Penelope Crumb Never Forgets Read Free Page B

you think we should remember those people?”
    He shrugs. “I’ve never been much for museums myself. But I think there are plenty of people we should remember, even if their stuff doesn’t make it into a museum.” He pulls at his long hair. “But that’s why you yelled for real?”
    I nod. “And also Patsy and Vera and their matching necklaces.”
    Mr. Drather folds his arms across his chest. “Sounds to me like maybe you’re the one that was skipped over.”
    And when I think about Patsy Cline, I think maybe he’s right.

4.
    M iss Stunkel sends a note home. It’s the fifth one this year, but I’m hoping my mom isn’t keeping track.
    I don’t have to read the note in order to know what it says.
    Dear Mrs. Crumb,
    Penelope just can’t seem to be able to keep her mouth shut. Especially when it comes to talking about dead things. Please see what you can do to keep her quiet in my class. Or else I may have to kill her with an umbrella.
    Sincerely,
    Miss Stunkel, who is a mean Mary
    When I pull the envelope from my toolbox, my mom shakes her head and gives me a look that says, What Am I Going to Do With You? So I answer, “Get me a new fourth-grade teacher.”
    She must not know what to say about that, because she puts her feet in our broken dryer, which she uses as a desk, and then stares off at the new drawing she’s working on. Mom draws pictures of people’s insides for books that doctors read. And this one is on brains.
    I prop myself up against our washing machine next to her. “Is that what my brains look like? They have a lot of wrinkles.”
    “Penelope Rae.” She has a way of saying my name like it’s one of the gross insides she draws. (Brain wrinkles, for example.)
    I change the subject. “Did you know that the Portwaller History Museum caught on fire and some of the stuff in it burned all up?”
    Mom is still reading Miss Stunkel’s note, so all she says is “humph” and then nothing else.
    “Can I borrow fifteen dollars?”
    That gets her attention. She stops reading and says, “Not on your life.”
    “Why not?”
    She says, “There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t give you fifteen dollars, I want to hear a reason why I should.”
    “Because I want to buy something at the Portwaller History Museum. A necklace.”
    She waves the note at me. “According to this, you were there today. Why didn’t you just buy it then? Too busy getting into trouble, I guess.” She folds up the note and sticks it back into the envelope. “Where’s all your money?”
    But before I can tell her I gave it all to the museum, an alien attack is launched against me. From behind, Terrible flicks my ears, and when I lift up my hands to cover them, he gets me in my armpits. “Yeeow!”
    Soon after my brother, Terrence, turned fourteen, he was snatched by aliens. The aliens returned him, but when they did, he wasn’t the same. He was Terrible. I’ve already written a letter to NASA about his alien ways, but until they write back, all I can do is keep a close watch on him.
    Mom says, “Leave your sister alone.”
    This is impossible for aliens to do.
    “Have you seen my gray jacket?” he asks, flicking me again.
    “I washed it,” says Mom. “It’s drying on the balcony.”
    “You washed it! What for?” (Here’s a fact: Aliens like to smell bad.) Terrible gives my ears another flick and then steps over the piles of Mom’s schoolbooks and onto our tiny porch.
    Mom slides a drawing pencil behind her ear and fingers Miss Stunkel’s note. “We’ll talk about this more after we meet with your teacher.”
    “What do you mean? Why do we have to meet with her?” I take the note out of her hand and read it. The note doesn’t say anything about killing me with an umbrella, but it does say she wants to talk about my behavior. I keep reading.
    “Hold the phone,” I say when I get to the part where Miss Stunkel says I often “exhibit odd behavior.” Odd? It’s not like I eat paste or dip my food in