How to Outrun a Crocodile When Your Shoes Are Untied by Jess Keating Read Free Book Online Page B

the flute. I know, I can see your face now all scrunched up and mad at me. I really am sorry. I know we can still be best friends from where we are too!
    Love and milkshakes (the strawberry kind),
    Liviola XOXO
    Can you believe it?
    I must have stared at all those exclamation marks for an hour, wondering how they had the nerve to look so happy and upbeat in such an awful e-mail.
    It didn’t matter what I did. Liv was gone . Officially, one hundred percent, not coming back gone , and I knew it. No wishing would fix that now. How could something be so true yet still feel so wrong? All day long, I kept picturing her millions of miles away, acting completely happy to be without her best friend. Why couldn’t I do the same?
    I yanked myself back to reality and forced myself to sit taller. I just had to make it through the rest of the school year. Ms. Fenton’s familiar writing was scrawled out on the chalkboard, spelling out My Seventh-Grade True Self in loopy cursive. She had surrounded it with blue and green stars. A small ray of hope blossomed in my chest to see her cheerful writing.
    Apart from sleep-in Saturdays and ice-cream sundaes, art class was one of my favorite things in the world. On our first day at the beginning of the year, Ms. Fenton had given us all a fabric-covered notebook, saying it could be for words or doodles, or even recipes or a stamp collection. Anything , she’d said, that gets your creative self buzzing. I’d always liked doodling, especially animals from the zoo, but it wasn’t until meeting Ms. Fenton that I realized some people made art for a living . I couldn’t picture myself doing that, but I loved the feel of having a pencil in my hand and the scritchy-scratch sound as I doodled on the paper. I filled up that first notebook in just three weeks, and she’d kept on giving me fresh ones every time I needed one.
    My bench was closest to the window, so I was staring out at the waving trees when Ms. Fenton finally appeared in the room. I know some art teachers are pretty loopy, but Ms. Fenton was pretty put together. She has a short crop of auburn hair that curls under her ears like a model, and long fingers that always look so elegant when she draws something for us on the board. She even has a glittery ring on her thumb that she got from France. France! I can so picture her in that big art gallery with a baguette in her backpack.
    â€œListen up, my little rutabagas!” She shuffled to the front of the room with an armful of paints. Plunking them down on the bench in front of her, she hopped up onto her desk and crossed her legs. That was how cool Ms. Fenton was—she didn’t sit at her desk; she sat on it.
    â€œThe school year is almost up, and your hormones are probably turning you all into little monsters,” she said, giving the class a wink and everyone laughed. “To help ease your transition into summer, I’ve decided to go easy on you…”
    The class erupted into a cheer, which she encouraged with a little desk-dance of her own.
    â€œBy giving you one last project.”
    Cue the moaning.
    â€œDon’t worry. You’ll love it,” she reassured us.
    â€œHow about we do a project on naps?” Mark shouted, fake snoring loudly. Some teachers would get upset at outbursts like that, but in Ms. Fenton’s class, everyone seemed to be a little nicer, a little happier. She shook her head.
    â€œMaybe next year, Mark,” she said, tossing a piece of her chalk at his bench. He caught it and began doodling on the corner.
    â€œAs you can see from the board, your last project is going to be called ‘My Seventh-Grade True Self.’” The class quieted as she spoke. “All I want you to do, using whatever medium you choose, is to show me who you are today , to commemorate your time here in seventh grade.”
    A hand shot up.
    â€œDan?”
    â€œCan we use clay?” Dan asked, shoving his glasses