Who's 'Bout to Bounce? by Deborah Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    Word. I knew this would be on the easy-breezy tip. I’m in there like swimwear! Smiling from ear to ear, I sit down on the marble bench across from the receptionist to fill out my form.
    “Excuse me, miss,” the receptionist says to me.
    I jump right up and go back to her window so she doesn’t have to talk loud. Drinka says it’s very bad for your vocal cords.
    “You’re going to need three pieces of identification. Do you have your birth certificate with you?” she asks me.
    “No, I … didn’t know I was supposed to bring it,” I mutter, my face falling flat as a pancake.
    “That’s okay. You can fill out the form and leave it here, then come back with your ID when you have it,” she says nicely. “You can see a job placement counselor any time from nine to five, Monday through Friday.”
    Where’s the trapdoor in the floor when you need it? How am I gonna get out of this one?
    “You know, I have to go home now anyway, because I have to baby-sit,” I fib, but I’m so embarrassed because I know the receptionist
knows
I’m fibbing. She’s probably wondering where my bib is!
    Not batting an eyelash, the receptionist says, “Sure, just come back another time, and bring your birth certificate, social security card, and a letter from one of your teachers. We just need proof that you’re fourteen years old and attending school. You understand.”
    She knows I’m not fourteen! I walk out the door with my Cheetah tail between my legs. I walk past a big hole in the middle of Eldridge Street, where they’re doing construction work. I wish I could just fall into that hole and disappear, and save everybody the trouble of having to put up with me!

Chapter
7
    Mornings are always madness in my house, because all the kids try to get their breakfast at the same time, and “make some noise,” like they’re at a concert or something. Kenya is banging her spoon on the table. Topwe is playing his mouth like a boom box, and Twinkie is jumping up and down, trying to reach the knob on the cupboard over the sink.
    “Twinkie, sit down, baby. I’m gonna get your cereal,” Mrs. Bosco says, yawning and opening the cupboard. “Which box you want?”
    “Oatmeal,” Twinkie announces. In our house, there are no brand names with cute pictures of leprechauns or elves—just “no name,” Piggly Wiggly supermarket stuff, with big black letters that say Corn Flakes, Rice, Beans and on and on till you could yawn.
    “I want toast! I want toast!” Kenya yells, then thumps her elbow down on the counter.
    “Kenya!
Can ya
please hush up!” Twinkie says, exasperated, causing all the kids to burst into a chorus of giggles.
    “What’s so funny?” Mrs. Bosco says, turning around to look at us, and pushing her bifocal glasses farther up her nose.
    “Kenya,
can ya
, please hush up. Get it?” I volunteer.
    “Oh.” Mrs. Bosco chuckles, pouring the milk into Twinkle’s cereal. “I’m sorry, Kenya, but you gonna have to have cereal today—so
can ya
please eat it before my nerves leave town?”
    That’s good for another round of hysterical giggles. Mrs. Bosco just smiles, and wipes her hands on a dish towel. “And y’all better hurry up, because we ain’t got all day to get to school.”
    Kenya sticks her lip out as far as she can, then gets up from the table and storms out of the kitchen.
    “I’ll go get some bread. I’ll be right back,” I moan, then tell Kenya to come back to the table. I don’t have time to fight with her today, even though she can be such a pain.
    She doesn’t say anything, but she does act like she feels a little guilty, so I can see that the little talk I had with her before bed last night must have made a difference. I explained to her how lucky we are to live here, and how sick Mrs. Bosco is, and how stealing kids’ stuff at school isn’t going to make her
any
friends.
    I guess Mrs. Bosco was right, asking me to talk to her. The littler kids all listen to me—kinda like I was