Chapter One I was sitting at my desk, second seat back in the row by the window, staring outside watching jump ropes twirl and kids chase one another across the playground. The sounds of thumping red rubber balls and excited voices floating in through the rectangle screens were nothing but a big fat tease, though, because I couldn't go out for recess. Again. I had to sit at my stupid desk and twiddle my thumbs while Mrs. Carlton, my fifth-grade teacher, corrected papers and ignored me, even though I was baking like a potato in the sun. I was supposed to be working on my English assignment, but I hadn't gotten farther than writing the date--May 13, 1955--at the top of my paper. I knew that was about all the farther I'd get, too, because I was supposed to write about Moby-Dick, and I didn't even know who the guy was. I wasn't really listening when Mrs. Carlton read us a chapter after recess for about a bajillion days in a row. I could see the book cover in my head, though, and it had a big fish on it, so I was thinking Moby-Dick might be that guy who got swallowed by a whale and became a rib bone in the story that Miss Tuckle, the Sunday school teacher, told us. But I wasn't sure because I wasn't exactly listening then, either. "Isabella . . . your paper . . . ," Mrs. Carlton said, and I turned away from the window. "I can't concentrate with all that yelling and laughing going on outside," I told her. "Try," she said, without looking up. "Plus," I added, "I'm about melting to death. These windows are working like a magnifying glass. I'm not kidding. It's so hot on my arm that I think I might start on fire. That can happen, you know. Jack Jackson started a grass fire in his backyard using a magnifying glass, and Johnny, his big brother, had to put it out with a blanket. I have very dry skin, Mrs. Carlton." She looked up at me and sighed, her lips painted big and red like Lucille Ball's, and said, "Then take a seat over there." She pointed to the first desk on the other side of the room. The one closest to the door. Me and my big mouth! I didn't have a thing to do but hum and think about how hungry I was. After recess we still had to have math and reading class before it was lunchtime. I thought about the ice cream we were going to have for dessert, and the next thing I knew, my mind was scooting off to the drugstore to remember the best strawberry sundae I ever had. I guess you could say that I got that sundae because of Ma. All because one night while I was still in kindergarten, she came and sat on my bed, the stink of smoke and booze from The Dusty Rose still clinging to her auburn curls, and she said, "I gotta go, kid. I've got dreams to chase." Then she walked out. Just like that. Leaving nothing behind but me, a sinkful of dirty dishes, a pair of elbow-length gloves still in their box, and Teddy, her boyfriend of a year, bawling on the arms of his ratty work shirt. After Ma left, Teddy tried to help me stop missing her so badly. He was sweet as sugar at first, hugging me when I cried and playing with me when I was lonely. But when a few days went by and I still wasn't eating more than a sick mouse, he got downright bossy. "Teaspoon, I know you miss your Ma. I do, too," Teddy said. "But you've got to start eating again, even if you don't have an appetite." He put a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of milk in front of me and told me I had to get them down. "If you don't, you're going to make yourself sick." I didn't know people could make themselves sick by not eating, but I sure was glad to hear it! When we were living above the bar in Peoria, Ma left me with a lady d Excerpted from How High the Moon by Sandra Kring All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
