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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781934133507 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Charlesbridge |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2012 |
| Pages: | 216 |
| Sales rank: | 903,943 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.20(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.70(d) |
| Lexile: | 630L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 9 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
It was second period math class. While Mrs. Ortega was writing on the chalkboard, my friend Emily, who sits right across from me, slipped me a note. Emily is absolutely famous for her notes. She folded this one extra tight, so it was obviously important, I remember thinking, as I gently pried it open. Rustling paper always puts Mrs. Ortega on high alert. She has the hearing of a golden retriever and, man, is she serious about passing notes. If she finds one of those going around—or, worse, catches you sending a text—well, let’s just say her bite is worse than her bark. Needless to say we’re always careful . . . not that we don’t keep doing it. Nobody likes a quitter, right?
“Well?” Emily said with her eyes.
I read the note: “This is top secret. Repete, top secret.” I laughed to myself. Emily never was the greatest speller.
I kept reading. “What are you doing after school? I heard Billy Braslau is going to be at Banzai Pizza with some friends. I think he really likes you. Seriously. Let’s go there and aksidently “bump” into him. You can call your mom when my mom picks us up. This is important, E.”
As quietly as I could, I tore a piece of paper from my ring binder. Emily nearly died when I ripped it out. Her black perm bounced with nervous energy. I bet if you hooked Emily up to a generator, you could power all of New York City and large parts of Jersey. Luckily Mrs. Ortega’s supersensitive ears didn’t detect a thing. She was completely absorbed in explaining numerators and denominators.
My pencil was dull, so my answer was kind of sloppy. “Are you sure? You better be, ‘cause if—”
Someone knocked on the door. Thankful for the distraction, the whole class turned toward the noise as fast as my cat Miko does to the sound of the electric can opener. I stopped writing and shoved the note inside my math book. The school counselor, Mr. Jenkins, stuck his shiny bald head inside the room. He whispered to Mrs. Ortega, and then they both stared so hard in my direction that it felt like their eyes pierced holes right through me.
Mrs. Ortega cleared her throat. “Feather?”
“Yes, ma’am?” I was really self-conscious now because everyone was looking at me.
“Could you step outside for a moment, please?”
The whole class gasped, “Oooh!” My heart started to beat fast.
“And bring your belongings, too, please,” Mrs. Ortega added.
“Oooh!” went the class.
My heart really started to thump. ‘What did I do now?’ I wondered. I pulled on my coat and backpack. I was halfway down the aisle when I remembered I’d left my mittens and hat under my desk, so I rushed back to get them. The whole class was staring at me like I was going to the electric chair or something. I heard somebody snicker mockingly at the back of the room.
Emily twisted around in her seat, looking all panicky, and mouthed the words “Call me!” She lives for emergencies. I nodded at her and ran back to the door.
I realized at that moment I wasn’t in trouble after all when I got a better look at the expression on Mrs. Ortega’s face up close. She looked worried, not mad. “Feather, honey, apparently there’s an illness in your family. Someone’s coming to pick you up. Why don’t you wait in the office? Mr. Jenkins will go with you.”
An illness. My little brother, Peter! It couldn’t be my grandfather, who was out of town visiting relatives back on the reservation, and, as far as I knew, he’d never been sick a day in his life. Off and on for weeks, though, Peter had run a high fever. Nobody could figure out what was causing it. One doctor said it was a rare virus; another said, no, it was some kind of low-grade infection. To be honest, nobody knew what was wrong. Mom had dragged him to nearly every specialist in Manhattan, but nothing seemed to help. Normally a superactive five-year-old boy, always jumping and laughing in front of his favorite video game or begging to go to the park, Peter had been all listless and dazed lately. Sometimes he didn’t even want to get off the sofa to eat. Mom was freaking out.
Mr. Jenkins walked down the hall with me. “Feather, I don’t want you to worry,” he said in a phony, concerned tone of voice, the kind adults use when they don’t want you to get scared. “I’ll see that all your assignments are taken care of.”
Great. Wouldn’t want to miss any assignments. Who cared about homework? That was about the last thing on my mind. Had my little brother gotten worse now? Then suddenly I thought about my mother. Did something happen to her? What if she was sick?
Mr. Jenkins steered me to the smelly, avocado-colored vinyl couch outside the principal’s office. “Would you like me to sit here with you, Feather? Would you like to talk? You might feel better.”
“No thanks, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll be okay, really.”
He stared at me like he didn’t believe me. Mr. Jenkins thought people always wanted to talk. Talking was his job, I guess. He watched me like I was about to have a nervous breakdown or something. I knew he was just trying to be helpful. Still, I sure hoped he would leave . . . and soon.
“I’m fine, Mr. Jenkins. I promise.” I started fiddling around in my backpack like I was looking for something. I thought maybe if I ignored him, he’d get the hint and leave. Thankfully, he did.
“Remember, I’m right down the hall if you need me. Okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” When his office door shut, I let out a big sigh. He’s a nice guy and all, but he’s kind of weird. He still wears bell-bottoms, if that tells you anything.
