Dedication

  Dedicated to Jacob

  (IASPOWYA)

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Mr. Willow Bites His Finger

  Chapter 2 Stuck

  Chapter 3 Super Mad

  Chapter 4 A Tall Tree and Tater Tots

  Chapter 5 Here Comes Max

  Chapter 6 This Is Bad

  Chapter 7 We’ll Get a Cat!

  Chapter 8 I’m a Good Kicker

  Chapter 9 Stay Together, Stay Together

  Chapter 10 Smack!

  Chapter 11 Push and Pull

  Chapter 12 Pulling, Bracing, Zooming

  Fun and Games!

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Books by Tom Watson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  WE HAD ONLY been in our seats for a couple of minutes on Monday morning when Mr. Willow called from the front of the classroom, “Table 5!”

  “What did we do?” Simon whispered to Rosie and me. “We just got here.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Rosie said quietly back. She giggled a little. “I love how you’re already assuming that we’re in trouble.”

  Simon shrugged and said, “It’s in my nature.”

  Since those two were whispering back and forth, I figured I better answer our teacher.

  “Yes, Mr. Willow?” I called back.

  “Molly, will you three come up here?” he said and opened a manila folder. He took out a stack of papers. “You can help me pass out these math quizzes.”

  While our classmates quietly complained, Rosie, Simon, and I headed toward Mr. Willow.

  “That’s enough moaning and groaning,” Mr. Willow said to everyone as he divided the stack of paper into thirds. “You know, when I was your age, I had to take my math quizzes out in the snow in my bare feet.”

  “For real?” Simon asked.

  “Yes, Simon. For reeeaaal,” Mr. Willow said and handed him a short stack of papers. “And we didn’t have paper. We had to use tree bark to write on. And we didn’t have pens or pencils either.”

  “What did you do?” asked Simon, taking his share of the quizzes. I wasn’t quite sure if Simon believed Mr. Willow or just wanted him to continue with the joke.

  “We bit off the tips of our index fingers,” Mr. Willow answered, opening his eyes wide and pulling his left index finger close to his mouth. “We’d write the answers with our own blood!”

  Everybody thought this was funny. Whenever we complained about something, Mr. Willow liked to exaggerate and make stuff up about how tough it was back in the old days. We were used to it.

  There were nine tables in our class with three kids at each table. Rosie passed out the quizzes to the back row of three tables. I handled the middle row. And Simon took care of the front row closest to Mr. Willow’s desk.

  It only took a minute.

  Well, it only took me and Rosie a minute.

  When we were done, Rosie said, “Molly.”

  I turned my head toward her. She pointed at Simon.

  And that’s when the trouble started.

  SIMON WAS STILL at his first table. He hadn’t handed out a single quiz.

  He was standing in front of Lizzy Jacobsen at Table 7. Simon had one of the math quizzes in his right hand. And he was sort of shaking it at her.

  Not in a mean way. It was more like in a frustrated way—like he couldn’t let go of it or something. He shook his hand harder, but the quiz stayed stuck there. Finally, he used his left hand to peel the quiz loose and hand it to Lizzy.

  Lizzy looked at it and said, “Gross.”

  Mr. Willow had not noticed any of this. His back was turned as he wrote today’s schedule on the whiteboard.

  Once Lizzy had her paper, Simon handed a quiz to Billy Price.

  I should say he tried to hand a quiz to Billy Price.

  It didn’t work out very well.

  The same thing happened. Billy’s quiz was stuck to Simon’s right hand. He shook it at him, but it didn’t come loose. He shook it harder and the paper rustled loudly.

  “What is he doing?” I whispered to Rosie. We were back at Table 5 now. “Is he doing that on purpose?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Simon shook it harder—and it rustled even louder.

  This got Mr. Willow’s attention. He turned around.

  “Uh-oh,” Rosie said.

  Simon shoved his right hand and the quiz toward Billy.

