Cilla Lee-Jenkins--Future Author Extraordinaire Page 4

  The bus wasn’t so bad. The big kids didn’t bother me, and I met Lou, who’s still my bus driver, and very nice, and promised that he’d tell me when to get off the bus. School, however, was a different story.

  My kindergarten teacher was Ms. Cotton. She had bright white hair that curved in a ball around her face just like a cotton ball, so her head matched her name, which was impressive.

  Ms. Cotton smiled a lot, but didn’t seem all that happy about anything. I decided that I didn’t think I liked Ms. Cotton that first morning, when we played a “getting to know you game” and took turns saying our names.

  “Priscilla Lee-Jenkins,” I said, nearly in a whisper.

  “Huh,” Ms. Cotton said, finding me on her attendance sheet. “What an unusual name.”

  And then, before I could tell her that I wanted to be called “Cilla,” not “Priscilla,” she said, in a loud voice, “Class, in case you couldn’t hear, this is Priscilla. She’s just a bit shy.” And she moved on to the next student, and no one else seemed to have the problem called “shy,” and some of the kids even said funny things and made the class laugh. And I didn’t like that everyone thought I was quiet and boring and a Priscilla. I wanted to turn to Ms. Cotton and say, in a loud voice, “No, I’m not shy. I’m a future author extraordinaire.”

  But I didn’t.

  * * *

  I did a lot of sitting by myself, by the swings, during those first few days of kindergarten. I tried to play with the other kids. But even though I built a block castle with a girl named Sophie and had a monkey bar contest with Tim #1, I was always thinking and worrying about what to say. So when I played block castles, I wanted to make up stories about the people who lived inside them, but decided against it, and Sophie looked kind of bored and went to play with the bouncing balls instead. And when I played with Tim #1 on the monkey bars, he pretended to be a monkey, so I began to be an elephant who used her trunk to do monkey bar tricks. But then Tim #1 got confused because he said monkeys and elephants don’t do the same things. I wanted to explain that no, I’d made up a story about an elephant and a monkey who trained together at the circus and were famous for their daring deeds. Only I suddenly didn’t know if I should share my story with him, so I just said quietly, “Oh, okay. I’ll be a monkey too.”

  I didn’t have a very good time for the rest of that recess, and I think Tim #1 thought I was weird, and I definitely didn’t seem like someone worth knowing.

  So even though my dad said, “Cilla, sweetie, at least give it a week,” I despaired.

  As writers do.

  * * *

  The only person in kindergarten who didn’t make me feel quaky and nervous inside was Ms. Lynn, the kindergarten helper, who was in our classroom every other day. Ms. Bloom reminds me of her. She had short hair that was brown and spiky and two earrings in one of her ears. She loved reading, and she told me that she used to make up stories about a platypus named Petulia who had adventures while she was at school. So I knew that Ms. Lynn had a great imagination, and an appreciation for excellent names. Also, she was very nice.

  It was Ms. Lynn who would come check on me during snack time when I was sitting by myself. It was Ms. Lynn who would tell me that she liked how I used pink for the sky instead of blue, because “why not?” And it was Ms. Lynn who told us about the book project.

  The book project should’ve been very exciting for me, since writing is my life’s work and all. It went like this:

  We were writing a class book.

  Every student would write and illustrate one page, and your page would pick up where the last person’s page left off. This meant that everyone would know a tiny bit of the story, but not the whole thing. We would take turns meeting with Ms. Lynn so she could help us with our page and show us the page that came before. Then she’d put our book together over the weekend, and Ms. Cotton would read it to the class on Monday, and it would be an exciting surprise for all of us.

  I wasn’t sure about the whole group-authorship thing, especially if Ms. Cotton was involved. And I was right to worry. Because when my turn for the book project came, not only did my page come after Billy Lane’s (who, between you and me, is a Very Boring Individual), but to top it all off, Ms. Lynn was out sick that day, so Ms. Cotton herself was going to help me write it.

