Full Cicada Moon Read Free

wait to be invited.
    I smile at the boy. He smiles back
    but doesn’t invite me to a sixth chair.

Journal
    Mr. Pease is also my English teacher.
    I’m so glad he doesn’t tell me to stand up in this class
    and answer three questions.
    â€œWelcome back from vacation,” he says.
    His bow tie is crooked, like a propeller ready to spin,
    and I imagine him soaring above our heads.
    â€œDid I say something funny, Mimi?” he asks,
    and in my mind Mr. Pease drop-lands on his
desk.
    I shake my head.
    â€œStand up, please,” he says. “We have fun in my class,
    but we work hard
    and we don’t tolerate clowns.”
    â€œYes, sir,” I say, and sit down again.
    Feet shuffle on the floor,
    and voices around me murmur, “Wooo.”
    â€œFrom now until the end of the year, you’ll be keeping a journal,”
    he says, handing out spiral notebooks from a stack on his desk.
    â€œYou’ll write, draw, collage, or whatever you want.
    But you’ll do it at least three times a week.”
    â€œDo we have to show them to you?” asks a girl beside me.
    â€œDo I see a hand, Barbara?” he asks.
    Vermont teachers are stricter than teachers in Berkeley.
    Barbara raises her hand. “Do we have to show them to you?”
    â€œYou’ll turn them in before the end of the year.”
    I raise my hand, and Mr. Pease nods.
    â€œWhat do we write about?”
    â€œWhatever you want.”
    I raise my hand again, and he says, smiling, “You still have the floor.”
    â€œWhat kind of writing can we do?”
    He leans forward. “Whatever you want, as long as I can read it.
    Experiment, try something new.”
    â€œLike poetry?” someone asks.
    â€œAs long as I can read it.”
    I know
    exactly what I will write in my journal for Mr. Pease,
    and by June, he’ll understand better
    who
I am.

Notions
    â€œThis spring, you’re going to make aprons,”
    says Mrs. Olson in home ec.
    â€œAnd next fall, you’ll wear them when you cook.”
    â€œWhy don’t we just
buy
an apron?” someone asks.
    I had the same question,
    because Mama has plenty of aprons that I can wear
    and I’d rather make a skirt.
    â€œBecause you’re learning how to sew,” Mrs. Olson says,
    passing out a paper with
Notions
printed at the top
    and a picture of the apron—
    a rectangle with a pocket and a long strip for the tie.
    It looks simple and plain.
    If Mama designed this apron, it would be a lot fancier.
    â€œWhat are notions?” someone asks.
    â€œThey’re your thread and your needles and pins.
    You can get everything in town.”
    I have a notion that Mama and I
    will go downtown this Saturday.
    I have a notion that she’ll buy one fabric
    with flowers for the bottom part
    and another fabric with stripes
    for the tie and pocket.
    Then she will buy extra fabric for a ruffle
    and rickrack for a trim.
    And I have notion
    that if I sew this apron very fast,
    I’ll have time to make a skirt.

Science Class
    The last class of my first day
    is science.
    My teacher, Mrs. Stanton, has curly hair
    like mine, but hers is light-brown-turning-silver.
    She wears a forest green skirt that flares,
    a beige turtleneck,
    and a cardigan buttoned at the top like a cape.
    Her glasses are on a chain.
    â€œIt will be May before we know it,”
    she says, leaning against her desk,
    â€œand time for the Science Groove.”
    She waits—for the kids to say something
    or clap, but all they do is lean on their arms
    or doodle, or yawn and stick out their legs.
    They all know what she’s talking about. But I don’t.
    I want to ask what the Groove part is all about.
    My arm aches to rise. But,
    since I already feel like Mama’s
maneki-neko
,
    I wait
    for someone else to ask.
    â€œI’ll help you choose a project,” Mrs. Stanton says.
    â€œYou’ll write a report and do a presentation for ten minutes.
    And
, it