Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 9

You could get sick, and who would put their mouth on something like that, anyway?

You could set your hair on fire. (To be fair, she was right about this one. We don’t really talk about it anymore.)

You could bust your head wide open, so both of you put down those rocks.

Your face could get stuck that way. (Hint: it is never a good way.)

“Blowing things up can be pretty magical,” Grandma Jo said.

“Aha!” Mom cried, pointing with the spatula again. “What have you been blowing up?”

Grandma Jo held her burger like a shield. “Down, woman. I haven’t blown up anything more than a baked potato in the microwave.” She leaned toward me and winked. “It was awesome,” she whispered. “Spud guts everywhere.”

“That’s it,” Mom said, tossing down the spatula. It rattled on the plate, then flopped off and clattered to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re up to”—she pointed at Grandma Jo, with her finger this time—“or what you’re up to”—she pointed at me—“but it stops this instant.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Grandma Jo and I said at the same time.

Mom huffed. She scooted in her chair, primly spreading a napkin on her lap. She got settled, took a deep breath, and picked up her burger. “So. What did you do today?” she asked Dad.

He chewed and swallowed, looking very thoughtful, then ran his tongue over his teeth and said, “When I was a kid, we used to blow up dog poop with firecrackers.”

“Cool!” Erma, Grandma Jo, and I all said.

Mom grunted and bit into her burger angrily.

We ate in silence after that. I imagined Dad, Grandma Jo, and I were all thinking about the same thing—the awesomeness of blowing up dog poop. Erma, meanwhile, was humming and swinging her feet. Mom was chewing her food like she expected it to fight back. They all forgot to ask again what I’d been doing upstairs. Which was a good thing. I was pretty sure nobody would understand why I wanted to float out of ballroom dancing.

“May I be excused?” I asked when I was finished.

“Sure, pal,” Dad said. “Got homework?”

“He’s got to dance,” Erma said. She giggled and pantomimed monkey gestures again.

I scooted away from the table and took my plate to the sink.

“Thomas, let your sister help you,” Mom said.

“Mom—”

“I’m not asking,” she said.

She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

You could push Mom to say, “I’m not asking; I’m telling,” and then she would yell at you so hard your eyelashes would blow off.

“So what song are you dancing to?” Erma asked, coming into the living room where I was trying to do some math homework.

“I’m not,” I said, not looking up.

“You get to choose your own?”

“No.”

“Come on, Thomas.” She stood in front of me, her arms out as if to dance.

“I don’t want to,” I said.

“I know that. But you can’t dance on your sit bones. Get up.”

“No.”

“Mom said.”

“I’m doing homework.”

“I’m telling.”

“Fine.” I tossed my pencil onto my math book and stood up. No better time than the present to try out my new trick. I turned my body forty-five degrees away from Erma, straightened my left leg, and started to rise onto the toes of my right foot. “Oh. Wait. Uh-oh. I feel … I feel funny … I feel … like flying …” Slowly, I lifted into levitation. “Oh no! This isn’t right! People don’t float! Run away, Erma! Run! Before it happens to you!”

Erma rolled her eyes and kicked the back of my right knee, causing it to buckle and me to fall.

“Ugh. Grow up,” she said.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and flounced upstairs, leaving me on the floor, rubbing the back of my knee. At least I got out of dancing.

But maybe levitation wasn’t the answer.