  By this point, I knew that I didn’t like Ms. Cotton, no matter how literal her hair was. And on that fateful afternoon, when she called me up to her desk, my words vanished.

  Here is an account of what happened, told exactly how I remember it happening. This may not, however, be what Ms. Cotton would remember happening, because there’s a large part of the conversation that she didn’t hear:

  Ms. Cotton: Well, Priscilla, here’s what the page before yours, which Billy has written, is going to say: “And then the cat had some milk, because she was thirsty.”

  Me on the Inside: Is that it?

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Isn’t that a nice place to build our page from?

  Me on the Inside: No, it’s actually very boring. Just like Billy.

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: There are so many things you can imagine happening after just this one page! [She looks at me, like she’s expecting something.]

  Me on the Inside: You don’t get out much, do you?

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: So, can you think of what you’d like your page to say?

  Me on the Inside: No.

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Don’t worry, Priscilla, making stories is much harder than it looks.

  Me on the Inside: Yes, I know. I Struggle with my art every day.

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: What do you usually do after you’ve had a drink?

  Me on the Inside: “Pee” is probably not the right answer.…

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Well?

  Me on the Inside: Wait, maybe “pee” is the right answer…?

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Do you have a snack?

  Me on the Inside: Oh. I guess. Though I wouldn’t write a story about it.

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Well, what if she was hungry, maybe she wanted some food to go with the milk?

  Me on the Inside: This book isn’t going to be a bestseller, is it?

  Me on the Outside: [Silence]

  Ms. Cotton: Well, Priscilla?

  Me on the Inside: Art is dead.

  Me on the Outside: [in a very small, quiet voice] Okay. She got a cookie, and then because she was very full and tired, she took a nap.

  Ms. Cotton: Excellent! [She writes it down on a big piece of paper.] Well done. Now, you can illustrate your page during free time.

  Me on the Inside: Sigh.

  Me on the Outside: [very quietly] Okay.

  [Exit Cilla Lee-Jenkins, stage left, in despair.]

  End scene.

  Despair is an excellent theme to end this chapter on. It’s how I feel right now. I’m at home, writing on my mom’s office rug. And when I got off the bus this afternoon, I was in so much despair that I maybe started crying (even though I didn’t want to, because that’s being a baby, just like Colleen said I was). And I told my dad about how Colleen’s not my friend anymore, and I need to switch schools and go somewhere really far away like Alaska, and I said the wrong thing, and my feelings are hurt, and trolls would be better.

  “Cilla, sweetie,” my dad said, after giving me hugs, and having me take some deep breaths, and then asking me to tell the story in order with just the facts. (Apparently, it’s confusing when you include the part about trolls.)

  “It sounds like Colleen is having a hard time right now,” my dad went on. “She shouldn’t have said what she did, and I’m sure she knows you care about her. Tomorrow, you two can apologize and talk about what happened.”

  But that sounds like
a conversation I don’t know how to have. Because it sounds like I’d need words that aren’t just in my head, or aren’t just a part of a story.

  And I don’t know if I have those.

  6

  KINDERGARTEN, PART II. LESS OF A STRUGGLE, PLUS ROCKET SHIPS

  The school bus can be a lonely place. Colleen isn’t here. My dad talked to Colleen’s mom on the phone yesterday, and they spoke about Colleen’s grandma (who’s okay, which was a BIG relief). And then they talked about something my dad called “trouble in paradise” (which doesn’t sound good, but with all the other TERRIBLE things going on, I decided not to ask). Apparently, Colleen’s feeling better and will be in school later today. But she’s staying at home this morning so she can talk with her grandma on the phone before the operation.

  My mom and dad said I could use my time on the bus to practice what I’d say to her. But this idea scares me. So I’m writing in my book instead.

