Confessions from the Principal's Kid Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  This Starts with a Spitball

  Here Comes Graham

  Pyramids and Pentagons

  Sprite Deficient

  I’ll Start Here

  The Principal Wears Fabulous Shoes

  For the Curious

  The Afters

  Repeat After Me

  Our Eight-Step Process for Exiting the Building

  Chicken Wings and Ducks

  Call Me Sugar

  Don’t Call Me Proud

  Recess

  Destiny, Interrupted

  Whack!

  Questions

  Lunch, Unfortunately

  View from a Corner Seat

  The Possibility of the Perfect Partner

  Holy Guacamole

  Finding Secret Spots Is My Jam

  Secrets Not Shared

  Perks

  Ten Truths and One Lie

  Riding in Cars with Principals

  Luck in the Air

  Strangeness in the Air

  A Three-Point Surprise

  Festive Indeed

  An Explanation

  When a Menu Is a Hat

  Counting Cans

  Needed: One Miracle

  Bathtub Talks

  Above It All

  The Final Bell

  The Hunt

  What Normal Means

  Whale Talk

  A Royal Exit

  Things I Have Never Done

  I Don’t Know All the Rules

  Sniff

  Back Then

  Meaning

  A Sunflower Celebration

  A Wrinkled Answer

  It Happens

  My Response

  My Happiness Is Showing

  Cots and Questions

  Like Furniture

  Voices

  A Shell Station Moment

  The Truth

  I Know

  Basketball Can Fix This

  No Game

  Without Warning

  No Words

  The Package

  This Gift

  Connections

  One Very Opinionated Second-Grader

  The Plan

  The Sound of His Voice

  My Mom, the Principal

  Surprise

  Funnel Cakes and Clowns

  Clown Basketball

  This Story

  It Ends with a Letter

  My 3-D Scene

  Acknowledgments

  Middle Grade Mania!

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2017 by Robin Mellom

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock

  Cover illustrations and design by Lisa Vega

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

  ISBN 978-0-544-81379-3

  eISBN 978-1-328-69899-5

  v2.0717

  For Mrs. Clarke—​my principal, my mother, my best friend

  This Starts with a Spitball

  I wish I could say it starts with a bouquet of daisies. Or a beautiful sunset. Or even a really nice letter.

  It doesn’t.

  It starts with a Jupiter-size spitball stuck to the cafeteria floor, the one that was flung at the back of Graham Parker’s head. He never saw it coming. But I did.

  The school day is over. Almost all the students are gone. So it’s the perfect time to hide the evidence.

  On my toes, I peek through the tall glass windows that line the cafeteria.

  All clear.

  I pull the lever on the Mastercraft 300, and it glides across the floor like an Olympic ice skater.

  “It’s got a one-point-two-horsepower motor,” Frances explains. She chews on sunflower seeds, carefully spitting the shells into a cup as she leans against the stage.

  Custodian. Janitor. Whatever you want to call her, Frances is a floor-buffing wizard, close to retirement, and possibly my favorite human. She also has a deep fondness for sunflower seeds, which makes getting her a birthday gift each year pretty simple. And out of all of us kids who have to wait after school, I am the only one she lets behind the handlebars of this buffer.

  To be honest, there is only one reason why Frances gives me the honor of waxing the floor with this fine machine.

  My mother.

  The principal.

  I will not sugarcoat this. I will not pretend that it is fine. That never getting the chance to ride home on a bouncy school bus is fine. That staying after school until it gets dark is fine. That having virtually every kid at school scared of your mom is fine.

  Because it isn’t.

  It is the worst.

  Mom’s fun side disappeared when she stopped teaching and was named principal, and now her serious side is her all-the-time side. But at least I get to use this floor buffer.

  It’s good to have connections. Sometimes.

  “Cross back and forth horizontally, like you’re mowing a lawn,” Frances calls out.

  I nod like I know what she means.

  I don’t.

  “Overlap your lines!” she hollers. “And hover over the tougher spots!”

  I overlap. I hover. I do whatever Frances asks me to do. Floor buffing day is my favorite. And now I have a purpose.

  This cafeteria floor will be spitball free, and it will no longer be a reminder—​to Graham and to everyone—​that he is a kid who doesn’t belong.

  Except, even with the spitballs, the mean words, the laughter—​Graham never flinches. It’s as if he’s covered with invisible armor and nothing can penetrate.

  Confession: Even though he’s the number one nobody at school, Graham Parker is one fascinating boy.

  Here Comes Graham

  When Frances heads out to replenish her sunflower seeds, I run to my backpack and whip out a bookmark. A stiff bookmark is perfect for holding the spot in your book and scraping spitballs off the floor. Not many people know that.

  Back behind the floor buffer, I channel my inner Frances. I overlap, I hover, I pretend to mow a lawn. “Take that, Joel Webber,” I whisper.

  Joel Webber.

