Little Sister Is Not My Name Read online

  I still want to help, so I dig down into my bag once more and this time I pull out a small handheld fan. I turn it on and it blows cool air on his face. It seems to help.

  “Thanks. That feels good, Sassy. What else do you have in that bag you carry?”

  I don’t want the whole class to know all my secrets, so I just pull out a couple of things.

  “An ink pen that writes in six different colors,” I say as I place it on the floor in front of his face. “Sunglasses in case the weather is nice, and mittens in case it’s not!”

  “Sassy’s bag is so cool,” Jasmine says.

  “You got any grease in there?” Tandy asks. “Maybe we can make his head slippery and slide Travis out!”

  I shake my head no and put my stuff back into my bag.

  “Suppose they can’t get you loose?” Ricky says to Travis. “You’d have to spend the rest of your life on your knees with a chair around your head!”

  “How would you go to the bathroom?” Rusty adds. “Yuck!”

  Most kids laugh, but not Travis.

  Two guys in cool blue uniforms, not boring like ours, rush into the room then. Their uniforms are decorated with shiny gold buttons and trim. They move me and my little fan out of the way.

  The principal, Mrs. Bell, comes into the room also. She’s a skinny lady with a squeaky voice. She’s got a walkie-talkie in her hand and she’s squeaking orders into it. She sounds worried.

  “Let’s see if we can get you out of there, son!” the first guy says. “My name is Leo, and you must be Travis.”

  “Hey, Leo,” Travis says.

  “And you can call me Ron,” the second guy announces. “Can you breathe, Travis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does anything hurt?” Leo asks.

  “Just my neck a little, from where I tried to get loose.”

  The two guys take his temperature and his pulse, which I think is really dumb. He’s not sick — he’s stuck! Travis looks really funny with a thermometer in his mouth on one end and the jacket on his backside.

  Then Ron tells the class, “I want all of you to stand back. We’re going to get your friend out now.”

  Leo says to Miss Armstrong, “If you want to take a picture, go ahead and do it now. This is a good memory!”

  Miss Armstrong hurries to her desk. “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee! My camera battery is dead!” she says with dismay.

  Only teachers say words like “fiddle-dee-dee.”

  I reach down into my Sassy Sack, pull out a disposable camera, and give it to her.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Sassy!” she says.

  Miss Armstrong snaps lots of pictures — of Travis from the back, from the front, and with all of us around him. Travis grins and loves the attention.

  Then Leo picks up a giant pair of pliers and grabs one rung of the chair. Ron does the same thing on the other side. They squeeze and pull and Travis’s head plops loose.

  The whole class cheers.

  Miss Armstrong takes more pictures — of the paramedics, the tools they used, and Travis, grinning like he is the star of a reality TV show.

  His mom shows up and runs to Travis and hugs him like he’s a little kindergartner. He doesn’t look embarrassed, even though Ricky and Rusty try to tease him.

  His mom is so glad he’s not hurt, she orders pizza for the whole class. Ricky and Rusty are quiet while we wait for the delivery.

  Licking the red stuff off his third piece of pizza, Travis walks over to me. “Thanks for the LifeSavers, Sassy,” Travis says. “I don’t know if they saved my life, but they sure did taste good!”

  That makes me smile.

  The rest of the day goes real fast. We run out of time and miss math class. When the last bell rings, we all thank Travis.

  Mom takes me to school each morning, but I take the bus home. Since we live on a corner, the school bus drops me off right in front of my house.

  “See ya tomorrow, Jasmine,” I say as I get close to my stop.

  “Watch out for the killer smoke,” she warns.

  School bus fumes really stink. Me and Jasmine cover our faces every day just in case the black-and-smoky stuff is poison.

  “I’m sure the birds must hate to see our bus coming,” I tell her.

  “Can’t you hear them coughing?” she says with a laugh.

  “I think they moved their nests to the country!”

  I grab my stuff, wave to Jasmine and the driver, then cover my nose as the bus takes off.

  I always go into the house by the back door, but the front door is open, which is a little unusual, so I decide to see what’s going on. I open the front screen, and even before I see her, I know by the smell of vanilla that Grammy is here for a visit!