  “Just take it,” Simon said. I think he knew that Mr. Willow was looking now. Everybody was looking.

  Billy grabbed the edge of the paper and pulled.

  Riiiiiip!

  Billy got half of his quiz.

  The other half was still stuck to Simon’s hand.

  “Simon, what is going on?” Mr. Willow asked loudly. It wasn’t a mean voice, but it sure wasn’t friendly either.

  Simon didn’t answer. He just held his hand palm out toward Mr. Willow, showing him that one-half of Billy’s math quiz was stuck there. And now we could all see that there were splotches of brown stuff on Simon’s hand.

  “What is that?” Mr. Willow asked. “On your hand?”

  “Sap.”

  “Sap?”

  “Yeah,” Simon answered and pushed his hand closer so Mr. Willow could see better. “Like from a tree.”

  “I know what sap is, Simon,” Mr. Willow said and closed his eyes for two seconds. “I’m just wondering why it’s on your hands. And, more importantly, why it’s tearing my quizzes.”

  “It’s a long story,” Simon answered and tried to peel the rest of the paper off with his other hand. “See, this morning I was at Picasso Park and—”

  “Stop,” Mr. Willow said and shook his head. He wasn’t mad or anything. It just looked like he wanted to get the school day started. “Go wash your hands.”

  “It’s super sticky,” Simon said. “I washed them, like, a million times already.”

  “Try a million more,” Mr. Willow said as he took the quizzes from Simon and began to pass the rest of them out.

  Simon went to the boys’ bathroom.

  When Simon finally told us the whole story, Rosie and I knew it was bad news.

  GREAT NEWS! YOU’VE ALREADY READ TWO CHAPTERS, FOURTEEN PAGES, AND 957 WORDS.

  SIMON COULDN’T TELL us about the tree sap on his hands during science. That’s because the three of us were in different groups.

  At the beginning of science, each group took a big oak tree leaf that Mr. Willow had collected that morning. We put the leaf in a shallow bowl of water on the windowsill in the sunshine. Then Mr. Willow talked for a long time about how plants convert the sun’s light energy into oxygen and release it.

  At the end of science period, we observed our leaves—and they had tiny bubbles around their edges. That was oxygen being released. It was pretty cool.

  We got our chance to talk to Simon during silent reading time. He sat in the middle of Table 5. That way when he whispered, Rosie and I could both hear him.

  We held our books up in front of our faces so Mr. Willow wouldn’t see us talking.

  We whispered the whole time.

  Rosie asked, “What’s the deal with the tree sap on your hands?”

  “I was at Picasso Park yesterday,” Simon said. You could tell something was bothering him a lot. “And Max Brutus was there too. He was practicing soccer—just juggling and taking shots at the net. I can’t believe how hard that dude can kick. It’s like a rocket!”

  Rosie and I knew who Max Brutus was: He was the biggest and strongest kid in our grade. He always won at dodgeball—and everything else—in gym. He even knocked Hector Cruz over with a dodgeball throw once.

  “So how does Max being at the park lead to you getting tree sap all over your hands?” asked Rosie.

  “I asked him if I could practice with him,” Simon replied. “And he said yes. I was surprised because he’s kind of a grumpy guy, you know? But anyway, we each took turns in goal. We took five shots each and then switched. He’s really good—and strong. He kicks like a high schooler.”

  I peeked over my book. Mr. Willow was reading at his desk—and not looking at us. I ducked my head back down and asked, “What about the tree sap?”

  “I’m getting to that part,” Simon said. “After a little while, Max had to go home. And I asked him if I could keep playing with his soccer ball. It’s a really nice one. It’s a replica of the ball they used when the World Cup was here in the United States. It looks like the real thing!”

  “Did he say yes?” Rosie asked.

  Simon nodded and said, “As long as I bring it back to him today.”

  I asked, “So what happened?”

