Free Jumping the Scratch by Sarah Weeks

us—”
    â€œMary Lynne is absolutely correct, class,” Miss Miller interrupted, her eyes shining and pink splotches staining both of her cheeks. “Whoever wrote those words obviously wasn’t listening when Mr. Stone gave the assignment.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Arthur said, “but they were obviously listening closely when those other words were said to them, because they heard not only the words but the true feeling that lay behind them. That’s what good dialogue is all about.”
    Miss Miller pressed her hands together and turned to Mr. Stone with a tight smile. “Well, time has certainly flown this morning. I’m sorry to say, Mr. Stone, that as wonderful and informative as this has been, we’re going to have to wrap up now. Fifth-grade lunch period begins in a few minutes, and then I know you’ve got another class to visit this afternoon. Let’s all thank Mr. Stone for spending time with us this morning.”
    Everybody clapped, and Arthur clapped for us too.
    â€œYou were great,” he told us. “I hope you had a good time and maybe even picked up a couple of useful tips.”
    â€œI’m sure they did,” said Miss Miller. “Those who were listening.”
    We were dismissed, and everyone rushed to the closets to grab lunches and jackets before heading out. As usual, I hung back, waiting for the crowd to leave, before walking over and pulling my own lunch down from the shelf.
    Miss Miller was watching me, and as I stood at the closet, she leaned over to Arthur, and in a voice that sounded like a whisper but was somehow still loud enough for me to hear all the way across theroom, she said, “Broken home. Absent father. You know the story.”
    â€œYes,” Arthur said nodding. “I’ve heard that story before.”
    â€œHaven’t we all?” Miss Miller agreed.
    I yanked my jacket off the hook and got out of there.

13
    MOST OF THE KIDS ATE LUNCH IN THE CAFETERIA AT long tables with seats attached, but I had a spot of my own, outside on a bench at the far end of the school yard, where nobody bothered me. As I headed across the yard, I thought about the exchange I had just overheard between Arthur and Miss Miller. It made me furious. What right did the two of them have to stand around talking about me as if they knew the first thing about me, all the while both of them calling me James? “I’ve heard that story before,” Arthur had said. What a jerk. I guess being a big-shot writer made him think he could know what somebody’s story was even though he didn’t know the first thing about that person. He’d probably take one look at Sapphy and think he knew her story too. He was no better than Miss Miller, and they could both rot, for all I cared.
    When I reached the bench, I sat down and took out my sandwich, scraped the peanut butter out into my napkin, and ate the bread in a couple of quick, fierce bites. Then I picked up the can of cherries and turned it around, inspecting for dents. I only kept the perfect ones; the dented cans I tossed out without even bothering to open them first. I had long since stopped eating the cherries; I couldn’t stand the smell of them or the feel of the soft, waterlogged globes barely contained in their slimy skin casings. I’d open the good cans, dump out the fruit, and bring the empties home. Later, after my mom had left for work and Sapphy was asleep, I’d wash them out, peel off what remained of the labels, and add them to the stash I kept behind the couch. My secret protectors.
    I had begun saving cherry cans when school started up again after Christmas vacation. I figured since I slept out in the living room and didn’t have a door of my own to close, I needed some kind of warning system. I set up a ring of empty cherry cans around my bed each night, and that way, if Old Gray tried to sneak up on me while I was asleep, he’d knock over the