EllRay Jakes Is Not a Chicken Read Online Free Page B

if the frog didn’t get run over, and if it died of old age after leading a long and happy life. For a frog.

    â€œFrom now on, Heather,” Ms. Sanchez says with an ice cube in her voice, “please raise your hand if you have something to say.”
    â€œSorry,” Heather mumbles.
    â€œWith this experiment,” Ms. Sanchez says, sneaking a look at her notes, “we will continue our exploration of soil and its components.”
    Okay. “Components” means “parts,” I happen to know, only Ms. Sanchez can’t just say “parts,” for some reason. Probably because it’s too simple a word, and we wouldn’t get smart if she always said things the simplest way.
    So Ms. Sanchez has to say “soil” when she really means “dirt,” for example.
    Next to me, Annie Pat Masterson aims a smile at Emma McGraw, because they both love science, even when it’s just about dirt.
    â€œHere is what your ideal garden soil is made up of,” Ms. Sanchez says, and she writes something on the board:
    1. 40% SAND
    2. 40% SILT
    3. 20% CLAY
    â€œNow, who can tell me what this means?” she asks.
    Cynthia raises her hand and starts talking before Ms. Sanchez even calls on her, which is typical of Cynthia. “‘Ideal’ means ‘best,’” she says in a very loud voice, and she smiles, using all her teeth, and looks around like she is waiting for us to cheer.
    Ms. Sanchez sighs. “That is correct, Cynthia.” she says. “But I was really talking about what the numbers on the board mean.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t know that,” Cynthia says, folding her arms across her chest and frowning, which is never a good sign with her.
    Cynthia is a girl who knows how to hold a grudge.
    The whole class sits in silence for a minute, hoping someone will raise their—her—hand.
    In other words, we are counting on Kry Rodriguez to save us.
    Kry’s real name is Krysten, and she is pretty, with long black hair, and she moved to Oak Glen just before Thanksgiving, and she is very good at math. She slowly raises her hand like there is a red balloon tied to her wrist.
    â€œYes, Kry?” Ms. Sanchez says, smiling in relief.
    Kry clears her throat. “I think the numbers mean that almost half of the soil is sand,” she says, “and almost half is silt, and half of almost-half is clay. Which adds up to one hundred percent.”
    â€œBig deal,” Cynthia coughs-says into her hand.
    Heather laughs to back her up. “Whatever silt is,” she mutters.

    â€œAnd what is silt?” Ms. Sanchez asks in her coldest voice. “Heather? Perhaps you can enlighten us.”
    â€œEnlighten” sounds like Ms. Sanchez wants Heather to make us all turn white, which most of my class already is, basically, except for me, Kevin, and two very quiet girls who go to the same church, not mine.
    Or else it sounds like our teacher wants Heather to make us light as feathers so we could float up to the ceiling, which would be cool, but no such luck. That’s not what Ms. Sanchez means. What “enlighten us” really means is to shine a light on something, only a pretend light, not a real light. In other words, she wants Heather to explain to us what silt is.
    I know this, but I do not raise my hand. I don’t want to make Jared and Stanley any madder at me than they already are, which they will be if they think I’m showing off by acting smart in class.
    â€œI don’t know,” Heather mumbles again.
    â€œAnyone?” Ms. Sanchez asks, but no one raises their hand. Not even Kry.
    Ms. Sanchez starts to pull her big blue dictionary from the shelf. “Look it up!” she usually says when a strange word comes along.
    Like every minute, practically.
    But all of a sudden, Fiona McNulty slowly raises her hand. This is something that she hardly ever does, because she is the shyest kid in class.
    â€œYes,