Cloudy with a Chance of Boys Read Free Page B

part of Juliet, hope Scott gets the part of Romeo, and convince Mr. Cannon that you can’t do
Romeo and Juliet
without at least one kissing scene.
Sock Monkey:
Details, details.

I glanced up at the clock on the wall — 1:29 and the crowds are getting restless.
    No wonder. We’ve spent the last twenty-nine minutes smushed like sardines on the bleachers with hundreds of antsy sixth graders and rowdy seventh graders in the multipurpose room, waiting for the assembly to start.
    Olivia and I have been through our share of Author Day assemblies together. Once, back in kindergarten, this grumpy teacher yelled at me for telling the Author a story about putting a rubber ear in Joey’s spaghetti (that joke never gets old), and Livvie stood up for me and said it was a funny story. We’ve been best friends ever since.
    “Who’s the author supposed to be, anyway?” I asked Liv.
    “You know it’ll be some guy who tells seriously lame jokes.”
    Afternoon forecast: Cloudy with a chance of boring.
    “Or some guy whose great-great-great-great-grandfather walked the Oregon Trail,” said some kid behind us, butting into our conversation.
    I mouthed, “Who’s he?” to Olivia. She shrugged.
    The kid’s knee bumped me in the back of the head.
    “Hey!” I said, turning around to squinch my face at him. He had short sandy blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses that looked kind of cool and ungeeky. And he was wearing a black T-shirt with Oscar the Grouch peeking out of a garbage can. Go figure. I never get the shirts guys wear.
    “Sorry. My bad. I, um, it’s my second day here. I was at East, then we moved, like, 1.4 miles, and they transferred me to West.”
    “Interesting,” I said. “Not!” I mouthed to Olivia, and she started giggling.
    “Hey, I mean, aren’t you in my Earth Science class?” he asked.
    “Me? No,” said Olivia, shaking her head.
    He was looking at me. “I don’t know. Am I?” I said.
    “Yeah. With that guy. What’s his name? Mr. Petri Dish.”
    Olivia and I couldn’t help laughing a little. “Mr. Petry. Minus the dish. Um, word of advice? You better not let him hear you calling him that, or you’ll be staying after to wash all his Petri dishes till they sparkle.”
    Ms. Carter-Dunne leaned forward from her seat at the end of the row and put a finger to her lips to shush us.
    The assistant principal was yammering on about something. I’m not into being a rowdy sixth grader, but I am into telling Olivia the whole story about the storm and the power outage and the Sisters Club with the you-know-what in the fire and hoping my hair would not turn green.
    “Speaking of green,” I said, “did I mention I have a new roommate? Joey adopted a frog. After the storm. She doesn’t know I know.”
    “Wait,” said Olivia, “so now you have a frog living in your room? For real?”
    “Frog? Who lives with a frog?” Wire Rims asked Olivia.
    “Don’t you know it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?” Olivia said.
    “Sorry. Couldn’t help overhearing.”
    She turned back to me. “Where were we? Oh, yeah. You were burning a troll doll and wishing for stuff and —”
    Ms. Carter-Dunne glared at us.
    “Shh! Stop saying troll doll,” I warned, making fierce eyes at Olivia.
    “Did you guys say Roald Dahl? Is that who the author is? For real?”
    “Yeah, that’s who it is. Except for one teeny-weeny detail. Roald Dahl is dead!” Olivia told him.
    “Too bad,” I joked. “I love his book James and the Giant Eavesdropper.” Olivia and I cracked up.
    Just then, the principal came out and tapped on the microphone. He cleared his throat and the room settled down to a dull roar. Behind him stood a guy with greased-back hair, wearing a black-and-white suit.
    “Boys and girls,” the principal started, and Olivia whispered, “Uh-oh, bad news.” Whenever the principal starts out with “Boys and girls,” it’s bad news.
    “I know you’ve all been looking forward to Author Day (we