The Waffler (2 page)

M
onty could not
believe what a lucky pick he had made. The rat didn't bite, and it didn't mind being held. It would even perch on Monty's shoulder while he walked around the house. It was like he could
feel
the rat using its tail for balance. That was so cool. He wondered how it felt to be carried around up in the air, like when someone scored the winning goal in a game and got lifted up by the other players. But that would never happen to him. Sports was Sierra's thing.

“Monty!” said Mrs. Tuttle. “Where are you?”

Trick question. It was Monday morning, and he was in Mrs. Tuttle's fourth-grade classroom, which was in Casco Elementary School, which was in Portland, Maine. But he knew that wasn't what his teacher meant. She meant,
pay attention
. He tried to put a paying-attention look on his face.

Monty's teacher was so little she was hardly taller than the biggest kids. She always told them that she might be small in stature, but her standards were high. She was big on manners; she was big on handwriting; she was big on . . . everything. She also had super-long hair. It made Monty think of the fairy tale where the girl in the tower let her hair down, and the prince climbed up it every night until the witch found out and got mad—

“Monty!” said Mrs. Tuttle. “Are you listening?”

Another trick question. Was he listening right
now
? Or had he been listening to whatever she'd been saying the second
before
? From the look on her face, probably not.

“Sorry,” he said. “I am now.”

“Take out your Writer's Notebook, like everyone else has done already,” she said. “You're going to write about your neighborhood. You can write about your neighbors, or things you see in the neighborhood. And remember,” she raised her voice, “we're using
action verbs
! And
details
!”

The neighborhood. No problem, right? October in Maine meant trees turning orange. Plus his dad was growing a big pumpkin for a jack-o-lantern for Halloween. Monty started writing about all the orange things in his neighborhood.

Wait a second. Orange things was sort of a stupid idea, but the pumpkin had given him another idea. What he really wanted to write about was trick-or-treating in his neighborhood. Families came there specially because the houses were so close together. Halloween in his neighborhood was definitely a better topic. And he figured it was no big deal to start over, since he only had one sentence. He erased what he'd written.

Halloween. Monty wrote a couple of sentences, and then he blanked. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Maybe he needed a new idea. Then he had one. It was perfect. It was the most perfect idea he'd ever had. He could write about this for a whole page! His topic would be the neighborhood's newest resident—his rat. Quickly he tried erasing what he'd already written. Hurry! The words on the paper were his enemy. The eraser was his sword. Kill the words!

The problem was, it wasn't working. He was trying to kill the words so he could start over, but actually he was making a gigantic smudgy mess. He tried erasing harder, and suddenly his pencil ripped through the paper. Forget it! He threw his pencil.

“Ouch!”

It was Jasmine Raines, who Monty had known ever since kindergarten. She always had about a hundred barrettes in her hair. And she always made a gigantic deal out of things.

“You threw that right in my eye!” she yelled. “That hurt!”

“Sorry!” he said. He really was sorry. He didn't actually like Jasmine Raines, but he would never throw a pencil in her eye on purpose.

“Mrs. Tuttle!” wailed Jasmine. “He threw a pencil at me!”

“I didn't throw it
at
you,” argued Monty. “I just threw it. I didn't mean to hit you. I swear.”

“Monty,” said his teacher. “Are pencils for throwing?”

Monty hated it when teachers asked questions that weren't really questions. He knew pencils weren't for throwing! He wasn't two years old!

“No,” he said.

Mrs. Tuttle picked up his Writer's Notebook. Pointing to what used to be a page of white paper but was now more like a gray mess of pulp, she asked, “What happened here?”

Monty shrugged. Mrs. Tuttle knew exactly what had happened! He'd thrown his pencil because the eraser wasn't erasing, and he was trying to erase and start over because he'd changed his mind! Was that a crime? He didn't think so. But Mrs. Tuttle was treating him like some kind of criminal. She told the teacher's aide to stay with the class, and told Jasmine and Monty to come with her. Trotting to keep up, Monty followed as she power walked down the hall, down the stairs, and into the main office.

The school secretary sat at her desk by a giant window overlooking the lobby and the front door. Nobody went in or out of the school without Mrs. Tracy knowing all about it. She reminded Monty of the stories where a troll got to decide who could or couldn't go over his bridge.

