um—I don’t like to sing,” Mason reminded her, since she had apparently forgotten.
“You have a lovely singing voice!”
Mason couldn’t remember any time that she had heard him sing. It wasn’t an activity he ever engaged in voluntarily.
In kindergarten, Mason’s class had had to sing a song for a school assembly, presumably to show all the bigger kids how adorable they were. The song went, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” At the end of the song, when the little teapot got all steamed up and ready to shout, “Tip me over and pour me out!” Mason had tipped himself too far and fallen over, right there in the middle of the front row. The whole school had burst into laughter mingled with cheers, or maybe it had been laughter mingled with jeers.
It had been the worst moment of Mason’s entire life. He still dreamed about it sometimes.
“I don’t like to sing,” Mason repeated.
Especially not in front of the whole school
. “I’m not what you would call a singing person. I don’t want to be in the Plainfield Platters.”
And I’m not going to be
, he added, but only to himself.
“Mason.” Now it was her turn to frown. “We’re not going to have another year with a negative attitude. Your father and I have been talking about this. If you expect rain, you’ll get rain. If you expect sun, you’ll get sun.”
That might be the single falsest statement Mason had ever heard.
“You expected sun on my birthday,” he pointed out, “for my
outdoor
birthday party at Water World. And what did you get?”
“Mason, you know what I mean.”
Mason rolled over so that he was lying facedown, his nose squished against the scratchy carpet. In his sleep, Dog must have sensed Mason’s presence; Dog’s long tail thumped twice. That would be another bad thing about school: leaving Dog all day. Fourth grade wouldn’t be so bad if Dog could be there, too.
And fourth grade wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t the bizarre expectation that every single fourth grader would stand up on the stage in front of hundreds of people and open up his or her mouth and sing. Oh, and sing
That wasn’t saying much. Third grade had meant sitting next to Dunk Davis instead of sitting next to Brody Baxter. Second grade had been Mrs. Prindle, who didn’t like boys. First grade had been a broken arm, when Mason fell off the climbing bars. And kindergarten—well, the less said about Mason’s biggest kindergarten disaster, the better.
Beside him on the floor, Mason’s dog, Dog, snored peacefully. Dog obviously wasn’t impressed by the thought of fourth grade. Mason felt a surge of love for Dog, a three-legged golden retriever who had come to live with him two months ago.
“Go sharpen your pencils,” Mason’s mom said. “I’ll put your name on your notebooks. I just love brand-new school supplies, don’t you?”
Actually, Mason didn’t. The trouble with brand-new school supplies was that they were brand-new
school
supplies.
“I’m so glad you and Brody are in the same class again,” she went on.
That was one thing Mason was glad about, too.
“Do you remember that time when Brody was absent in preschool, and you went up to another child and said, ‘Let’s pretend you’re Brody’? Your teacher told me that. It was the cutest thing.”
Mason felt his scowl deepen. He had already heard the story fifty times. Maybe sixty.
“This year you’ll finally get to be in the Plainfield Platters!” his mom said.
The Plainfield Platters was the huge school chorus that practiced before school two mornings a week, open to all fourth and fifth graders. As far as Mason could tell, all fourth and fifth graders were in it. But surely, in the history of Plainfield Elementary, there must have been at least one fourth grader who wasn’t.
“Um—I don’t like to sing,” Mason reminded her, since she had apparently forgotten.
“You have a lovely singing voice!”
Mason couldn’t remember any time that she had heard him sing. It wasn’t an activity he ever engaged in voluntarily.
In kindergarten, Mason’s class had had to sing a song for a school assembly, presumably to show all the bigger kids how adorable they were. The song went, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” At the end of the song, when the little teapot got all steamed up and ready to shout, “Tip me over and pour me out!” Mason had tipped himself too far and fallen over, right there in the middle of the front row. The whole school had burst into laughter mingled with cheers, or maybe it had been laughter mingled with jeers.
It had been the worst moment of Mason’s entire life. He still dreamed about it sometimes.
“I don’t like to sing,” Mason repeated.
Especially not in front of the whole school
. “I’m not what you would call a singing person. I don’t want to be in the Plainfield Platters.”
And I’m not going to be
, he added, but only to himself.
“Mason.” Now it was her turn to frown. “We’re not going to have another year with a negative attitude. Your father and I have been talking about this. If you expect rain, you’ll get rain. If you expect sun, you’ll get sun.”
That might be the single falsest statement Mason had ever heard.
“You expected sun on my birthday,” he pointed out, “for my
outdoor
birthday party at Water World. And what did you get?”
“Mason, you know what I mean.”
Mason rolled over so that he was lying facedown, his nose squished against the scratchy carpet. In his sleep, Dog must have sensed Mason’s presence; Dog’s long tail thumped twice. That would be another bad thing about school: leaving Dog all day. Fourth grade wouldn’t be so bad if Dog could be there, too.
And fourth grade wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t the bizarre expectation that every single fourth grader would stand up on the stage in front of hundreds of people and open up his or her mouth and sing. Oh, and sing
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