A Week in the Woods Read Online Free Page B
Author: Andrew Clements
said. What Mark had heard was this: âMark, all you have to do is have a little fun and try to stay out of trouble until you leave for summer camp. Because what happens at Hardy Elementary School doesnât really count.â
So Mark didnât care which teachers at the middle school were nice. He didnât care which kids were the smartest or the best soccer players. And if he found himself starting to care, or even starting to wonder about things like that, he told himself, Itâs got nothing to do with me.
Mark knew that his parents were some of the richest people in this part of New Hampshire, maybe some of the richest people in the whole country. It was something he tried not to think about, but he couldnât really forget it, not in Whitson.
Being rich at Lawton Country Day School hadnât mattered. Mark had fit in perfectly. The other kids there had worn blazers and shirts and ties and shoes just as nice as his. Kids at his old school didnât wear clothes from Wal-Mart. In fact, there wasnât a Wal-Mart within twenty miles of Scarsdale.
At Lawton Country Day the other kids had had plenty of spending money, just like he did. And after school the cars that came to collect the other children were just as expensive and new and fancy as the ones that came for him.
Here in Whitson all the other kids rode home onthe bus or drove home with their moms or dads in minivans or pickups, or cars like Jeeps and Toyotas. Mark was the only kid in town who got picked up by a driver in a big Mercedes. And after the way the kids had stared at him on his first afternoon, Mark had told Leon not to get out and hold the door open for him anymore.
Being from such a rich family didnât make Mark feel like he was any better than the other kids at Hardy Elementary School. Not better, just different. So he kept his distance. No sense pretending. Three and a half months, and heâd be gone. Itâs not like Whitsonâs going to turn into my hometown or something, he told himself. Mark knew that from the start. First this crummy little school, then summer camp, then Runyon Academy. Gone.
Apart from their new company over in Lebanon and him going to school at Runyon Academy, Mark knew there was another major reason his parents had bought the big old house outside Whitson. It was because his mom liked different places and new projects. At least, she liked them for a while. The three years in Scarsdale had been the longest time Mark had ever lived in one home.
Since his parents spent most of their time at meetings and conferences or entertaining business associates at the house in Palm Beach, Mark knew what would happen when he started at boarding school.Once he got settled at Runyon, Mark knew that the house and the old barn and the four hundred acres in Whitson would stop being home. No one would even call it that. Mom and Dad would start calling it âthe New Hampshire place.â It would become just another place to visit for a while, like their Santa Fe place and their London place and their Palm Beach place. And now their Scarsdale place.
* * *
As math class ended the bell rang, and Mark jumped in his seat. The girl next to him giggled, just as she had on Thursday. Mark felt his face start to get hot. Ten days, and that harsh, metallic ringing still startled him. He couldnât get used to it. And he didnât want to get used to it. He didnât want to get used to anything at this school.
The math teacher began scribbling Mondayâs homework assignment onto the chalkboard, and kids began copying it down.
Not Mark. He pushed his chair back, picked up his backpack, and walked out into the noisy hallway. He took a left and headed for Mr. Maxwellâs room. One more class, and week number two would be over. And then there would be only fourteen more.
Six
Spoiled
Mr. Maxwell had developed a set of rules during his years as a fifth-grade science teacher. These were not rules for the
So Mark didnât care which teachers at the middle school were nice. He didnât care which kids were the smartest or the best soccer players. And if he found himself starting to care, or even starting to wonder about things like that, he told himself, Itâs got nothing to do with me.
Mark knew that his parents were some of the richest people in this part of New Hampshire, maybe some of the richest people in the whole country. It was something he tried not to think about, but he couldnât really forget it, not in Whitson.
Being rich at Lawton Country Day School hadnât mattered. Mark had fit in perfectly. The other kids there had worn blazers and shirts and ties and shoes just as nice as his. Kids at his old school didnât wear clothes from Wal-Mart. In fact, there wasnât a Wal-Mart within twenty miles of Scarsdale.
At Lawton Country Day the other kids had had plenty of spending money, just like he did. And after school the cars that came to collect the other children were just as expensive and new and fancy as the ones that came for him.
Here in Whitson all the other kids rode home onthe bus or drove home with their moms or dads in minivans or pickups, or cars like Jeeps and Toyotas. Mark was the only kid in town who got picked up by a driver in a big Mercedes. And after the way the kids had stared at him on his first afternoon, Mark had told Leon not to get out and hold the door open for him anymore.
Being from such a rich family didnât make Mark feel like he was any better than the other kids at Hardy Elementary School. Not better, just different. So he kept his distance. No sense pretending. Three and a half months, and heâd be gone. Itâs not like Whitsonâs going to turn into my hometown or something, he told himself. Mark knew that from the start. First this crummy little school, then summer camp, then Runyon Academy. Gone.
Apart from their new company over in Lebanon and him going to school at Runyon Academy, Mark knew there was another major reason his parents had bought the big old house outside Whitson. It was because his mom liked different places and new projects. At least, she liked them for a while. The three years in Scarsdale had been the longest time Mark had ever lived in one home.
Since his parents spent most of their time at meetings and conferences or entertaining business associates at the house in Palm Beach, Mark knew what would happen when he started at boarding school.Once he got settled at Runyon, Mark knew that the house and the old barn and the four hundred acres in Whitson would stop being home. No one would even call it that. Mom and Dad would start calling it âthe New Hampshire place.â It would become just another place to visit for a while, like their Santa Fe place and their London place and their Palm Beach place. And now their Scarsdale place.
* * *
As math class ended the bell rang, and Mark jumped in his seat. The girl next to him giggled, just as she had on Thursday. Mark felt his face start to get hot. Ten days, and that harsh, metallic ringing still startled him. He couldnât get used to it. And he didnât want to get used to it. He didnât want to get used to anything at this school.
The math teacher began scribbling Mondayâs homework assignment onto the chalkboard, and kids began copying it down.
Not Mark. He pushed his chair back, picked up his backpack, and walked out into the noisy hallway. He took a left and headed for Mr. Maxwellâs room. One more class, and week number two would be over. And then there would be only fourteen more.
Six
Spoiled
Mr. Maxwell had developed a set of rules during his years as a fifth-grade science teacher. These were not rules for the
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