  “I was punting it real high, just messing around,” Simon said. You could tell this was when something bad happened. “You know I can kick good too. And I—”

  Simon stopped then. It was like he didn’t want to talk anymore.

  “You what?” asked Rosie.

  “I accidentally kicked it into the top of a really tall tree,” Simon said. “That really big pine tree by the basketball court. And it got stuck.”

  “Oh no,” I said. I knew that tree. It was the tallest tree in Picasso Park.

  Simon squeezed his eyes shut and said, “He’s going to be super mad.”

  “You’re right,” somebody said. “He is going to be super mad.”

  It wasn’t Rosie who said it. Or me. Or Simon.

/>   It was Mr. Willow.

  MR. WILLOW WASN’T talking about Max Brutus being super mad that Simon got his ball stuck in a tree. He was talking about himself being super mad because we were talking. In class. Again.

  He stood behind our table. He looked really tall standing over us like that.

  “Rosie,” he said. “Can you look at the whiteboard and tell me what number three says on today’s schedule?”

  “It says ‘Silent reading time.’”

  “And Molly,” he said, turning his head to stare at me. “Are the three of you silent?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And Simon,” Mr. Willow said, glaring at him now. “Are the three of you reading?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He pointed at each of us and then at our books. Then he growled. It wasn’t a funny, playful growl. It was more like an I-better-not-have-to-tell-you-again growl.

  So we didn’t talk—until lunch.

  We found a table to ourselves. For lunch, we had a grilled cheese sandwich, tater tots, an orange, and a brownie. It was a really good lunch for me. That’s because the grilled cheese sandwich was cut in two—and I only eat things in even numbers. And there were eight tater tots, so I didn’t have to give any to Simon or Rosie—it was already an even number.

  And Simon’s favorite dessert is brownies. So I looked forward to giving him mine.

  “So you kicked Max’s special World Cup soccer ball into a tree?” Rosie asked, reminding us where we were in the conversation.

  “Not just any tree,” Simon said. “The tallest tree in Picasso Park.”

  “And that’s how you got sap on your hands?” I asked. “You tried to climb the tree?”

  “I did climb it this morning,” Simon said, tossing three tater tots in his mouth. “I thought about it all night. But this morning I couldn’t climb high enough. That dumb ball is almost at the top. I got as high as I could, but I could feel the tree trunk start to bend with my weight. I got kind of scared and had to stop.”

  “Simon!” Rosie exclaimed. “I know that tree! You can’t climb that high. It’s totally dangerous!”

  “Yeah,” Simon said and squeezed his little paper cup of ketchup into his mouth. “But it’sh not as dangeroush ash not giving Max hish ball back.”

  “Wait,” Rosie said, shaking her head. “Did you just put your tater tots in your mouth and then the ketchup after?”

  Simon nodded.

  “You don’t dip them in the ketchup and then eat them?” I asked.

  “Not anymore,” Simon said. He had swallowed it all now. “Smart, right?”

  Rosie asked, “How is it smart?”

  “It totally saves time,” Simon said. And to demonstrate, he shoved four more tots into his mouth and squeezed the rest of his ketchup in. He chewed and mumbled, “It’sh way more efficientsh.”

  “It’s way more something,” Rosie said and laughed.

  And then she stopped laughing.

  Someone was standing over us again.

  THIS TIME, IT wasn’t Mr. Willow standing over us.

  It was Max Brutus. He was wearing his red-and-black Evanston Eagles soccer jersey. It was stretched tight around his biceps. He’s a big dude.

  “Umm,” Simon said, looking up at him. “Hi, Max. How’s it going?”

  “Bowman,” Max said. He only calls his close friends by their first names. For everybody else, Max only uses last names. And Simon’s last name is Bowman. “Do you have my—”

  “Hey, Max!” Simon interrupted. He was obviously trying to keep Max from asking about his World Cup soccer ball. “I was just showing Molly and Rosie a new way I eat tater tots! Check it out!”