  He’s the reason why I have to clean up this mess. What does he have against Graham anyway?

  That guy should be knocked down a few pegs. He is friendly with all the girls, has a high-five relationship with the guys, makes everybody laugh, and is a favorite of some of the teachers. But not all. Joel has a mean streak mixed with a nice streak. The second is aimed at whoever his favorite person happens to be that day. The first, well, isn’t.

  Sound complicated? It is.

  I know this because two years ago, almost to the day, his nice streak was aimed directly at me. (Or maybe it was his mean streak. It can be hard to tell them apart.) A few of us were sitting on the grass next to the slide picking dandelions. Joel was plucking blades of grass and twisting them together into a loop, like a ring.

  And then before I knew what was happening, Joel was kneeling by me, showing off his bright, perfect teeth. “Allie, you should marry me!”

  Before I could answer, all the kids around us were pointing, giggling. My face turned hot. Joel Webber was making fun of me. I knew it. So I turned and ran away from him, and the laughter got even louder.

  Joel Webber’s mean streak may have been
aimed at me that day. But now that we’re in fifth grade, it’s usually aimed at Graham Parker.

  Time for this mean streak to end.

  As I turn the floor buffer around to make one final pass at the spitball, I glance out the cafeteria window.

  Oh, no.

  Here comes Graham, sauntering down the hallway, headed toward the cafeteria—​acting as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Acting as if the Joel Webber Spitball Ambush of 3.5 Hours Ago never happened.

  He is not alone. At his side, reading from a list attached to her clipboard while waving her hands around, is Lexa Cruz. Fourth-grader. Daughter of the school counselor. Extremely organized. Super chatty.

  Lexa is also known as the cruise director. She actually gave herself that nickname, since her last name is Cruz, and she’s great at making lists and schedules and having fun—​something she reminds us of on a daily basis.

  I let go of the lever and stop the machine.

  Don’t let them see you, Allie.

  “Thanks, Frances. Gotta run!”

  Frances has come back with a fresh supply of sunflower seeds. She winks at me. “No more help?” She gently pokes me on the shoulder. “You’re getting pretty good at it, Allie Kid.”

  That’s what she calls me: Allie Kid.

  I love it.

  But here’s a confession: I don’t want Lexa and Graham to see me hanging out with Frances so much. True, they have to wait after school every day just like me. They have for years. But I’m the only one on a nickname basis with the janitor.

  And here’s another confession: I’m also friends with the cafeteria manager. And the librarian. And all the teachers (minus the computer teacher who is ultra grumpy and constantly complains about wrist pain).

  Add all that up, and I’m sure it does not equal “the coolest kid at school.” I’d settle for “the girl who is treated like everyone else because her mom is not the principal.” That’s too long a title, I know.

  Maybe that’s why becoming that normal kid feels so impossible.

  Pyramids and Pentagons

  To be clear, I have no desire to be at the top of the School Coolness Pyramid—​if that even exists. I’d be perfect as the base of the pyramid, or even a plain old boring side. Basically, I just want to be a part of something.

  Specifically, I want to be a part of the Pentagon.

  No, not the highly secretive government building near Washington, D.C., where military stuff happens. I’m talking about the Pentagon of Mountain Crest Elementary.

  Some schools have great volleyball teams. Great basketball players. Or great spellers. We have a math club. One that has taken first place in the math Olympiad four years in a row. On the day of the competition, the Pentagon wears matching shirts, and the whole school gives them high-fives, thumbs-ups, pats on the back, first in line—​all that. Each of the upper grades has an elite group of five members. They are rock stars here.

  This year, if our school wins, it will be a huge deal. That’s because a pentagon has five sides, there are five team members from the fifth grade, and this will be win number five. So everyone’s freaking out.

  Every school year, it all starts over, and anyone has a chance to become part of the Pentagon. The math teacher, Mr. Vicario, has announced the captain. It wasn’t a shocker, since she has the highest math grade in our class. She always has, and she’s always part of the Pentagon. But the remaining four people will be selected soon. Mr. Vicario will look at our recent test scores and decide who gets invitations. If there is a tie, the captain helps pick the members.

  Since the beginning of the school year, I’ve been practicing my math facts. I’ve been multiplying every number and fraction I could get my hands on. Whenever Dad goes to the grocery store, I go with him to estimate the cost and calculate the tax. “My little math maniac!” Dad calls me.

  I like math and all, but that’s not really why I want this. The truth is, if I’m chosen for the Pentagon, I’ll be dripping in respect.

  Almost everyone avoids me now like I’m some sort of rat—​who tells on people and uses her connections to get them in trouble. (See: all previous info about my mother being the principal.)

  There was only one time I was a rat. One time that I talked to Mom about something I shouldn’t have.

  ONE. TIME.

  But some people won’t forget it. It was last year, and only one person got in trouble.