I sat on the couch and stared at a water stain on the ceiling. I decided that if I had to wait there, I’d just put everything out of my mind until they came and got me. The school office was definitely a busy place. Phones kept ringing, teachers kept going in and out, and, in a few minutes, a seventh-grade guy I didn’t know was coming in with a bloody nose that was squirting blood all over the place like a geyser. Even old Mrs. Bronsky, the school nurse who’d been in the Army for like a million years, looked like she was going to puke. It was awesome in a gross sort of way.
I didn’t have to wait too long. I was digging in my purse, mining for some gum, when the street door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. All of a sudden,
Mrs. Lewis the school secretary sucked wind like a sick Hoover. I raised my head to see who was there.
Grandfather! I fumbled my purse in surprise, as a tube of Mom-forbidden, hot-pink lip gloss rolled across the floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes! “Tunkashila! What are you doing here?” I shouted for joy. “I thought you were in South Dakota!”
Grandfather rubbed his hands together and blew on them. Then he gave me a big smile. “I was. I left last night on the red-eye flight.” He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Peter was admitted to the hospital this morning. I’m here to collect you. We have a mission.”
“C-Collect me? Why? What’s going on? What happened? Is he going to be all right?”
He winked like he had a secret. “I’ll tell you everything in good time, Takoja.” He picked up the runaway lip gloss and handed it to me. Then he kissed the top of my head. I jumped up and gave him a big hug. His coat smelled like campfire smoke.
Mrs. Lewis’ beady eyes watched us over the top of her reading glasses. Naturally suspicious, she patted some wild hairs escaping the fat bun she always wore and tried to hear what we were saying.
Ordinarily nothing threw her, but I could understand how Grandfather did. A ten-gallon hat sat cocked on his forehead, and his coat, a smudged sheepskin duster, came down past his knees. He’d tucked his blue jeans into a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. Thick, white hair fell loose over his shoulders and halfway down his back. You see a lot of different people in New York, but none of them look quite like my grandfather. Not even close.
Mrs. Lewis recovered. She puckered her mouth like she was eating cranberries. “May I help you . . . um, sir?”
Grandfather tugged the brim of his hat and smiled. Almost like she couldn’t help it, Mrs. Lewis smiled back. I was stunned. Usually she’s a regular iceberg.
“I called earlier,” said Grandfather. “I’m here to pick up my granddaughter. Her brother’s not doing well. He’s pretty sick, I’m afraid. She needs to see him. You’re kind to release her on such short notice.”
Mrs. Lewis raised her eyebrows. “Oh!” She shot me her best “tell me what you know or you’ll be tortured” look.
“Miss Anderson, is this . . . um . . . gentleman your grandfather?”
I threw my backpack over my shoulder and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. This gentleman really is.”
She bypassed the wisecrack. She was too busy studying Grandfather. Once she even tilted her head sideways like a dog does when it hears a funny noise. Then she said, “Just a moment please, I’ll have to call your mother’s office to make sure about this.” As we waited she ruffled through some index cards and then checked out something on her computer screen.
“Oh? Mrs. Anderson’s gone for the day? Very well, thank you.” Mrs. Lewis hung up the phone and looked again at her computer. “Well, it says here that in the event that Mrs. Anderson is unavailable, you are the child’s guardian. May I see some identification please?”
Grandfather took out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license, which had his photograph on it.
“Hmmph . . .” she coughed. “Very well. So, all right, you may take the child with you.”
I tugged Grandfather’s sleeve and gave a big, fake cough myself. I was ready to go. I’d do anything to get out of my stupid third period French class. They always make you read aloud in front of the class. In French, of course. That about kills me.
Grandfather took the hint. As we turned to leave, Mrs. Lewis scuttled from behind her desk like a sand crab and blocked our path. She stuck a clipboard in Grandfather’s face. “Sign this, please.” Grandfather signed his name and sighed. “This is worse than renting a car.” After he was through, he politely tipped his hat. Mrs. Lewis frowned and went back to her perch behind the desk.
We went out the door and down the front steps. It was a little after 9:00 a.m. I could just picture Emily squirming back in math class, dying to know what was happening.
A mix of snow and stinging sleet burned our faces. Above us, the sky was low and gray, the color of mop bucket water. I was absolutely bursting to ask Grandfather about Peter, but I knew he was of the Lakota belief that young people should be respectful, listening to their elders first and asking questions later. I felt sure he’d tell me about Peter when the time was right. We walked with our heads down. I held Grandfather’s hand, the back of which was brown and crinkly as a walnut shell and just as rough. I was glad he’d rescued me. What I didn’t know was why. Why did he come to me instead of Mom? And why did he take a red-eye back to New York before my brother was even hospitalized?
Something else was going on. I could feel it. Something strange. Let’s face it; it was pretty weird how he just appeared. Still I kept my mouth shut. I figured he had a good reason for whatever he was doing. Mysterious but good. We walked to the next corner. As we waited for the light to change, he nudged me. “Did you eat breakfast?”
His question caught me off guard. I wrinkled my nose. “Uh huh, I had a bagel and half an orange.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Young Healer"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Frank N. McMillan.
Excerpted by permission of Charlesbridge.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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