Otherwise Known as Possum by Maria D. Laso

Author:Maria D. Laso
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.

When it was time to go home, Teacher reminded us, “I hope you all have been working on your essays for parents’ night. If anyone would like to discuss his or her project, you may stay behind.”

Mary Grace sucked her breath in across her teeth.

“LizBetty, please sit with your hands folded until I give you your first chores.” It was the first day of my week-long punishment, doing chores after school.

One way school’s like home is all the work to be done, and not just sums or book reports. The water pail has to be kept full with fresh, cold water from the pump in the yard. The floor needs sweeping, the blackboards washing, and the erasers beating. Wood doesn’t just walk in on its own, any more than ashes from the stove carry themselves out.

Truth was, the work itself was no punishment—I’m strong and quick when I fix my mind to be. But all that quiet except for the sound of Miss Arthington’s pen and the rhythm of the clock was a special kind of torture. It was funny to me how I never heard the pendulum swinging when the room was full of learning, but in those afternoon hours, it was like to drive me mad with tick-tocking and Miss Arthington’s pen scratch-scratching along. It put me to thinking she might be writing secret notes to my Daddy, and the clock seemed to be counting down the minutes until she decided to ruin our lives forever.

On the last Friday of that punishment, Teacher finally said I could go. I ran for the door and freedom and Miss Eulah’s place, for I needed to see her about a cure. Since none of my plans seemed to be working, it was time to consult someone with more experience in such matters.

I was past the creek, over the first fence, across the gully, and up the slope when I remembered I’d left my dinner bucket. Shoot! I was running low on time, and it was getting dark. But I knew I’d need my bucket come Monday, so I turned back quick.

Often as not, when I was kept after school for doing something that did not agree with Mary Grace, she would hang around like a noose and try to be useful, which was like asking a goat to say “please.” Didn’t she have anywhere to go?

But so far I was in luck. No sign of Mary Grace in the yard. I opened the schoolhouse door quietly, hoping to avoid any unnecessary conversations.

Right off, I saw Miss Arthington was alone, back to the door. She was leaning on her desk. I saw her shoulders shake and thought she might be laughing at something on the floor. Then, from the sounds she made, I realized she was crying.

She wiped her cheek, and I saw a sheaf of pages in her hand. A letter! But who would be writing so to make her cry?

She didn’t turn, so I guessed her own snuffly noises had kept her from hearing me.

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