Free Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

other—and sighed loudly.
    I sighed also, even louder. “You best learn to write like me,” I said, pushing my paper in her direction, glancing down, and realizing, too late, that my handwriting was a disgraceful mess. Black smudges all over. A big hole right through the center. “At least my penmanship ain’t scary,” I said. “It don’t look like a bed of baby copperheads ready to bite. It’s—”
    Mrs. Stilton’s grade book crashed down.
    I jumped, watching my paper disappear beneath its black cover.
    â€œIcy Sparks, do you think you can write and talk at the same time?”
    I nodded, then retracted, urgently shaking my head.
    â€œNo, I don’t think you can, Miss Sparks!” Mrs. Stilton’s eyes were on me, greedily eating a hole right through me. With her fingertips, as though my paper were dirty, she slipped it out from beneath her grade book and lifted it up high for the class to see. “A hole!” she announced. Then, like a magician, she withdrew a pencil propped behind her ear, aimed it at my paper, and poked it through the gap I’d made when I erased my t .
    The class laughed. Above them all, I could hear Lane Carlson’s high-pitched snickering.
    â€œEmma,” Mrs. Stilton said, “would you please show the class your work?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Emma rose, stood in the aisle beside her desk, and held up her paper, shifting it from side to side so that everyone could see.
    â€œNow turn around,” Mrs. Stilton ordered her. “I want the students in the back to get a look.”
    â€œLucy, what do you think of Emma’s work?” Mrs. Stilton said.
    â€œIt’s pretty,” Lucy replied, grinning.
    â€œAnd you, Irwin?” Mrs. Stilton said. “What do you think?”
    â€œI like all them lassos,” he said. “They remind me of cowboys.”
    â€œAnd what do I think of this?” Mrs. Stilton asked, still clutching the pencil, waving it back and forth, my paper flapping through the air. “I’ll show you,” she said, walking toward her desk, the eyes of every student shifting to the trash can. “This is what I think of sloppiness,” she said, ripping my paper off the pencil, crumpling it up into a tight little ball before tossing it into the wastebasket.
    Stiff in my seat, I shoved my feet against the tiled floor, trying to control the little tremors that were beginning in my legs.
    â€œI got my eyes on you,” said Mrs. Stilton, pointing at me, her fingernails inching outward like claws. “And, little girl, don’t you forget it.” Whereupon she turned her back to us and, with chalk in hand, began putting on the blackboard a string of math problems—neatly lined up and perfectly spaced apart.
    Emma Richards giggled as she sat back down, but the rest of the class was silent. Not even Lane Carlson squeaked. Suddenly, across the aisle from me, two seats down, Peavy Lawson made a lisping sound. “Icy,” he whispered, his voice low, his eyes bulging, “I like your handwriting best.” Breaking a smile, he picked up his paper for me to see: it was a black-smudged mess, riddled with holes.
    The only thing I could do was fold my arms on top of my desk and hide my head inside them.

Chapter 7
    M rs. Stilton cleared her throat. In my mind’s eye, I saw her neck stretching up like a chicken’s and imagined her Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. After lunch, she had instructed us to put our heads upon our desks while she read to us. “From now on, we’ll do this every day,” she said. “It’ll help with your digestion.” From the satchel beside her chair, she had pulled out a book. This is a good sign, I thought, nestling farther down in my seat, closing my eyes.
    Last year after lunch, Miss Palmer had also read to us; she had read The Secret Garden , The Little Prince , and other books. It was my favorite