Especially on Rainy Days

"Wednesday is writing day!" Mrs. Morton reminded the class as the recess bell rang. "Think about what you want to write during recess!"

"Andy, we know what you're gonna write about!" said Matt Nelson, punching him on the shoulder after a quick look to make sure Mrs. Morton couldn't see them in the boys' cubbyhole corner. "'Why I Love to Read', right?"

"I don't see why not!" Andy said, pulling his new Paddington Bear book out of his backpack. He'd given up on saving them for bedtime, since Mom and Dad wouldn't let him read more than one chapter before lights-out. 

"'I don't see why not!'" Matt mimicked to his sidekicks, Eric and Peter, and as usual they burst into peals of laughter. "Bookworm Boy!" they all sang out in unison. 

“Don’t listen to them, Andy,” said Jenny, who was zipping up her coat just outside the girls’ cubbyhole corner.

“Yeah, they’re jealous,” added her friend Amber. “They probably can’t even write their own names yet. I can write mine in cursive! Can you?”

“Thanks, and yes,” Andy said. “Who wants to play kickball with those babies anyway?” Matt and his pals couldn't make him cry anymore, thank you very much!

Andy dreaded Wednesdays after recess, because he did not like to write. He loved to read, but he hated to write. He could write, of course. Miss Greenstein, his kindergarten teacher, had told his mother he was the first one in his class who could write the whole alphabet. Having accomplished that and arrived in Mrs. Morton's first grade class with some boys who could barely even read yet, he'd always figured, why should I have to write when the grown-ups already know I can? 

He'd learned soon enough, on the first Wednesday of first grade, when he'd refused to write a story and turned in a blank paper to Mrs. Morton at lunch time. That was when he'd learned Mrs. Morton did like to write, for she'd written a note for his mother and ordered him to get it signed.

Three months later, Andy remembered every word. "You're not a stupid, lazy little brat like your friends! Stop acting like one!"

"But I hate to write! It's boring! And Mrs. Morton corrects papers with a red pen, not a green one like Miss Greenstein did! I love green. I loved Miss Greenstein."

"Mrs. Morton is an idiot, Andy, but she's your teacher and school is your job! If you bring home another note like this, I'm taking your records away!"

That threat had sent Andy to his room in tears. Grandpa Jake was a jukebox repairman - now that Andy could write, he'd learned that it was 'jukebox' with a K, not 'jutebox' like Grandpa Jake pronounced it - and he'd been giving Andy old 45s for Christmas and his birthday since he was three years old. Andy could still remember how he'd told his favourite songs apart by the colour of the labels before he'd learned to read them. He hated to write, but not as much as he'd hate to lose his records. 

Now, as Andy sat bundled up under the bare oak trees lining the fence along Webster Street, wishing he were home in his room listening to his 45s while he read about Paddington's latest escapades, he thought of life without that to look forward to. What would there be to listen to without his records? Mom ranting about what he wasn't learning in that rotten school of his (which Andy didn't like either, but what could he do about it?).

Probably that and other things he'd have to remember not to repeat with other grown-ups.

He'd learned that one after Mrs. Morton had mentioned having a television in her kitchen. Andy had never heard of such a thing, and Mom had explained how blue-collar housewives liked to watch their soap operas while making dinner. Mrs. Morton wore blue dresses sometimes, but they didn’t have collars. So the next day at school, Andy had asked Mrs. Morton if she owned any shirts with blue collars. Or maybe her husband did and she ironed them for him?

Of course Mrs. Morton was so silly she hadn’t understood why Andy was asking, and so he’d made the mistake of telling her why. That had landed him with another note to Mom, but this time she'd just sat him down and given him a gentle talking-to about keeping certain things to himself. Andy never did figure out why Mom had seemed to be struggling not to laugh as she'd said it.

Andy couldn't concentrate on his book, though he didn't dare look up at the boys playing kickball or the girls playing hopscotch. He didn't need more practice struggling not to be a crybaby, after all. But he needed to think of something to write about, and he needed it now! It couldn't be blue collar housewives, whatever they were. It couldn't be snow, for he'd written about that last week after the first snow of the season. It couldn't be Christmas; that was still three long weeks away. Maybe Grandpa Jake would bring him some more records.