  I run into the house, drop my book bag on the floor, and lose myself in one of Grammy’s yummy, ice cream–flavored hugs. Nothing can go wrong when Grammy hugs me. Nothing.

  “Grammy!” I shout with excitement. But it sounds like mush when I say it because my mouth is deep in the hug.

  “How’s my saucy Sassy Simone today?” Grammy asks me when I come up for air.

  “Super, now that you’re here, Grammy,” I tell her honestly. “How long are you staying?” I ask. I’m jumping with excitement.

  “Just long enough,” she says with a smile.

  I know Sabin has violin lessons, and Sadora has play practice, so I snuggle on the sofa with Grammy while I have her all to myself. I can hear Mom in the kitchen fixing dinner.

  Grammy is my mom’s mother. That means my mom was once a little girl like me. That’s hard to imagine.

  My grammy is magic. Honest. When she comes to visit at Christmas, it always snows just in time for Christmas Day! Mom says when she was a little girl, Grammy was very strict and not magic at all. But I don’t believe her.

  I glance over at the large cloth bag that Grammy brings with her on every trip. It’s a big version of my Sassy Sack, only Grammy’s bag is orange and gold and black and green, and is made from cloth she got on one of her many trips to Africa. We call it her “Grammy Bag.”

  I think Grammy made my Sassy Sack for me because she knows how much I love to dig down into her bag for surprises when she comes to visit. In her Grammy Bag she always brings books and treats for me and Sabin and Sadora.

  “Soooo,” I ask Grammy casually, moving even closer to her. “Did you bring me anything?” I wiggle with anticipation.

  “Maybe,” Grammy says slowly.

  “A book?” I ask hopefully. I think I have three hundred books. Grammy bought me at least half of them.

  Grammy bought me my very first book when I was three months old. Mom has a picture of me holding that little cloth book with a look of real wonder on my face. I still feel like that when I read.

  When other kids are bored and they pull out their video games, I pull out a book. I keep one in my Sassy Sack at all times.

  “What’s your favorite kind of book?” Grammy asks, even though she already knows the answer.

  “Fiction!” I tell her.

  “You mean books about flying rabbits and magical wizard weasels that have laser beams for eyes?”

  I giggle. “No, Grammy. Not fantasy stories — I like stories about people who could be real.”

  “Like presidents and kings?”

  “No. Like brave girls who wear long dresses and live back before toilet paper was invented!”

  It’s Grammy’s turn to laugh. “And boys who live in the woods and survive by eating only grass and leaves?”

  “Yuck! But yes!” I say. We have this conversation every time she visits. “So did you bring me a really good book this time?” I ask, snuggling closer to her.

  “A really yummy one, Sassy,” Grammy replies with a smile.

  “Is it a mystery book?” I ask, squirming with excitement.

  “It’s got mystery in it, for sure!”

  “What about romance?” I ask, giggling.

  “Love is the most important thing in the world, so, yes, it’s
got a little romance,” Grammy says.

  Every time she brings me a book I try to guess what it’s about and she takes as long as possible to give it to me. It’s like smelling an apple pie baking in the oven — half the fun is sniffing the warm, sweet aromas and waiting for the pie to be ready to eat.

  “Any adventure?” I continue with my questions.

  “Oh, yes! A good book must have exciting activities,” Grammy assures me.

  I can’t wait much longer. “Please, Grammy! Let me see the book!”

  Grammy smiles and pulls her colorful cloth bag close to her. She reaches deep down into the bottom of it and slowly pulls out a medium-sized book. It has a bright pink cover. I’m not sure how a book can look delicious, but this one looks like it even tastes good.

  Grammy places the book in my hands and says, “I brought this for my Sassy girl all the way from Florida.”

  I take it carefully and almost tremble with excitement. The title of the book is The Crystal Ballerina.

  “Wow, Grammy! This is really cool,” I tell her as I flip through the pages. “Look at the beautiful costumes!”

  Grammy chuckles. “I knew you’d like the glitter and sparkles.”

  “It’s just perfect!” I tell her. I give her another huge hug. “Thanks, Grammy!”

