Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit (3 page)

Tiffani grabs a potato chip, puts it in her mouth, and crunches.

While she swallows, I smile, thinking about how much I like her five-year-old brother, Howie. He’s very cute and does stuff that makes me laugh.

Tiffani eats a few more potato chips, while we wait for her to tell us what happened.

I look at Tiffani.

She has potato chip crumbs sitting on her chest.

If potato chip crumbs dropped on my chest, they would end up on the floor.

Tiffani Shroeder is the first girl in our class to have to wear a bra.

Hannah Burton wore a bra first, but she really didn’t need one.

Tiffani speaks. “You know my Barbie doll collection? Well, you know that I don’t play with them anymore. I mean, that would just be too baby. But they are my Barbies.”

I wonder if since Tiffani changed the spelling of her name from y to i, she’s changed the spelling of Barbie to Barbi . . . . I guess that her whole collection of the
dolls, though, would still be Barbies. (I, Amber Brown, am very good at the spelling of plurals.)

Tiffani continues. “Well, that little runt and his little runt friends were playing with their X-Men toys and they decided to declare war . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I came home and found my Barbies strangled with my grandmother’s yarn and strung across the living room. Prom Barbie. Business Barbie. Lifeguard Barbie. College Barbie . . . . and all of the others. It was Barbicide,” Tiffani says.

“Yuck. That’s weird.” Naomi makes a face.

Tiffani nods. “They also strung up all of the little runt’s G.I. Joes.”

“An Equal Opportunity Massacre.” I shake my head.

Everyone groans, and Brandi empties the last of the potato chip bag on my head.

The potato chip crumbs fall off my head, onto my sweatshirt, and onto the floor.

Tiffani says, “One of the little runts even accidentally stepped on my book report and ruined it. Now I have to spend most of tomorrow redoing it.”

I think about how my own half-finished book report is in one of the garbage bags in my closet. I’ll have to fix mine up, too.

But tonight, while my mother and Max the person are out on a date, I, Amber Brown, am at a pajama party, having fun with my friends.

As for the book report . . . . . . It’s Saturday night. I’ll think about it on Sunday. After all, tomorrow is another day.

“We must . . . . . we must . . . we must. . .” Naomi and Alicia scream out of the car as Naomi’s mother drops me off at my house.

I can’t stop laughing.

I also can’t stop hoping that they won’t finish the cheer, which is “We must . . . we must . . . we must improve our bust . . . . We better . . . we better . . . before we wear a sweater.” It’s a cheer that the sixth graders do.

Last night we did jumping jacks to that cheer.

As far as I can tell, nothing much has changed about my body except that it’s very tired.

No one gets any sleep at a sleepover.

Tiffani tried, but we kept whispering in her ear, “Beware your little brother. Today a Barbie doll . . . tomorrow a big sister.”

I look at the driveway to see if there are any strange cars in front of my house . . . . To see if Max is there.

No car . . . . . no Max . . .  . . . He’s not in the house, either. . . .

Just my mother, sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee.

“Did you have fun last night?” She smiles at me.

“I did.” I pour myself a glass of milk and sit down.

“Mrs. Colwin let us use some of her old makeup and try on her jewelry. Can I get my ears pierced? And then we played Truth or Dare . . . . and we all had to name the boys we want as boyfriends.”

My mother laughs. “Slow down, honey . . . . I can see that you put makeup on . . . . When you get older and are allowed to wear makeup, might I suggest that you don’t outline your lipstick in green? . . . It’s just a suggestion, though. Don’t think I’m being critical.”

I laugh, too. “It was dark. It was late. I thought it was lipliner. It was eyeliner.”

She continues to smile. “Amber Brown, you know we decided that you could get your ears pierced when you are twelve.”

“Mommmmmmmm,” I beg, “everyone is getting it done.”

My mother raises one eyebrow.

I know that is a definite no.

I squint my eyes closed and stick out my lower lip.

She knows that is a definite pout.

Changing the subject, she says, “Who did you choose as a boyfriend, or did you take the dare?”

“The dare was that I would have to go up to Fredrich Allen in school on Monday and give him a kiss. He’s the kid who picks his nose and chews it.”

My mother makes a gagging sound and says, “Who did you say your boyfriend was?”

“I said it was Justin.” I sigh, thinking about my best friend, who moved away at the end of the last school year.

“You really miss him, don’t you.” She ruffles my hair.

I nod.

It makes me sad to think that Justin is so far away and that he hardly ever writes to me.

It’s not that he was really a boyfriend, he
was a boy friend . . . . but I said he was a boyfriend because I didn’t want to kiss Fredrich Allen.

I do miss him.

He would understand why I don’t want my mother to go out with Max, why I miss my father.

My dad used to take Justin and me to baseball games. He took us fishing. He took us to see the gory horror movies that my mother hates.

“Amber,” my mother says softly.

“Yes?” I get nervous sometimes when my mother speaks very softly . . . . It’s like she wants me to listen very carefully . . . . usually to something I don’t want to hear.

“Amber . . . . remember yesterday when you said that you would be willing to meet Max? . . . Well, he’s going to take us out to dinner tonight.” She refills my glass of milk and then looks at me.

I have to figure out what I want to say, so I sit quietly for a minute.

“Mom . . . . . I said sometime . . . not immediately . . . . . I have homework to do today . . . . . I have to think about it . . . . How about over Christmas vacation?”

“Amber.” She shakes her head. “This is the beginning of October. We’re not waiting until the end of December.”

“My homework,” I plead, knowing that she knows how important it is that I get it done.

She stares at me. “Do it now. You have all day to finish it . . . . and you know it better be done well. Max won’t be here until around six o’clock. That gives you a lot of time. Now, Amber, you promised that you’d meet Max. I’ll even use up two of the Amberino Certificates on this.”

I stand up.

I know it’s no use to argue.

And I started out having such a nice Sunday.

And then she ruined it.

Well, just wait till she sees what I’m going to do to hers.

I stomp (all the way) up the stairs on the way to my room.

On the first step, I stomp because I have to meet Max. . . .

On the second, because I’m going to have to sit down at a table and eat dinner with him. . . .

On the third, because my mother is making me do this. . . .

On the fourth, because my father isn’t here to see what’s happening and get back together with my mother. . . . . .

I stomp with both of my feet on the fifth
step because my parents have changed my life without my permission. . . .

I stomp up the rest of the way because I know it will really annoy my mother and because my feet just want to stomp.

Then I slam my door.

My hands just want to slam.

I throw my knapsack on the bed and then I throw myself on the bed.

I lie on my bed and think about Max.

I just know I’m going to hate him.

I bet he looks like a gorillahead . . . or probably a gorillabutt.

I bet he’s gross-looking, with hairs growing out of his nose and ears, and I bet that he smokes cigarettes and belches and blows his nose in the dinner napkin and then puts the napkin on the table . . . and I bet he hates nine-year-old girls.

I pretend one of my stuffed animals is Max. I choose the gorilla.

Pretending to be a ventriloquist, I put the
gorilla’s face near mine. “So, Amber . . . I understand that you don’t want me to take your mother out.”