Free 100 Days and 99 Nights by Alan Madison

to finish, and when it did the lecture began.
    “Now, I know that your father is away and that is very hard. But, Isaac Ulysses Swishback McCarther . . .”
    Oh, gosh, she used his middle name. I panicked inside, wondering if he would be suspended, kicked out of school, or worse. . . .
    “Today you have broken many school rules and I’m not really sure what to do with you.”
    She paused and took in a deep noisy breath through her banana-curved nose.
    “I would prefer not to worry your mom about this. Is this something you two can solve?” Both our heads bobbed like Halloween apples in a tub.
    “Good. Isaac — do I have your word that this will not happen again?”
    Ike’s head continued to bob.
    “Even if next time Stony Jackson says he is going to hit you with a tree trunk?”
    The bob slowed as he thought of Stony trying to swing a tree trunk at him.
    “Then on your way, you two.”
    Signaling that she was done with us, she steep-curled her nose down, pretending to examine a stack of papers. We thanked her, and as we backed out, I assured her that I would talk some sense into Ike, even though I knew that was fairly impossible.
    Squirrel
    Mom says when I saw Sylvester in the toy store window it was love at first sight. I bought my squirrel with my very own money. I saved my allowance and when I reached $10.99, which is as close to eleven dollars as you can come before it actually becomes eleven dollars, I opened my little safe (the combination is a secret), took the money to the toy store, and bought Sylvester my squirrel. At the last minute, Mom had to chip in seventy-nine more cents because they charged me something called tax, which I did not think was very fair. Still, I was very proud of myself.
    S ilent as fish, we traveled the hall upstream into the rush of students heading home. Still silent, we passed the playground where the day’s trouble had begun. Children raced around the swings, monkey bars, and seesaw. There was no trace of the afternoon’s fight. We walked all the way to the mailbox on the corner of Normandy Avenue before Ike begged, “Esme . . . say something.”
    I considered what Mom would say in this sort of situation but then just said what I had to say.
    “Dad’s rules are all we have until he comes back. You absolutely broke his playground rules.”
    “I know it . . . I just wasn’t thinking. . . .”
    “That’s Ike Sense, all right — just not thinking.”
    I shouldn’t have said that, but I did. His shoulders folded down low as if I had just punched his stomach. I felt pretty bad. I had been a fustilug, but he had broken at least one, if not more, of the playground rules that Dad had drilled into us.
    1. Wait your turn.
    2. Don’t talk to adult strangers.
    3. Don’t throw sand.
    4. Don’t leave the playground without telling an adult.
    5. The first person who hits is always wrong.
    “Number five,” I said matter-of-factly.
    “Five,” agreed Ike as he fought hard to hold back tears.
    “Sticks and stones . . .”
    “I know . . . I know . . . ,” moaned Ike. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names . . .”
    “. . . and dopey threats will never harm me,” I finished.
    Sticks and stones was a no-brainer. Thoughtless fustilugs would talk and say hurtful things, but that was never a reason to hit.
    According to Dad, “The first person who hits is the first person to run out of good ideas, and a McCarther never runs out of good ideas.” Dad was big on rules. Rules were important. After all, in the army you had more rules “than you could shake a stick at.”
    My father, Sergeant August Aloysius McCarther the Third, has made it super clear that you don’t want to go and break his rules.
    “I didn’t want to break his rules.”
    “I know you didn’t, Ike.”
    “It’s my duty not to . . . ,” Ike muttered sadly and proudly at the same exact time.
    I chewed that over, then nodded in agreement. While Dad was away it was our duty to follow his rules.
    “I