Opposite the secretary's desk was a wall lined with little boxes, like a honeycomb, where the teachers got their mail. And just past the mailboxes were three doors leading to three more offices, all for people Monty as a rule tried to avoid: the nurse, the social worker, and the principal. Seeing the nurse usually involved some sort of pain. Seeing the social worker usually meant some sort of problem. Monty'd had to talk to him once, back in kindergarten, and he'd vowed not to land there again. And seeing the principal—that just went against all Monty's principles.

Unfortunately the principal was new this year and apparently she had a philosophy:
Every Child Known
. She was making it a point to get to know every single kid in school. But Monty had a philosophy, too:
Stay Unknown
. The way he saw it, there were two ways the principal knew you: either you were a goody-good kid, or you were in trouble. He was obviously never going to be one of the star, good kids, so unless he wanted to be in trouble—which he didn't—the safe bet was to stay in the middle. The unknown kids.

Mrs. Tracy looked up and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Tuttle. How can I help?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Tracy,” answered Mrs. Tuttle. “Is the nurse in?”

The secretary nodded, and Mrs. Tuttle rapped on one of the three doors of doom: the nurse's door. First she asked the nurse to check Jasmine's eye. Then she asked for a box of Band-Aids.

“Monty, let's step out here where we have more room.”

Monty didn't want more room. “More room” was in the main office. He glanced around nervously. Luckily, the other two doors of doom were closed.

“Monty,” said Mrs. Tuttle in a loud, bright voice, “we're going to try something
new
.”

She said
new
the way people on television said it.
A new car!
Like new was always better. But Monty knew better—new
wasn't
always better. Sometimes it was awesome—like his new pet! But sometimes it meant a new stepparent or a new sister, or
two
new stepparents and
two
new sisters! Being new wasn't necessarily a good thing. It depended what the new thing was.

Mrs. Tuttle pulled the wrapper off a Band-Aid. The new thing was a Band-Aid?

“Band-Aids?” he asked.

“Let's call them
decision-aids
,” she said, sticking three Band-Aids on his arm, between his wrist and his elbow. She had switched to talking in a soft, earnest voice. It was the this-is-for-your-own-good voice, which in Monty's experience was never a good thing. “You know the expression, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence?”

“Sure,” he said. He knew that expression. Mrs. Tuttle explained what it meant anyway.

“It means that some people always think things are better somewhere else. Now, I'm concerned that you think the grass is always greener if you change your mind to some other idea. But sometimes you need to pick an idea and stick with it. You need to stay on your piece of grass.”

“Grass,” echoed Monty, to show that he was listening. And that was when he felt it. He could
feel
somebody else listening. Watching. Slowly, he peeked over his shoulder.

There was the principal, standing in her open doorway.

Principal Edwards had short, white hair. Yellow glasses—the tiny kind just for reading—perched on the tip of her nose. She wasn't looking through them now, though. She was staring over the yellow rims, straight at Monty.

On the wall above the principal's head hung an American flag, and beside it was a poster of a bald eagle with a white head and yellow beak. And all Monty could think was: eagle! With her white head and yellow glasses, the principal looked almost exactly like the picture of the bald eagle.

Mrs. Tuttle was going on and on about how the Band-Aids were going to help him. “I think sometimes you forget how many times you've changed your mind, and how counterproductive that can be. These are going to work as reminders. When you change your mind, a Band-Aid will come off. It's okay to change your mind once”— she pointed to the first Band-Aid, “or twice”—she pointed to the second Band-Aid. “But when the last Band-Aid comes off, it means you're out of chances. It means changing your mind isn't going to help. Do you understand the plan?”

“The plan,” said Monty, nodding. He did understand the plan.

Apparently so did the principal. “That sounds like a very good plan for—who do we have here?”

Mrs. Tuttle nudged him, and he said, “Monty.”

“Just Monty?” asked Principal Edwards.

“Montana,” he said his whole first name. Then his last. “Greene.”

“Well, Mr. Greene, it sounds to me like Mrs. Tuttle has an excellent plan. You don't want to be a waffler, do you?”

“What's a waffler?”

It was Jasmine, standing in the open doorway of the nurse's office.

“And who do we have
here
?” asked the principal.

“This is Jasmine Raines,” said Mrs. Tuttle.

Principal Edwards said, “Well, Jasmine, a
waffler
is somebody who
waffles
. They can't make up their mind. They go back and forth from one thing to another, wasting their time and everybody else's.” She pointed to the big clock on the wall. “And we don't have time to waste! It's time to be learning! So, Jasmine—Monty—off you go!”