  Plus, I don’t think my dad’s advice right now is as good as some of the advice I’ve gotten from my family in the past. Like how my Nai Nai gave me advice in kindergarten, the afternoon after my conversation with Ms. Cotton.

  “How is school?” she asked, as we walked to the bus stop on our way to Chinatown.

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  She looked down at me and raised an eyebrow.

  And then the whole story spilled out, starting with, “At first I was scared of being squished,” and ending with, “I’m terrible at expressing myself and doomed to a friendless existence!”

  I paused to catch my breath, caught up in my story. So I was surprised when I turned to my Nai Nai and she was smiling.

  “Ay yah,” she said, as if I hadn’t just told a Terrible and Awful Tale of Tragedy. “We talk, yes?”

  “Of course,” I said, confused, because that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “And you understand me?” she prodded.

  “Yes. You’re my Nai Nai.”

  “And you would say that you know me, yes, and I know you?”

  “Well, of course.” I put my hands on my hips. “But I don’t understand how this—”

  “Priscilla Lee-Jenkins, I do not know much English.”

  This startled me. “Well … yes,” I said, finally. “But—”

  “Last week, you want me to read your story, but I did not know your words. Did that stop us?”

  “No,” I said, thinking back. “I acted out the car chase until you understood, and we used your Chinese to English picture dictionary for the rest, and you taught me how to say ‘dragon’ in Chinese.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “See? You are so good at expressing, without words. So show what you want your class to know about you. Think about it and wah!”—this is the Chinese way of saying “presto!” or “abracadabra!” or “oh my!” “Just give it time,” she concluded.

  I thought about my Nai Nai’s advice all through our visit to Chinatown, and during dinner, and even during the story my mom read me that night. But it wasn’t until I was almost asleep that it hit me.

  Wah!

  Suddenly, I knew what to do.

  * * *

  But that was kindergarten, not second grade. And I didn’t know what to do today, or what to say to Colleen. So when she finally got to school, just before Quiet Time, I was nervous, and even a little scared. This was extra sad, because we both LOVE Quiet Time—it’s our favorite part of the day. During Quiet Time we sit and read, and usually I’m very excited about it, and nothing (or almost nothing) can distract me from my book, because reading is the best.

  But as it turns out, today’s Quiet Time was a little different than usual.

  Normally we sit at our desks during Quiet Time, and Ms. Bloom sits at hers and reads too. But today, Ms. Bloom said, “Let’s shake things up a little. You’ve all been so good about Quiet Time that I think you’ve earned some Special Privileges. Who wants to sit in the hangout corner today while we read?” We all raised our hands, because the hangout corner is fun, and there are colorful chairs that are soft and comfortable. “Maggie, Ben, and Sasha,” Ms. Bloom said. “Now, who wants to sit on the beanbag chairs?”

  This was an even better treat, because the beanbag chairs are squishy and GREAT, plus there are only two of them in the other corner of the classroom, so everyone raised their hands even more. “Cilla,” Ms. Bloom said, “and … Colleen.” She clapped her hands quickly. “All right, everyone, grab your books and let’s go—quiet time starts in five, four, three…”

  So I grabbed my book and raced to the beanbag chairs. I didn’t even have time to be nervous because I’d be with Colleen, or to be surprised, because Ms. Bloom usually keeps us far apart at times like this because we do something called “losing focus.”

  Quiet Time began. I sank into my beanbag chair and tried to concentrate on my book. But I couldn’t. I looked over at Colleen, in the beanbag chair right next to me. She wasn’t reading either. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was just looking down at the floor.

  I turned away quickly. Colleen was probably upset that she had to sit next to me, because she didn’t want to be my friend anymore. I decided that I was definitely moving to Alaska.

  But something made me look back. Because Colleen wasn’t looking down in an angry way, I realized suddenly. She wasn’t looking down like she didn’t want to talk to me. Colleen was looking down, and looking sad. Colleen was looking like she didn’t know what to say.

