Me & Emma Read Online Free PDF Page B

the newspaper about working from home, making you a ton of money. They liked her so much on the phone the job was hers, they said. Emma and me try to figure out why it is we haven’t seen the ton of money they promised Momma, but I think it’s babyish to think a truck is going to pull up to the back of your house and unload bagfuls of cash like a bread truck delivering to the grocery store. Emma’s still waiting for the truck.
    “You’re late, Caroline.” Miss Hall looks about as happy with me as Mr. Stanley did. “That’s the third time this week.” She made a little mark next to my name in the book on her desk.
    I don’t ever set out to be late but my mind sometimes takes a detour. Like when I write with another kind of handwriting. I know which way the letter k is supposed to face but then, whammo!—there it is backward. And usually when there’s a backward k, it’s in the other handwriting I surprise myself with; it almost looks like I

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    EI. IZABFTH FLOCK

    could be in Emma’s class with this handwriting. It’s really shaky and big and, like I said, the letters are sometimes mixed up. But most of the time I keep my brain focused on what I have right in front of me. Not today, I guess. Momma won’t even know to look at the line on my report card that says I been tardy for classes. If she did see it she probably wouldn’t care.
    “What’s the matter, Scary? You forget how to tie your shoelaces, you little baby?” Mary Sellers started this nickname, Scary Carrie. They all point at my hair, which is funny since it’s not half as tangled up as Emma’s, but they point anyway. My shoes have been bothering me all day. I hate it when you tie one side kind of tight and the other side doesn’t match it. These are saddle shoes that look like my Momma could’ve worn them back when she was my age. That’s how come I have them, she saw them at the store last year and practically started crying right there in front of Mr. Franks, who insists on sliding our feet into shoes with that metal shoehorn instead of letting us wriggle our heels into them, the way we do the rest of the time. What does he think anyway? That we use shoehorns every single clay? The shoes are mostly white with a saddle of black across the middle and down the sides. That’s how come they’re called saddle shoes. The toes are rounded so you have plenty of room to grow, which is a good thing since Momma said she spent so much on these shoes that we wouldn’t be able to get me new ones for a while. No one at my school wears saddle shoes. They’re just another weapon Mary Sellers can use in her war against Scary Carrie. She calls them “domino shoes.” I tel myself I don’t care. And I don’t. Really. I don’t.

TWO
    l.)-e’re moving and I’m not speaking to Momma on account of it. I don’t want to leave but she says we have to. And Emma’s on her side. She doesn’t like it here, either. Last night Momma got fed up and said she’d just take Emma with her and I could stay here and live on my own, but when I said “fine” she sent me to my room, so I don’t think I’m going to get to stay here by myself. Eight-year-old kids shouldn’t be living in big old houses by themselves, anyway, but still…I don’t want to go. Richard says he’s moving on and moving up. He’s been saying that a lot lately. He got a new job across the state so we have to go with him, I guess, even though some of us don’t want to move on or up, thank you very much. Momma says it’ll be a fresh start. But starts are only fresh for grown-ups. Third grade was never fresh for me, and even after a whole school year I’m waiting for it to stop being a start altogether.

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    ELIZABETH FI, OCK

    Thanks to the stupid Washroom Plan I’ve been getting picked on more than ever in school. My teacher, Miss Hall, says I talk out of turn and that’s just been an open invitation to Patty Lettigo. On the playground at recess she hollers at me, calling me a space