Free The Trouble Begins by Linda Himelblau

She's staring at Jorge. He's leaning into the aisle to get back the mini-skateboard. Angelawon't let him have it. She moves it with her foot just when he almost grabs it. Angela's in the high reading group.
    Suddenly everybody looks up. We are all interested. A little bug is walking across the overhead projector over the words. Kids elbow each other and whisper. Mrs. Dorfman doesn't know. She looks confused for a moment. Her eyes sweep across the room and land on me. She thinks I'm messing around. A good kid tells her about the bug. She squishes it with a tissue. Her voice is sharp now. “Write about the trip home and how you feel about your trip. Would you like to go back? Any questions?… Put on the proper heading. Let's get started.” Mrs. Dorfman shuts off the overhead.
    “How long do the paragraphs have to be?”
    “What if we never went anyplace?”
    “Is this a rough draft?”
    “What are we supposed to do?” Kids are blurting questions from all over the room. Jorge snatches the miniskateboard from under Angela's foot.
    “Write a personal narrative,” snaps Mrs. Dorfman. “Anyone who does not have a rough draft of at least two pages will stay after school. No talking.” I look down at my magazine, where there's a picture of a blue truck with big wheels and lightning bolts on the side. Then I remember. It's Tuesday. I want to be there to laugh when that old man goes out to mow and his old mower falls apart all over his nice green grass. I rip a piece of paper off my pad. I write “Du” at the top. I write my personal narrative. “I went to Disneyland. I went with my mom and dad and brother and sisters. We went in the car. It was fun. I saw people dressed like big mice. I went on rides. Iate lots of food. I would like to go again.” Mrs. Dorfman is walking up and down the aisles. She taps her finger on my paper. “Good job, Du,” she says. I've never been to Disneyland.
    Anthony and Jorge have to stay after school but I get to go even though my personal narrative was just a little bit of one page. I run. I see that the old man hasn't mowed his grass yet. I get an apple and a banana. I look out the back window, where I can see the shed. Now I'm the spy. Finally he comes out his back door. He's so slow. He stoops over to pick up a little bit of nothing on his grass. He puts it in his shirt pocket. He looks over at our yard. I bet it was something that blew over there from our yard because we never mow. Our yard's full of high weeds and tall brown grass that hides rusty tools and cracked pots people left there long ago. Some places you can hardly walk. That's why the cat is my cat. She hunts in my yard. I see her crouched low and silent with just her tail twitching and I've seen a lizard tail out there and bird feathers she left in the shaggy bushes in back. In the old man's yard she'd never catch anything.
    At the shed the old man tips the lock this way and that, trying to see. He does everything like slow-motion stuff on TV. I just want to see that mower fall apart. The door is open. Here comes the mower. It's just out of the shed when the first wheel falls off. He doesn't see it. He thinks it's stuck on something so he gives it a big hard push. He's standing there holding the handle and the rest of the mower is in a mess on the ground. I burst out laughing. He looks at it with his mouth puckered up. Then his head stays still but his eyes under his bushy eyebrows move toward my window. I duck. Iwait a few minutes. I look again. He's not there. Just that old pile of lawn mower parts. He's probably calling 911. He can't prove anything. I go away to watch TV.
    “What are you laughing about?” asks Lin from the dining room. She's in there even more than Thuy and Vuong now, taking care of some plants she grew like they were little babies.
    “Nothing.” I shrug. It's so funny I wish I could tell somebody but not Lin. She doesn't like anything I do.
    Cartoons are over. I go look out the window again. There