  “Anything for my Sassy girl,” she says, squeezing me back.

  As I look through the bright illustrations on every other page, I ask her, “Do you get ideas for your presentations from books like this?”

  “That’s possible,” Grammy admits, “but I collect stories from all over the world. I have as many stories in my head as you have bubble gum and rubber bands in your Sassy Sack,” she teases.

  “Well, your head must be about to explode!” I tell her with a laugh.

  Grammy is a professional storyteller. She goes by the name of Sahara Senegal. I think that’s such a classy name.

  She travels to schools all over the country and tells dynamite stories to kids about Africa and China and cool places like that. She wears her hair in braids, makes her own African outfits, and knows a zillion folktales.

  When Grammy tells stories, her voice takes me to another place and time, and I make pictures in my head about the tale she is telling. I can see tall giraffes or sneaky spiders or talking monkeys. Drumbeats make her stories sing.

  The door bursts open with a whoosh, and Sabin and Sadora come rushing in. I guess Daddy didn’t forget to pick up Sadora after all.

  Sadora, the drama queen, screeches with delight when she sees Grammy on the sofa. “It’s Grammy!” she cries, like she’s announcing the lineup for a basketball game.

  Grammy grabs her and asks, “Did you get that part in the school play?”

  “I got the part! I got the part!” Sadora announces. “I might get to kiss a boy in the last act!”

  “The practices ought to be fun,” Grammy replies with a chuckle. Sadora blushes.

  Sabin noisily clumps in with his big feet and flops down on the other side of Grammy. “Hey, Grammy!” he says loudly. “I’m going to Chicago with the school orchestra! We’re gonna sleep in a hotel and I’m gonna order room service and get ten kinds of ice cream and pie!” he tells her in a rush.

  “Well, that will be exciting,” Grammy says.

  Each one tries to outtalk the other.

  I whisper “thank you” to Grammy once more, and tiptoe up the stairs to my room so I can be alone with The Crystal Ballerina.

  I open the book and it takes me away. I can smell the dust on the floor of the ballet practice hall, touch the delicate costume the girl gets to wear, feel her heartbeat as the curtain opens. I can hear the applause.

  When Mom calls me down for dinner, I have to look around and remember that I am still at home in my room, snuggled on my favorite pink pillowcase, and not on a stage.

  “Little Sister!” she calls. “Wash your hands and come and eat. We’ve got sweet-potato pie for dessert!” She doesn’t have to ask twice. I grab my Sassy Sack and hop down the stairs two at a time.

  I guess it’s because Grammy is visiting, but Mom has cooked a really good dinner — roast beef with carrots and onions and green beans, mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes glistening with melted butter, and soft, hot biscuits. Yummy!

  We each have tall glasses of lemonade made from Mom’s freshly squeezed lemons.

  Sadora eats only the vegetables and refuses to touch the meat, but Sabin eats everything on his plate. He keeps one eye on the pie cooling in the kitchen. Daddy eats six biscuits. He pretends to ignore Mom’s frowns and glances at his own waistline.

  “So how long are you staying, Grammy?” Sabin asks with a mouth full of beans.

  “Long enough,” I answer with Grammy. I knew what she was going to say. Sabin sticks out his tongue at me, but I ignore him.

  “Can you stop by my school tomorrow, Grammy?” Sadora asks. “My drama teacher would love to meet you.”

  “Probably not, Sadora,” Grammy replies. “I’m already booked at another school and I’ll be there all day.”

  “Little Sister, can you pass the bowl of potatoes?” Daddy asks. He’s already had two huge servings. I know Mom wants to say something to him, but she just smiles and gives Daddy dirty looks when Grammy isn’t looking. Me and Sadora giggle while I pass him the plate of potatoes.

  “So where are you going to be tomorrow, Grammy?” Sabin asks as he sips his lemonade. He puts ten spoonfuls of sugar in it when Mom isn’t looking.

  “I’m going to visit Vista Valley Elementary School,” Grammy replies quietly.

  I jerk my head up, almost choking on my carrots. “But that’s MY school!” I say, disbelief in my voice.