Records! That was it! Andy heaved a sigh of relief, and was finally able to enjoy his book again. He'd write about his records.

"No, you won't write about your records!" Mrs. Morton said to his horror ten minutes later. "They're your parents' records, not yours, and you're probably not even supposed to touch them."

"You don't know that!" Andy said, outraged.

"Don't talk to me like that, young man, and yes I do. I hear you singing those songs while you're doing your work. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, Andy? You weren't even born yet! I want you to write about something all your own, not your mother's old records."

"They're mine! My mother hates them, especially the Four Seasons. She said last week she was going to break my 'Let's Hang On' in half if I played it one more time with my room door open!"

"Oh, Andy, stop being so dramatic and get to work."

"But I don't know what to write about! I wanted to write about my records!"

Mrs. Morton looked down at him, deep in thought for a moment. "The circus, Andy. You're going to write about the circus."

"But I - "

"Just do it, Andy!" Mrs. Morton turned away. "Or else a note goes home to Mother."

Near-frozen with fright, Andy wrote his name on the story paper. That was one line, anyway. Then he got a brilliant idea: write the date on the next line. "Wednesday, December 3, 1980." It was a good thing Wednesday was the longest day of the week, he thought. Or not the longest day, but the day with the longest name. But since it was writing day, sometimes he thought it was the longest day. In his big blocky letters, the date took up another line.

Only eight more to go, if only he could think of anything to write about the circus. He thought, long and hard. What was the name of that Raggedy Ann book that Bobby's baby sister had? The Rainy Day Circus? At least a circus would be fun on a rainy day, he imagined. And he knew there were animals, but Andy knew they didn’t just sit around like the animals in the zoo. They did tricks. What kind of tricks? All Andy could think of was that time at the zoo where he’d seen the two monkeys stuck together, just before Mom had rushed him away with some comment about how little monkeys were made. That would certainly be a trick! Maybe the good kids got to ride the animals? That would certainly be more fun than just looking at them in the zoo!

What about the people at the circus? Last summer at the beach, Mom had said something about Aunt Maria looking like she belonged in a circus in her flashy gold bathing suit. Maybe at the circus it was a flying suit, since there were tricks and there wasn’t a pool?

And there were clowns, but Andy didn't like clowns. They were scary. So he'd only mention them if he got stuck with a few lines left, he decided, and he threw himself into the story of the circus.

The nightmare was over by lunch time, although Andy did have to mention clowns after all. Never mind that, though: now he was free to enjoy Paddington Bear under the oak trees at recess. No notes for Mom today!

Or so he thought until they took their seats back in class afterward. "Listen everyone," Mrs. Morton said, holding up what Andy recognized as his paper. "This is the worst story any of you have turned in all year! 'A circus is a wonderful place, especially on rainy days. You get to ride the animals except when they get stuck together and make a new animal, and you can watch the ladies in their bathing suits fly around up above. You get popcorn and ice cream if you're good, but they don't have any records, or clowns if you're lucky.'" She slammed the paper down on her desk and looked at Andy. "Andy, have you ever been to a circus?"

"No!"

"Then why did you want to write about one?" She pulled out a clean sheet of paper and set it down on his desk. "You're going to stay in for afternoon recess and write a new story, about something you do understand, or else your mother will be hearing about it. Understood?"

Andy bit his lip. "Yeah."

Hours later, as he curled up in his bed to read one more chapter, Andy reflected again on his close call that day. There was no note, and he did get ice cream after he'd managed to choke down all his vegetables at dinner. Mom hadn't exactly been happy to hear the only thing he could think of to write about was the records he wanted for Christmas, but at least she hadn't yelled at him. Or heard about his circus story.

Even so, Andy thought he’d do his best to avoid telling her what he wrote about next time. Grown-ups never seemed to understand anything. Maybe next Wednesday he’d wear a shirt with a blue collar to school and then Mrs. Morton would go easy on him.