So much for staying unknown. The principal knew exactly who he was now. He was Monty Greene, the waffler.

M
onty made it
through the next couple of hours without Mrs. Tuttle feeling the need to rip any decision-aids off his arm, and then—
finally
—it was time for recess. Monty had first recess and second lunch, along with about a hundred other kids. The other half of the school flip-flopped; they had first lunch and second recess. The two groups weren't divided up by age, though. Both had kindergartners through fifth graders, so the older kids could model good behavior for the younger kids.

Monty ran through the doorway that led to the playground, heading as fast as he could go for the farthest-away place he could go: the fence at the edge of the field. This side of the chain-link fence was all grass but the other side, where the mowers didn't mow, was like a jungle of giant weeds. There was bamboo and sumac and long bittersweet vines. A flock of starlings liked to hang around there, perched along the fence top and on the sumac that was turning from green to orange.

When Monty reached the fence he tagged it, like he was safe at home base. The starlings took off in a racket of cawing and beating black wings. From across the playground, he saw Sierra galloping toward him. How come? She usually hung out with friends from her class during recess.

Sierra was in a combined fourth and fifth grade class. Everybody knew that if you were in the younger grade of a mixed-grade class, it meant you were above average. That was Sierra. Monty's class was a straight fourth grade. Everybody knew that being in a plain, single-grade class meant you were just average. That was Monty: just average. Except in changing his mind! If they graded for waffling, he'd be well above average.

Sierra ran up to Monty. “Can I see?” she demanded.

“See what?”

“The Band-Aids! Did the principal really put Band-Aids on you?”

“No—I mean yes, but no!” said Monty, confused. “Not the principal. Mrs. Tuttle. How'd you know?”

Sierra always seemed to know everything. She knew enough to be in the four-five class. She knew that playing soccer was pretty much all she wanted to do, besides get good grades. Now she even knew about the Band-Aids! Sometimes Monty wondered why he had to end up with somebody who knew everything for a twin? And sometimes Monty couldn't help it. Sometimes he hated her.

“How do you think?” asked Sierra. “Jasmine Raines is telling everybody. Remember that time you and Devin got in so much trouble?”

Monty was starting to have a bad feeling in his stomach. A carsick kind of feeling. Except he wasn't even
in
a car. Of course he remembered how much trouble he'd gotten in. How could he forget?

Way back in kindergarten, he and Devin High-tower had gotten hold of a permanent marker and decided to write something on the outside of the school. Monty had picked the word, and Devin had done the actual writing. When word got out who did it, they both had to have a chat with the social worker. Then they had to do an hour of community service, helping the janitor clean classrooms. And finally, the entire school had to go to an assembly with Officer Friendly and Firefighter John on how bad graffiti was. And Jasmine Raines practically got an award for being the whistle-blower.

“What else did she say?” asked Monty.

“She said you stabbed her with a pencil.”

“That's not true!” objected Monty.

“Says you,” said Sierra.

“Ask anyone!” said Monty. He looked around for somebody to tell Sierra the truth. There was Devin, running past. Monty flagged him down. “Devin! Hey, Devin!”

Devin circled back to the fence. Panting, he stared bug-eyed at Monty. He'd lost so many pairs of eyeglasses that now his mom made him wear them with an elastic around his head. It gave him a sort of mad scientist look, like he wore goggles. “What's up?”

“Tell Sierra I did
not
stab Jasmine Raines with a pencil. It was an accident, right?”

“Totally,” agreed Devin. “Who says he stabbed her?”

“Jasmine,” said Sierra. “She was the one who told everybody about you guys writing on the school, and now she's telling everybody about the pencil and the Band-Aids.”

“Poop,”
said Devin, cracking up. “We wrote
poop
! We were so little we thought
poop
was a bad word!”

Monty laughed, too, but not for long, because he had to stop laughing and start worrying about Jasmine Raines. “I can't believe Jasmine is telling the whole school,” he grumbled.

“Duh,” Sierra said, reminding him how stupid he was. “Remember what Mom called her?”

Monty remembered. “The Town Crier,” he said.

“The
what
?” asked Devin.

“It's from olden days,” explained Sierra. “Like from before they had telephones or television. Somebody walked around shouting news and stuff.”

“Tell-a-lie,” complained Monty. “Get it? Tele-phone, tele-vision, tell-a
-lie
.”