  True, the person was Chloe Alvarez. My former best friend. But I will forever regret telling Mom. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, maybe I’d still have a seminormal life.

  And maybe Chloe and I would still be friends—​something I want more than anything. The problem is, she went and made other friends.

  But that’s not the only problem.

  The recently named captain of the Pentagon and the student who will help select the remaining members?

  Chloe Alvarez.

  The girl who refuses to talk to me ever again.

  Sprite Deficient

  I sneak out of the cafeteria and hustle up to Lexa and Graham before they can see where I came from. They’re both drinking Sprites they got from the vending machine in the teachers’ lounge. Since it’s 3:45, Mr. Dancy, the PE teacher, was just in there finishing his lesson plans. I know this because Mr. Dancy finishes his plans every day by 3:45, like clockwork. He is also very generous with us after-school kids when it comes to our Sprite needs. Telling him we have a disease—​Severe Sprite Deficiency!—​always gets him laughing and emptying the change out of his pocket.

  Lexa takes a sip from her can. “Where’d you come from?”

  I’m breathing hard. “Down by the . . . you know . . . by the . . . thing—”

  She doesn’t wait for my explanation-that-really-isn’t-an-explanation. “The meeting starts in five minutes,” she says. “Band room. Be there.”

  Graham waves his clarinet case at me. “I’m in charge of the entertainment portion of the meeting.”

  I nod. “As always.”

  “Four and a half minutes,” Lexa barks over her shoulder as she power-walks down the hallway.

  “I memorized ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” Graham says. Then he shoots me a sneaky smile, adds, “But I’m going to play it in double time for fun,” and walks into a pole. “You okay?” he asks the pole, then laughs and heads down the hall.

  There’s so much to say about that strange boy, I don’t know where to start.

  I’ll Start Here

  His mom is a fourth grade teacher at our school. Our moms have worked together as teachers forever, and so Graham and I have known each other forever too. Honestly, I can’t even remember the first time I officially met him—​he’s just always been in my life, like a cousin.

  Except he’s not a cousin.

  I’m not sure exactly what to call him.

  Usually you will find Graham with a drawing notebook in one hand and his clarinet in the other. But he doesn’t play a rental clarinet you get from the school, the kind in a hard black plastic case lined with fake royal blue velvet. No, Graham’s clarinet was handed down to him by his grandfather, who was in a jazz band—​a real band that toured nightclubs and casinos and even played for the governor’s birthday once. The case is made of worn brown leather, and the velvet inside is different. It’s red, and it’s real. Sometimes, without warning, Graham will whip out his clarinet and play a song and claim he can’t help it because he is part jazz band player. His DNA, he says.

  Graham wasn’t always considered the weirdest kid in school. In fact, he used to be one of the most popular. But that was back during his ITCP: Intense Trading Card Phase.

  Until it went bad.

  All the kids used to bring Mammal-Morph cards to school—​the ones where you collect mammals with superpowers and you combine them to morph them into more powerful creatures. Silly, I know. But, honestly, it was so much fun. At recess, kids would sit on the grass trading them. It became an obsession. Graham was the leader, because his collecti
on of cards was legendary. He always had the rarest, the strongest.

  Then when he started drawing his own cards and trading those, things really got crazy. His most popular one was a half mouse, half lizard named El Guapo—​the flying superhero with a heart of gold and great hair. His superhero outfit was covered in exclamation points. Everybody wanted that one. For a while, all the kids put random exclamation points in their class work, and the teacher had no idea why. We would all snicker, and someone would say, “Beware the mark of El Guapo!” It was a whole thing.

  The group of kids trading Graham’s hand-drawn cards at recess grew bigger and bigger. Practically every kid in our grade was there, including me and Chloe. Chloe really wanted El Guapo, but I wanted Graham to make a special card for me.

  “It could be half owl, half something else!” My owl fascination is a well-documented fact. More on that soon.

  “Owls aren’t all that powerful,” Graham said.

  I tried to change his mind. “They are when they shoot rainbow lasers out of their wings.” But he never made me one. Too busy being the king of recess, I guess. But it was sort of nice to see Graham happy all the time.

  As the crowd grew, some of the kids lost cards or thought somebody stole theirs. There were arguments. The arguments got louder and longer, and spilled over into class. There were tears. And the teachers got frustrated.

  It was a Friday afternoon when Mom made the announcement. “All trading cards are banned at school.”

  Graham’s reign was over. And kids weren’t exactly clamoring to be friends with me, the principal’s kid.

  Graham still went to the grass every day at recess. But no one ever joined him. They moved on. Including me. Including Chloe. By then, everyone thought the cards were pretty stupid.

  ITCP was done.

  But not for Graham. Sometimes he would still talk about El Guapo and everyone would laugh. Mean laughing. So he stopped talking about him. And that was the same time he stopped talking to me during school, too.

  “If they laugh at me, they’ll laugh at you.” That was his explanation for ignoring me during the entire school day.