CHAPTER 1
Daddy burned all Charlotte’s bedding and blankets the day they took her away. Her dolly, her books, and her clothes too. Dang near burned everything.
And I watched as my sissy’s things—and my hope of ever seeing her again—all went up in smoke.
When I first saw Charlotte fall flat as a flapjack, I wasn’t worried. But when I helped her up, I could tell she was sweating out a fever something fierce. That’s when Doc Simpson came and told Daddy she needed to go away to the hospital.
That’s also when all the grown-ups in my life started whispering every time I entered a room.
Then when I overheard Grandma and Granddaddy on the back porch asking Mama, high up in heaven, to hold Charlotte’s hand, I feared my sissy was plain dead.
And I was plain heartsick.
I was heartsick my sissy had died, leaving me all alone after she promised she’d never leave like Mama did. Even after she pinky-swore she’d help me get through fifth grade with Miss Meany-Beany. And she’d never broke a promise before.
After I spent all afternoon being heartsick with sadness, I come to find out she wasn’t dead at all. That made me feel a wash of relief the size of a waterfall.
But seeing how I’m the reason my sister got sick in the first place, I was still plenty upset. Feeling that truth deep down made my insides hurt. And when my insides hurt so much, I wondered if it was because of sadness, guilt, or the same thing Charlotte had. Charlotte would know. She always knew what to say or do no matter what needed saying or doing.
I figured it was ’cause I was feeling extra bad that Daddy and Grandma kept me home from school for a bit after Charlotte took sick. But it turns out that old school didn’t want me there! Daddy had to go all the way down to Center Street and talk to the head of schools to make them take me back.
Imagine that! Begging them to send me to school. I told him not to bother—I’d just as soon walk barefoot in a field of bumblebees than go back to that school again.
My teacher, Miss Meany-Beany, hates me. I know it. Charlotte had her last year and told me she wasn’t mean—but everybody likes Charlotte, ’cause she’s perfect.
So Daddy made me go back to school.
No sooner did I walk in the door than Big-Mouth Berta, whose daddy owns the grocery store, rushed up to me and said, “I heard Charlotte got the polio! Oh, poor, poor Charlotte!”
And that was the first time I heard someone say Charlotte had polio.
Just like the president of the United States of America!
Polio.
’Course that’s the reason she was sick! And I practically wrapped up the polio, put a bow on it, and gave it to her myself.
I started to walk past Big-Mouth Berta when she added in a pretend whisper, “Stay away from Prudence, everyone. She probably has the polio too.”
And that was my welcome back to school.
Miss Meany-Beany told everyone I didn’t have polio. But I don’t think she’s certain herself, since every day she puts her clammy hand on my forehead when I get to school. And even though I’m cool as a cucumber, she makes me sit, every day, by myself in a row of desks only used for kids like Rotten Ricky to sit in when they do something wrong, like let a frog loose in school.
And every day Miss Meany-Beany says, “Class, I’m sure Prudence is fine,” but instead they all must hear, Class, don’t touch her or you’ll catch your death of disease, since not one of my thirteen classmates has mustered up the courage to say boo to me. Not that they’d talked my ear off before—what with me being new to the school last winter. It’s not that I didn’t have any friends; it’s just that when you have a perfect sissy, you already have a perfect friend.
That was all I needed then.
And it’s all I need now.
CHAPTER 2
It was lunch, and I was eating the fried-egg sandwich Grandma makes for me every day even though I always tell her it’s cold and soggy by lunchtime. She reminds me she’s making do with the wartime shortages and rations, and since the hens are laying lots of eggs, we’re eating lots of eggs.
I sat there on my lonely side of the classroom dreaming of the jam sandwiches Mama used to make me, back when she was alive and the war wasn’t changing everything for everybody. I was taking another bite of that cold, soggy sandwich, minding my own business, when I spied the ugliest bug crawling across the floor. But my bug watching was interrupted when something hit me smack in the middle of my forehead. I reached up to touch it—and wouldn’t you know—it was the slimiest spit wad ever thrown at a living person.
Right then, I saw, plain as day, that boy whose name is Ricky looking at me—the boy I call Rotten Ricky (not having any friends here gives me lots of time to make up my own names for everyone). Rotten Ricky had this innocent look on his face, and he even had the nerve to smile at me!
I didn’t hold that slimy, sticky, wet spit wad for a second before I threw it right back at him.
It wasn’t my fault that Miss Meany-Beany picked that very moment to walk by—or that my perfectly aimed slimy spit wad landed smack in the middle of her forehead.
And the moment it did, time stood still. Every single student in the entire fifth grade stopped what they were doing, including breathing. I’d bet anything that dang bug even stopped crawling across that floor.
Miss Meany-Beany turned her head so slow, like she’d just figured out how to turn her head for the first time. That spit wad stayed right in the middle of her forehead like it belonged there. And as soon as her eyes focused on me, the hate shot out of them like chickens running from a fox.
I wanted to run too.
Instead, I tried to speak, except my mouth must’ve forgot how. “But . . . not . . . me . . . Rotten . . .” was all I could manage.
Miss Meany-Beany’s mouth must’ve had the same problem as mine. “You . . . what . . . why? Closet . . . now!”
She pointed her bony finger straight to the coat closet.
But I didn’t move. Even though the calendar says it’s fall, someone must’ve forgot to tell the sun that, ’cause it burned down on us like it was still those dog days of summer. I imagined that coat closet had to be over a hundred degrees.
“Now!” Miss Meany-Beany yelled, and as she did, the spit wad lost its place on her forehead and rolled down her face, in a slower-than-molasses way, and landed on her lace collar.
A look of horror flashed across her face, and I knew I’d have a better chance of convincing our cow never to moo again. So I went into the hottest, stinkiest place in the entire school.
I heard the rattle of the door closing right behind me before feeling something land in my hair that fell from the rafters.