“Except it's not a lie,” said Sierra. “It's basically true, right?”

“I threw a pencil,” admitted Monty. “But not
at
her. She was just in the way.”

Sierra shrugged. “Whatever. Everybody knows about the Band-Aids.”

“
Decision-aids,
you mean,” corrected Devin.

Monty groaned. This was out of control. Apparently Jasmine Raines had told anybody and everybody about the Band-Aids. Correction: decision-aids. So did that mean she was going to tell—
or already had told
—how Principal Edwards warned him not to be a waffler? Monty was definitely feeling carsick now. He wished he could buzz down the window to get some fresh air. Too bad he was already out in the fresh air.

The bell rang. Monty and a hundred other kids scrambled to line up, troop through the double doors and down the hallway, and file into the cafetorium—the big room that doubled as a cafeteria at lunch and an auditorium the rest of the time.

As usual, the cafetorium was crazy crowded and crazy noisy. Monty lost track of Devin and Sierra right away. He got in line and got a carton of plain milk and a slab of pizza. At the end of the line he looked around for a place to sit.

Monty walked by a couple of girls from his class: Emma Robinson and Ella Bakunda. He knew them because they played flute in the band and so did he. (Long story, starting with a clarinet and switching to a way-too-heavy alto sax and ending with his mom and dad saying they weren't going to help him change again, and the band director coming up with an extra instrument—the only way he could stay in the band—a flute.) Ella and Emma were nice enough, but he didn't want to sit with girls.

In the middle of the cafetorium, Monty stood, holding his lunch tray. By now most kids had taken seats and started eating. Monty was one of the last kids standing. His milk was getting warm and his pizza was getting cold. Still looking around for somewhere to sit, he saw a teacher's aide staring at him. She pointed a finger straight at him and then lowered her hand.
Sit down
. If he didn't take a seat soon she'd be on her way over to yell at him. But where was he supposed to sit? Monty searched, and—finally—saw a space.

Right next to Jasmine Raines.

No way. There was no way he was going to sit with Jasmine Raines, the Town Crier. Cry
baby
, more like it.

Except just then Monty caught a glimpse of something even scarier than the thought of lunch with Jasmine Raines. The something had white hair and yellow glasses. It was Principal Edwards, standing at the edge of the cafetorium, talking to the teacher's aide. She was like a big bird of prey, hovering, and he was . . . the prey. Now the aide was pointing right at him! This was an emergency! Quickly he started to slide onto the end of the bench seat next to Jasmine, but she stopped him.

“Wait!” she yelled.

“What?” objected Monty. “I can sit here if I want.”

“What's in your lunch?” she asked.

There was something in Jasmine's voice—like she wasn't kidding—that made Monty pause. In the middle of the table a sign in big block letters read:
NUT-FREE TABLE
. Monty had heard about the nut-free table. It was for any kid with a nut allergy. Monty didn't have nut allergies, and he didn't have any friends with nut allergies, so he'd never sat there before.

“Montana Greene,” said a voice. “Having trouble deciding where to sit?”

Principal Edwards's words felt like talons grabbing him. Why was it that grown-ups always used your whole name when you were in trouble? It was like they were going to cast a spell and they had to use your whole name or it wouldn't work. Or else they called you by your last name, pretending they were treating you like a grown-up, when really they were treating you like a baby.

“No!” he protested. “But there're no seats left!”

“I see a seat,” said Principal Edwards, and with a triumphant note in her voice because she had learned the names of not one but two students today, she added, “right next to Jasmine!”

“But I can't sit here, right?” he tried. “Because it's the nut-free table?”

Principal Edwards studied the table. “I see other children here with pizza and milk. Jasmine, is pizza and milk all right at this table?”

“Yes,” said Jasmine, nodding. “The lunch lady said it was good.”

“Excellent,” said Principal Edwards. “From now on, Mr. Greene, consider this your table.”

“What?” cried Monty. “But what if I want peanut butter for lunch?”

“You can eat peanut butter at home. This is a simple consequence of your behavior. If you can't make a decision, then someone else will make the decision for you. I made the decision that you will sit here. End of story.”

Monty hated it when grown-ups said “end of story.” How could it be the end? She didn't mean till the end of the year, did she? Because it was only October!

“For how long?” he demanded.

“Until the end of the year,” she said. “Or until you learn to stop waffling. Whichever comes first.”