The last song I’m ever gonna hear was “Hot Crossed Buns.”

This is karma for not doing anything when I saw Seth burn that caterpillar with a magnifying glass.

At least I won’t have to take that math test later.


But I’m also gonna miss the rest of that movie during Science.

When the sub rolled in the TV stand yesterday, I never felt so alive.

Oh, how things have changed.

I practiced my autograph on like six full pages in the back of my science notebook, but never made one I really liked.

Tyler better honor our pinky swear and not blab about the treasure map I found tucked in my history book.

We only interviewed two of the five big kids who had the book before me.

Assuming we count “Get lost, nerds” as an interview.

Maybe that’s fine, because the “X” is in the woods where they hang out, so it could be a trap.

Tic Tac Toe: a clever way to tell a girl you like her?

Getting “xylophone” right to win the spelling bee made up for when I misspelled “misspelled” last year.

Okay, not really.

This is gonna be the best thing that could’ve happened to that new kid who farted a minute ago.

Maybe he can take over as Vice Chairman of the Committee to Extend Recess by Ten Minutes.

Because it can’t be someone who’s also on the Council of 4th Grader Relations—that would be too much power.

This is Mrs. Wallace’s fault for not letting me superglue my hand to the table like I wanted.

There are never any fires in schools, just fire drills—I would’ve been fine.

That quiet girl who draws all the time is gonna grab the chalk and make a crime scene outline of my body.

The cursive on the blackboard looks even weirder from this angle.

Still easier to read than mine.

Has anyone ever seen a quick brown fox jump over a lazy dog?

I really did only have one stick of gum left, which they’ll see when they search my pockets.

If I stuck the chewed-up pieces under the table, could I have grabbed them to keep from falling?

I threw them out instead, even though Seth said I should use them to cover an entire basketball and then get someone to bite into “the biggest gumball ever.”

What an idiot.

They’re also gonna find the note I was gonna pass to Emily during Math saying her angles are acute.

I couldn’t write it in class before the test because some bad energy would get into my writing and she’d be able to tell.

Eric’s doodle of Mrs. Hurley during English was kinda funny, but not funny enough for Emily to laugh that much, I dunno, I didn’t really like that.

At least she saw that dud of a paper airplane he threw yesterday.

And she knows I beat him at the Presidential Fitness Test.

I can’t wait for the president to find out about that.

I should’ve told someone how when we saw his governor friend during the statehouse field trip, I snuck behind his desk and saw all this weird stuff on his computer.

Did I clear my calculator after I entered “80085”?

It sure was fun seeing Chloe’s mom after school.

The Highest on the Swings Award should be based on where the swing is and not where your feet are, because some of us don’t have really long legs like Tom and that’s no fair.

Do I regret writing five straight journal entries about this?


Mrs. Hurley probably does, though.

Whoever gets my cubby next better be an actual believer in top right cubby supremacy and not just some tall kid.

Who was it who put photocopies of their butt in everyone’s cubby last week?

Brandon mooned the crossing guard from the bus the other day, so maybe it’s him.

But he also has an extreme fear of paper cuts, so maybe not.

Nobody better compare my butt with the photocopy.

Actually, I won’t be embarrassed because I won’t be feeling anything soon.

So this is it, I guess—not even the mighty powers of the bathroom pass can save me now.

No more show and tell.

No more games of telephone.

Gnome organs will often foam.

I know Morgan’s ill at home.

Wow, she actually is though.

No more using Luke’s older brother’s Motorola to make prank calls at recess.

No more drawing that sick “S” on the blackboard.

Or in my notebooks.

Or in other people’s notebooks.

Or on the overhead projector sheets small enough so Mrs. Leonard won’t notice.

Oh, yeah: No more Mad Libs with words we aren’t allowed to–

Ow, fuck!