The Waffler Read Online Free PDF

came from, before he moved to the United States. Anyone who liked apples was okay in his book.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Monty. “I’ll check it out when I get home.”
    â€œOkay,” said Mr. Milkovich as he slowed the bus and pulled over to the curb. At the same time, he pushed a button, and the red stop signs on the sides of the bus swung out and its red stoplights started flashing. Monty loved how Mr. Milkovich could stop traffic. Everybody had to stop for a stopped school bus, or else they might get a ticket. Sitting way up high in the driver’s seat, Mr. Milkovich was like a king on a throne. King of the road.
    A few kids trooped down the aisle and climbed down the big steps and off the bus. A little third grader turned and waved good-bye. “Bye, Mr. Milk,” she said, which was what lots of kids called Mr. Milkovich.
    â€œGood-bye!” boomed Mr. Milkovich. “See you tomorrow!”
    He drove through the neighborhood, stopping and dropping off kids. At the corner of Washington and Monument Streets he pulled to a stop and a couple of fifth graders shuffled up from the back of the bus. Before they got off, one of them turned to Monty.
    â€œBye, Waffles!”
    â€œBye, Waffles,” echoed the other kid. “And remember, Waffles, no peanut butter for you!”
    Laughing, they sprang off the bus.
    Mr. Milkovich turned off the red flashers, pulled in the red stop signs, and kept going on his route. Looking into the big mirror that showed everybody behind him, he asked Monty, “What is it, this
waffles
?”
    Monty felt like a flat tire. He was dead. Those kids weren’t even in the half of the school he had lunch/recess with. Which meant the entire school had heard what happened.
    â€œIt’s kind of my new nickname,” he explained. “Because the principal called me a waffler.”
    â€œThe principal is calling you this food of breakfast? Waffles is something you eat, no?”
    â€œWaffles are what you eat, yeah. But
waffler
means somebody who changes their mind too much. She said I shouldn’t be a waffler.”
    From inside Mr. Milkovich came a noise that sounded like the bus was breaking down. “Waff-ler,” he grumbled slowly, shaking his big head back and forth. “So this is a bad thing, no?”
    â€œYep,” admitted Monty. “Waffles are good to eat. But being a waffler is not a good thing. It’s bad.”
    Luckily, Monty’s stop was next. Because no matter how much he liked Mr. Milkovich, he didn’t want to talk anymore about the meaning of waffler. The bus stop signs swung out, and on the street all the cars slowed down and came to a stop, as if somebody had commanded,
In the name of the king, halt!
When all the traffic had halted, Mr. Milkovich opened the bus door. Monty stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
    â€œMr. Milkovich, my friend,” he said, “see you tomorrow.”
    Mr. Milkovich roared with laughter. “See you tomorrow, my friend.”
    Monty hopped onto the curb and the bus pulled away. He headed up Atlantic Street, going in and out of the sun as he passed beneath the maple trees’ bright orange leaves. Their roots made the brick sidewalk all lumpy and bumpy.
    The first thing Monty always did when he got to his dad’s house was check out the pumpkin. His dad had planted the seedling right in the compost pile, and now the vine clambered halfway across the backyard, and the pumpkin was bigger than a basketball. Bigger than a beach ball. It reminded Monty of the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, where the bean plant grew right up into the sky. Just like he always tagged the fence at recess, Monty touched the big orange pumpkin. He was home.
    The driveway was empty. No cars. That meant his dad and Beth were still at work. Sierra was at soccer practice. Big A wasn’t there, either. Good. He went inside, grabbed an apple, and ran up the stairs.
    There was