  Colleen was being shy.

  I took a deep breath. And then I called out, in my quietest whisper. “Colleen,” I said, trying not to move my mouth, because this was Quiet Time after all. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry about your grandma, and I’m sorry I didn’t say it yesterday. And I didn’t mean to only talk about The Blob.”

  “No,” Colleen whispered back, finally looking up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those things, and my mom says it was because I was upset, but that still isn’t a reason to be mean to someone else. I felt AWFUL for what I said.”

  I could feel my eyes getting funny again. And I didn’t want to be a baby, but when I looked at Colleen, she was blinking very fast, and this made me blink very fast, and then she sniffled and then I sniffled.

  “Cilla!” she said.

  “Colleen!” I said.

  And then we were hugging each other across our beanbag chairs, and I tried not to but I might have sort of wiped my nose on her shirt.

  And the funniest part is, Ms. Bloom didn’t even get mad, even though we were DEFINITELY not using our Privileges responsibly and everyone was looking at us. Ms. Bloom just walked over, still reading her book, and put a box of tissues down between us. Then she walked back to her desk and sat back down.

  * * *

  That afternoon, at recess, Colleen and I ran out to play.

  “What did you do at recess yesterday?” Colleen asked.

  “I wrote in my book,” I said.

  “What story?”

  I told her about what I’d written so far.

  “How does it end?” she asked.

  I giggled.

  “You know,” I said.

  “Tell me again,” Colleen said, bouncing up and down, and clapping her hands together. “I LOVE this story.”

  So I did.

  And now that I’m home, lying on my mom’s fuzzy rug (I tried her desk, but it was too big for me), I’ll tell you.

  First, let me set the scene.

  Setting the scene is a very important thing to do when you’re a writer. It gives your reader an idea of what it was like to be somewhere during an exciting or interesting time. So imagine, reader, that all your classmates are sitting around Ms. Cotton on the day she’s going to read from your class book.

  Ms. Cotton says, “Are you excited, everyone? We’re going to see how the story turns out, and even I haven’t seen the whole thing.” And you nod your head, along with everyone else, and you’re very excited, though maybe a little nervous too, because your work is going to be
read aloud to the whole class.

  “‘Once upon a time,’” Ms. Cotton begins, “‘there was a cat.’” (Ms. Cotton drew the first page in the story, and there’s an orange cat underneath a smiling sun, confirming your suspicions about her imagination. Specifically, that she doesn’t have one.)

  “‘The cat liked flowers, and picked some for her family.’” (Annie Abbott’s page has a white cat with pink flowers in its paws.)

  “‘Then the cat drew a picture to go with the flowers, and put it in a frame.’” (Nick Anderson, brown cat and a box of crayons.)

  “‘It was very pretty, and the cat gave the picture to her mom and she smiled.’” (Sally Bell, white cat wearing yellow slippers, which I liked.)

  And it goes like that, all the way to: “‘And then the cat had some milk, because she was thirsty.’” (Billy Lane, of course.)

  Imagine holding your breath then as the page flips to a page you know well, because it’s your page. And your first-ever public reading has begun.

  “‘And then,’” Ms. Cotton continues, then pauses, surprised, because the page has changed, and it’s covered with Ms. Lynn’s pretty cursive handwriting.

  “‘And then the cat found a rocket ship, and went to have tea with the magical princess of the moon, and ate cakes and chocolate cream puffs. And they had a great time, and the magical princess of the moon gave the kitten moondust as a present. The cat was tired from all her travels, so when she got home, she took a nap in her bed, which was made of the finest satin woven by fairy princesses, and had been given to her as a gift by the friendly troll Znod, though that’s a story for another time.’”

  And the picture along with the story is of the princess of the moon, pouring tea for the kitten next to her magical moon throne with the rocket ship waiting nearby. And underneath it all, in big letters, it says “A page by CILLA Lee-Jenkins.”