Five-year old Ben Lambert was in
love, and it made his stomach hurt. The peanut butter and strawberry jam
sandwich he’d had for lunch was now a gummy knot tangled up with loopy
butterflies when he looked at her. Why did grownups want to be in love? It just
made you want to throw up.
Still, his hand
shot up when his teacher asked the class to name the letter she had written on
the blackboard. It was the second day of kindergarten, and he wanted Mrs. Peele
to like him and know that he could already read a bunch of words. Some of them
even had five or six letters.
Next to his mommy, Mrs. Peele was the
prettiest lady he’d ever seen. The shiny black hair that draped past her
shoulders reminded him of a black bird’s wing when the sun hit it. Her brown
eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they crinkled at the corners like
she had a happy secret to tell you. She looked like Pocahontas, which was one of
his favorite movies. Her words floated out in a singsong way that made him feel
friendly.
Mrs. Peele
pointed at him and said, “Yes, Ben. Can you name this letter?”
Ben’s mouth
went dry as nineteen heads turned to stare at him. The butterflies turned into somersaulting
pterodactyls. The rustling of papers, tapping of pencils, whispers, and random
squeaks of rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum floor that was the official music
of Room 18 stopped as if someone flipped a switch. The complete silence pressed
on him. The tops of Ben’s ears grew hot, and his tongue felt furry and too big
for his mouth. Why did he raise his hand? Love or not. Dummy. He just hoped the
P.B. & J stayed down.
He peeled
his tongue off the roof of his mouth, but his words dribbled out in dots and
dashes.
“I . . .i .
. . it’s the l-l-let . . . ter B,” he stuttered.
Kids
laughed and hooted, and Ben clutched his brand new Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown crayon in
his hand so hard it snapped. Heat fizzed up the back of his neck and prickled
his scalp like ants let loose in his amber-colored hair. He scooted down in his
blue chair, trying to disappear behind Jennifer What’s Her Name and her
fountain of a ponytail topped with a giant, lop-sided purple bow.
“All right,
class. Let’s not laugh when someone is answering a question. That’s not nice.
Sometimes, we get tongue-tied. You were right, the letter is B. Good job. Thank
you for raising your hand like I asked and volunteering an answer,” Mrs. Peele
said. She gave him a smile that made the pterodactyls disappear.
Ben bent
down and pretended to look for something in his pencil box on the little wire shelf
underneath his chair so no one could see the tears that burned his green eyes.
Sometimes his words didn’t come out right. There was even a real word for it. Tongue-tied.
That was just what it felt like. Someone had lassoed his big, fat, furry
tongue. He didn’t always stutter and mess up his words, but when it happened,
others always made fun of him. Mommy said when he was nervous, his brain worked
faster than his mouth, and he would grow out of it.
Jennifer
What’s Her Name turned to look at him as he sat back up. He swallowed and gave
her a half-smile. Mommy always said to smile when you didn’t know what else to
do. Jennifer stuck her slimy tongue out at him and whipped her mean red ponytail
at him as she turned back around with a snap. Girls.
Ben sighed
and picked up the pieces of his Fuzzy Wuzzy Brown crayon and stuffed them in
the front pocket of his tan cargo shorts. He hadn’t even gotten to use it yet. You
couldn’t color trees or a good dog without it. The best color in the box. Well,
next to Atomic Tangerine. At least he still had that one. Ben crammed the crinkled
tail of his Batman t-shirt back into the waistband of his shorts where it had
wiggled out and sat back down. He sure hoped the day got better.
He wasn’t
so sure about this school thing. It was more fun at the beach looking for sea
glass with Mommy or in her art studio while she gave lessons. He was always
good and quiet and got to watch the people learning how to paint. It was hard
work being five. It was a good thing he would be six in nine more days. Every
morning, Mommy crossed out each used up day on their Adorable Kittens calendar
with a red Magic Marker for the countdown to the big day. Six had to be better
than five. Maybe his tongue would work better then.
Ben looked
around the classroom with its red door, pale yellow walls, and colorful posters
with dancing numbers and letters with happy faces and giant feet on them. It
wasn’t too bad. They even had a class turtle named Shelly in an aquarium in the
Quiet Time corner by the bathroom. Ben liked turtles. Turtles didn’t care if
your words got jumbled up. He couldn’t wait for his turn to get to feed her. Then
he sneaked a look at his new classmates. There were more girls than boys. Just
his luck. His brows furrowed as he had a rotten thought. What if none of them
wanted to come to his birthday party? What if he sat there with his Batman cake
with the multi-colored sprinkles and the mint chocolate chip ice cream,
waiting? Then he waited and waited some more until the ice cream started to
melt, and no one showed up? The pterodactyls were back. Was it time to go home
yet?
#
The tree
didn’t look that high. It was a Madrone tree, like the ones sprinkled through
the forest behind his house that his daddy had taught him about. It was Ben’s
favorite kind of tree. Its cinnamon-colored bark could be peeled off in sheets
like a fancy scroll of paper, and it had glossy green leaves. Sometimes, they
had red berries on them. He bet he could climb this one, no problem. It was
recess, and he wasn’t going to waste it waiting for someone to talk to him.
This tree would be perfect to sit in and see all over the playground. He could
be a pirate in the crow’s nest looking for enemy ships to plunder. With a
bubble of excitement, he grabbed onto the smooth lower branch and planted his
sneakered foot into the fork of the trunk and worked his way up the tree.
“Hey, how
did you get up so high?” a voice called out.
Ben looked
down to see two boys, their hands tented over their eyes as they looked up at
him. Both of them were in his class, but he couldn’t remember their names. One
had black hair, and one had hair almost the same color as Ben’s.
“Well, my d-d-daddy says that I’m p-part monkey, so maybe that’s it,” Ben
teased.
Both boys laughed. The black haired one said, “You’re pretty
good at it. Are you scared?”
“Nah. I’m
too busy being a pirate looking for ships to attack.”
“I want to
play,” said the amber-haired boy, “but I don’t want to climb up there. Will you
come down, and we can play pirate on the monkey bars?”
“Sure. I’m
c-c-coming down. Wait for me.”
“O.K.,
we’ll stay here until you get down.”
Excited to
play with them, Ben scrambled down the nearest branch. He was half-way there
when he heard the sharp crack. The branch gave way and fell from underneath his
foot, shifting his weight. The smooth bark slipped through his sweaty fingers.
The air rushed out of his lungs as he bounced off the next branch and felt
himself hurtling toward the ground. Headfirst.