  Simon grabbed four tater tots—two off my tray and two off Rosie’s—and shoved them into his mouth. He grabbed my ketchup cup and squeezed it in after the tots. Then he looked up at Max, chewing and smiling.

  Max sort of squeezed his left eye shut slightly and scrunched his mouth over to one side. He said, “Umm. That’s great. Did you bring—”

  To help Simon, Rosie interrupted.

  “Max, can I ask you a question?” she said quickly.

  Max turned to her.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he answered. “I really just wanted to get—”

  “Great, thanks,” Rosie said even faster, not allowing Max to finish. “I was just wondering. If you were a car, what kind of car would you be?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you were a car, what kind of car would you be?” Rosie repeated. I had never heard her talk so quickly—and her voice was a little higher too. “You can pick anything. An old-fashioned car, a new one, whatever. You can even choose a pickup truck if you want. Your options are wide open. Whatever!”

  “Why do you want to—”

  “I’ll use myself as an example,” Rosie continued rapidly. “I would choose a Volkswagen Beetle. A green one! Because I’m interested in bugs. The study of bugs is called entomology! Isn’t that an interesting word? Like, it should be bugology, don’t you think? That would be way better. Anyway, what kind of car would you be?”

  Max looked confused. After five seconds, he said, “I guess I’d be a van. We have a red van and use it to go camping.”

  “Awesome!” Rosie said with great enthusiasm. “That’s a great choice.”

  “Umm, thanks,” Max said and shook his head a little. He turned back to Simon.

  “So, Bowman, where’s my—”

  It was my turn.

  “Oranges are one of my favorite fruits, Max!” I shouted.

  He yanked his head toward me and said, “What?”

  “Oranges are my favorite fruit!” I said, lowering my voice. I realized that I had just shouted. “That’s because they’re orange on the inside and orange on the outside. I love that!”

  “Okay.”

  “And look at this!” I said and pointed down at my lunch tray. I had separated my orange into its sections. “There’s ten slices. An even number! Isn’t that the best? The absolute best?!”

  “I guess.”

  Then Max shook his head again. I think he might have been trying to shake off the past three minutes of conversation. He stared down at Simon.

  “Bowman, where’s my ball?”

  UH-OH! WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL HAPPEN NEXT?

  “EXCUSE ME?” SIMON answered. I knew he didn’t say that because he didn’t hear Max. He said that because he didn’t know how to answer Max. “Um, what?”

  “I said, where’s my ball?” Max said.

  Then Simon opened his eyes really wide, like he was in absolute shock. He slapped his forehead hard.

  “Gosh darn it!” Simon exclaimed. “I totally forgot it. Sorry.”

  Max stared at Simon for a couple of seconds. It wasn’t a mean stare. It was more like a disappointed stare. Max wasn’t intimidating because he wasn’t nice, he was intimidating because he was huge. Like, you know, massive.

  “It’s all right, Bowman,” he said after that two-second stare down. “But we’re playing for the championship at five o’clock at Picasso Park. And it’s my lucky ball. Bring it to me there.”

  “Okay,” Simon said quickly and nodded his head fast. “I’ll bring it.”

  Max seemed satisfied with that, but he wanted to make certain. He asked, “You’ll bring it, right?”

  “Right,” Simon replied. “Five o’clock. Got it.”

  “For sure?”

  “For sure.”

  Max left.

  Simon waited until Max was on the other side of the cafeteria, then he said, “You guys, what am I going to do?”

  It was a totally bad situation. Max’s favorite World Cup soccer ball was stuck in the top of Picasso Park’s tallest tree. The tree was way too high—and way too flimsy at the top—to climb. It would be dangerous for sure.

  “Maybe it will be really windy this afternoon,” I said, trying to make Simon feel better. “Maybe we’ll go to Picasso Park after school and the ball will just be there at the foot of the tree waiting for you.”

 

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