Bernice Buttman, Model Citizen by Niki Lenz

Author:Niki Lenz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2019-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

I kicked rocks all the way home from school that afternoon.

Don’t that beat all? For the first time in my life I was trying to be good, do well in school, make friends, and stay outta trouble. And I still found myself sitting in the principal’s office apologizing for an honest-to-God accident.

I stumbled as a car whizzed by me on the road. I had half a mind to give up. What was the point, anyway? Momma and Lloyd had most likely spent all my money, and weeks had gone by without adding a single cent to my bank account. If I did somehow manage to scrape together enough cash to get to stunt camp, I was sure Imogene would figure out a way to get me detention over the summer.

I needed some time to myself, so I skirted past the back door of the abbey and pushed through the heavy front doors to the sanctuary.

It was dark and quiet inside. The afternoon light streamed in from the stained-glass windows, and the plank floors creaked beneath my feet. I took a seat in the last row of pews and dropped my backpack at my feet. The sanctuary smelled like old hymnals and lemon wood polish, and it made me tangled-up homesick for the library and Ms. Knightley.

What would Ms. Knightley tell me to do?

She’d say “This too shall pass.” And that I shouldn’t give up on my dream. She’d say I should use my brains to do what needed to be done. She always called me a resourceful girl.

Well, that was all fine and good for the Old Bernice Buttman. I could solve just about any problem I came across by pounding someone and taking the answer. But the New Bernice Buttman was trying hard not to punch anyone. And besides, kindergarten milk money wouldn’t be enough to get me to camp.

My thumb smudged a shiny gold plaque on the pew in front of me: DONATED BY THE CONNER FAMILY, 1925. I thought about all those donations for imaginary Farkle, which had never even made it to my stunt camp fund. And that’s when I saw the offering basket, sitting up on the table at the front of the church. Sitting all alone up there, like someone forgot to put it away, a beam of sunlight resting on it like a spotlight.

I stood up, but my feet wouldn’t move.

There wouldn’t be any money inside. Someone was in charge of putting the money in a safe place after the service on Sunday, right? It was definitely empty. I’d take a quick look.

I walked to the front of the sanctuary, and Jesus-on-the-cross gave me the stink eye as I reached for the offering basket. It was full of cash.

My hands started to shake, and I looked around to make sure I was still alone. No one was nearby, but the saints in the stained glass had their eyes on me. Finally some justice for ol’ Bernice! A pretty pile of cash left unattended, almost like it was meant for me.

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