  “Yes, Sassy, dear. Tomorrow I will be the visiting story-teller at your school. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “You’re going to Little Sister’s school?” Sabin asks. “No fair.”

  “Nobody asked me to come while you were a student at that school, Sabin,” Grammy replies. “I guess Sassy is just lucky.”

  “But Little Sister’s school is full of silly little kids,” Sadora whines. “The kids at my high school would treat you like a queen.”

  “Even so, Sassy’s school will be my kingdom tomorrow!” Grammy tells her.

  I feel like a glowing lightbulb. My grandmother is going to be the star at my school tomorrow. Way cool!

  I get up the next morning, still a little sleepy, and really nervous.

  What will the kids say? I wonder. What stories will Grammy tell?

  I hurry to get to the bathroom before Sabin, and I change my clothes five times before I find just the right outfit — a purple suede vest, long-sleeved pale pink blouse, and my favorite blue jeans. With my sack on my shoulder, I look almost classy.

  Classy Sassy. Sounds good. I twirl. I look pretty good in the mirror.

  Then I screech, “I can’t wear this to school! I have to wear my stupid old uniform!”

  A kid who shows up out of uniform sometimes gets sent home. So I change my clothes and stomp down the stairs. I’m really sick of wearing boring blue-and-white clothes to school!

  I gobble breakfast and we hurry off to school. I’m still feeling grumpy. Grammy rides in the backseat with me and Sadora.

  “You know, you can wear a designer dress every day, Sassy,” she tells me. “I know wearing the uniform cramps your style.”

  “How can I do that?” I mumble.

  “Style and flair come from within. If you feel elegant on the inside, you’ll look lovely no matter what.”

  “I’ll try.” But I feel pretty ordinary right now — inside and out.

  Grammy wears a long, flowing purple-and-green gown, a matching head wrap, and leather sandals with little bells on the toes and jewels on the edges.

  “You look elegant on the outside,” I tell her as I touch the fabric of her dress.

  “On the inside I always feel special,” she reminds me. “That’s what counts.”

  “I like your shoes, too. Those look like je
wels on the straps.”

  “I bought these in Egypt,” Grammy replies with a laugh. “And the jewels are made from broken soda bottles.”

  We both laugh at that.

  On the seat next to her sits a large African drum, her Grammy Bag, and a rain stick. I pick up the stick. It’s a bamboo tube, and when I turn it upside down, the little beads inside it move very quickly, swishing to the bottom of the bamboo.

  Whoosh! it says. It never ceases to amaze me how much it sounds like pouring rain.

  When Mom drops us off at school, nobody even notices Sabin this time.

  “This is my grandmother, Sahara Senegal,” I announce proudly to Jasmine and Travis. “She is the coolest grand-mother in the world.”

  Grammy shakes their hands and greets them as if she were a queen.

  As she walks, her dress even swirls like she’s royalty, and her shoes tinkle with mystery.

  I’m so proud I could almost pop. And I’m starting to feel that inside glow.

  Jasmine whispers to me, “She has a sack just like yours, Sassy!”

  “Yep! She’s way cool,” I reply.

  Jasmine proudly carries the rain stick into the school, while Travis takes the drum.

  “Whoa! This is heavier than it looks,” Travis says, trying not to lose his balance.

  “In some countries of Africa a young man your age would be out searching for just the right tree for his drum,” Grammy tells him as we walk down the hall of the school. “The boy cuts down his tree, prepares it, then he carves and decorates his own drum. It’s part of the process of growing up.”

  “I don’t know if I could do all that,” Travis admits.

  “Sure you could,” Grammy assures him. “I bet your drum would be the finest in the village.” Travis grins like Grammy has just pinned a medal on his chest.

  Miss Armstrong waits for us in the auditorium. “Good morning!” Miss Armstrong says warmly. “We are SO pleased you’ve come to visit us today. It was hard to keep the secret from Sassy.”

  Grammy replies, “I’m delighted to finally be here.” She takes the drum from Travis and places it on the stage with her bag and the rain stick.

  “You knew?” I ask the teacher.

  “And you’ve been keeping it a secret?” I turn to Grammy.