I couldn’t wait for Margaret to get on the bus Monday afternoon. “It was the best day!” I told her.
“I got picked for Friend of the Week! I get to tell my autobiography, be line leader, collect the milk money, feed the fish—”
“Oh yeah, Clementine,” Margaret interrupted, flapping her hands at me. “We did that when I was in third grade.”
Margaret is only one year older than I am. But whenever she says “When I was in third grade,” she makes it sound like “Way back when I was a little kid, which I’m not anymore, so that makes me the boss of you.”
I want to learn how to do that trick in case anyone ever lets my little brother into third grade.
“Your class did Friend of the Week, too? I didn’t know that,” I said. “How come you never told me?”
Margaret crossed her ankles and looked down to see that her sock cuffs were matched up. When she looked back at me, her mouth was pinched like a raisin and she had turned a little pink. She shrugged.
“I guess I forgot,” she said. “I guess it was just too boring to remember.”
“Friend of the Week isn’t boring! Especially the booklet. Did you save your booklet? Can I see it?”
Margaret shrugged again. “My mother keeps it in the living room. It’s very important to her because it’s all about my valuableness. I think she likes to have it around whenever Mitchell drives her crazy.
