Free Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio Page B

me, I drove like a champion, the fourth grade class chasing after me, yelling, “Icy, can we go? We want a ride, too.” I was picturing all of this—feeling the cool wind against my face, basking in the adulation of my classmates, delighting in my newfound luck—when, out of nowhere, Mrs. Stilton coughed and brought me back. Her powerful voice was describing a woman in the story who had forgotten what day it was. When she finally remembered, she came running to the square. That woman is just like me, I decided. I wonder if she’s headed for trouble. She forgets time like I do when I’m out exploring. But at least I don’t keep all of Ginseng waiting, just Matanni at suppertime.
    Fascinated, I listened as Mrs. Stilton continued. Her voice began to weave in and out like a distant echo in my head. Abruptly, she quit reading. For ten seconds, she was quiet. Then, in a determined voice, she carefully pronounced the last two words in the sentence: “humorlessly and nervously,” she read, twisting her mouth as though exercising her lips. She lifted her giraffe neck and surveyed the room. “Humorlessly and nervously,” she repeated emphatically. “Children, you must remember those words,” she said, scrutinizing the students up front. “Now, what words are they?” she asked.
    â€œHumorlessly and nervously,” those up front responded.
    â€œWhat words?” she demanded.
    â€œHumorlessly and nervously,” the whole class said.
    But not me. I kept my mouth shut. Humorlessly and nervously were already stuck in my mind. Unlike the others, I didn’t need to repeat them. The minute I heard both words I knew they were clues. Ominous clues hinting at disaster. It was then I realized that Mrs. Stilton meant to teach us a lesson. She meant to teach me a lesson, and—out of all the stories ever written—she had chosen this one, a story about a town just like Ginseng, to do so. Horrified, I listened, dreading each word as the story unfolded.
    Eager to hear what would happen next, every fourth grade head—but mine—shot up. Craning their necks, they leaned forward. But I didn’t. Instinctively, I tucked my head between my arms, recoiling from the striking distance of her words.
    Before I knew it, my mind was like a movie running backward. The baby-blue convertible moved faster and faster in reverse, its tires sucking in the dust. My body bolted from the seat and flew into the crowd. My fingers burst open, sending the keys upward, toward Mayor Anglin’s open hand. Faster and faster, my mind raced. Rewinding all the way back, until the drawing was about to begin again.
    â€œAnd the winner of this year’s prize is Virgil Bedloe!” Mayor Anglin announced. “Virgil, come get your blackberries.”
    â€œBlackberries?” I said, looking puzzled, turning around, trying to find the car. “That’s the prize?” I reached out to touch my grandfather’s hand, but he wasn’t there. Instead, he was moving slowly toward the courthouse steps where Mayor Anglin stood. An old tin bucket with a familiar dent in its side was now sitting on top of the cracker barrel; it was overflowing with plump, juicy blackberries. All of a sudden, I heard a faraway buzzing noise and the tin bucket quivering. Ever so slightly, its bottom thumped against the wood. The glossy skin of the blackberries trembled in the sun. Frightened, I put my hands over my eyes. Black and white dots seeped through the cracks between my fingers, but still the buzzing grew louder. Louder and louder, it became. As loud as a hive of swarming bees. And even though my eyes were covered, I could clearly envision them—a thousand golden specks wrapped in black—an ear-splitting buzz, consumed with rage. No, Patanni! Don’t take that prize! I thought.
    I jerked my head upward. The smiling faces of my classmates alarmed me. Don’t they understand? I thought,