You Can't Eat Your Chicken Pox, Amber Brown Read online

  MY ITCHES HAVE ITCHES. . . .

  Dear Justin,

  I have chicken pox.

  Itch. Itch.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Here’s what Dr. Kelly said when she came to the flat. (Doctors in this country actually come to your house.)

  She said:

  “Amber, you have chicken pox.”

  “There is no such thing as turkey pox.”

  “Put calamine lotion on every day.”

  “Don’t scratch.”

  “You’ll live.”

  My itches have itches . . . boo hoo.

  And I am getting soooooooo bored.

  Please write back soon.

  Your pal,

  Amber Brown

  Read all the Amber Brown books!

  Amber Brown Goes Fourth

  Amber Brown Is Feeling Blue

  Amber Brown Is Green with Envy

  Amber Brown Is Not a Crayon

  Amber Brown Is Tickled Pink

  Amber Brown Sees Red

  Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit

  Forever Amber Brown

  I, Amber Brown

  You Can’t Eat Your Chicken Pox, Amber Brown

  Paula Danziger

  YOU CAN’T EAT YOUR CHICKEN POX,

  AMBER BROWN

  Illustrated by Tony Ross

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 1995

  Published by Puffin Books, a member of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2006

  Copyright © Paula Danziger, 1995

  Illustrations copyright © Tony Ross, 1995

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Danziger, Paula, 1944–2004

  You can’t eat your chicken pox, Amber Brown / Paula Danziger; illustrated by Tony Ross.

  p. cm.

  Summary: At the end of third grade, Amber is excited about her trip with her aunt to London and Paris, where she will see her father again, but her plans change when she comes down with chicken pox.

  [1. Divorce—Fiction. 2. Aunts—Fiction. 3. London—Description and travel—Fiction. 4. Chicken pox—Fiction.] I. Ross, Tony, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.D2394Yo 1995

  [Fic]—dc20 93-37761 CIP AC

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66060-7

  Lettering by David Gatti.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  MONOPOLY®, the gameboard and certain of its elements and playing pieces are registered trademarks of Tonka Corporation. Used with permission. ©1935, 1946, 1961, 1992 Parker Brothers, a division of Tonka Corporation. All rights reserved.

  YAHTZEE® and TRAVEL YAHTZEE® are trademarks of Milton Bradley Company. ©1986 Milton Bradley Company is a division of Hasbro, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

  To all my friends in Great Britain,

  especially those at Heinemann and

  Pan-Macmillan

  with special thanks to a richness of editors, Gill Evans, Vix Eldon and Margaret Frith . . . and to Bruce Coville, who listened to this entire book on transatlantic calls . . . London-Syracuse . . . and a special acknowledgment to Scott Jackson, who actually said it . . . and to Carrie Danziger, whose chicken pox started it all

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  AMBER BROWN GOES FOURTH

  Chapter

  One

  Third grade.

  Here today.

  Gone tomorrow.

  I can hardly believe it.

  It seems like just yesterday was the first day of school.

  New pens, pencils, erasers, notebooks, clothes, a brain that had a chance to take a break over summer vacation . . . all of the things a kid needs to start a new school year.

  Now it’s the last day of school . . . just in time.

  My pens are out of ink. My pencils are stubs. My erasers are all erased. My clothes are getting too small and my brain needs to take a break over summer vacation.

  It’s definitely time for school to end.

  “All right, class. Take a few more minutes to finish cleaning out your desks and then the party can begin,” Mr. Cohen, our teacher, calls out.

  Waving a six-inch rubber lizard in his hand, Mr. Cohen looks ready for vacation, too. Not only has he had to do all the regular end-of-the-year teacher junk, but he’s also had to do lots of extra stuff . . . because of what we all call THE POX PLAGUE.

  For the last month, practically everyone in our class has come down with the chicken pox.

  In class, people have either been absent or here and covered with scabs.

  It got so bad that I even made up a sign to put on our door that says:

  WELCOME TO SCAB CITY.

  I, Amber Brown, have not been absent, have not gotten the chicken pox.

  I am one healthy kid.

  I never catch anything . . . . . except fireflies . . . . . and I let them go.

  “Be finishing up,” Mr. Cohen tells us.

  I cram more of my stuff into my knapsack . . . my stick of lip gloss for when my lips get chapped (I only use it in the winter so it’s gotten a little melted now that it’s almost summer) . . . the good-luck troll that my Aunt Pam sent to help me get through my math tests easily. I’m glad that she sent it but really nothing can help me get through math tests easily . . . except my best friend, Justin Daniels, who could explain it to me so that I understood it. But he moved away.

  I pull out the large ball of used chewing gum that Justin and I collected.

  He gave it to me when he left and I plan to keep it forever.

  I’ve kept it in my desk because I knew it would be safe there and I haven’t had to worry about my mom finding it and thinking that it’s gross or something.

  Next, I pull out a small photo album. I call it my “Dad Book.” Now that my parents are separated, Mom doesn’t really want pictures of him around the house. . . . I miss him a lot. He’s so far away . . . in France . . . so I made up the “Dad Book” and keep it in my desk. There ar
e pictures of my dad, alone and with me in them. There are even a few pictures of Dad, Mom, and me together, pictures taken before they split up this year, when we were all still happy . . . or at least I thought that we were happy.

  Keeping the top of the desk over my head, I open the book to one of the pictures, give it a fast kiss and whisper, “Hi, Dad. Today’s the last day of school. . . . I miss you and can’t wait to see you this summer.”

  “Boys, stop that.” Mr. Cohen sounds annoyed.

  I put the photos into my knapsack and check to see what’s happening.

  Jimmy Russell and Bobby Clifford are dueling with rulers.

  They are so immature for people who will be fourth graders in only a few months.

  They have scabs on their faces.

  Personally, I think that each of them is nothing but a big ugly scab to begin with.

  They always tease me, about everything, but especially about my name.

  They always say things like “Amber Brown is not a crayon.”

  So I don’t mind when they get yelled at.

  I hear Jimmy whisper, “What’s he going to do, flunk us? Grades are already turned in.”

  Obviously, Mr. Cohen has heard him, too, because he gives Jimmy a look and says, “It’s never too late to change a grade.”

  The look does it.

  Jimmy and Bobby throw lots of stuff in the garbage and quickly and quietly sit down.

  Mr. Cohen is the best teacher in the world . . . or at least, the best teacher I’ve ever had . . . but when he gets mad he gets a look that is pretty scary.

  I call it getting “cohened.”

  “Finish up, everyone,” Mr. Cohen says.

  All that’s left in my desk are my bagel-shaped barrettes and my fuzz balls.

  I take the barrettes and leave the fuzz balls.

  Soon everyone is sitting down waiting for Mr. Cohen to speak.

  I look around the classroom.

  Half the people are out sick.

  One, Freddie Romano, had to leave early because his dad’s vacation time couldn’t be changed.

  Mr. Cohen makes a little speech about how much he’s enjoyed the year with us, how he’s actually going to miss us, how even though we won’t be in his class next year, he would love it if we visited him.

  Then he hands out our “passports.” All year long we used them to pretend that we were visiting different countries. “I want you to have these to always remember the journeys we have taken . . . to visit other countries . . . and the ‘journey’ each of you has taken to grow, to learn, to change.”

  I look at my passport.

  All of the regular stuff is on it.

  Mr. Cohen has stamped something new on it.

  It says:

  VISA—TO ENTER FOURTH GRADE.

  And he’s added a note to me:

  “Amber—You’ve been a joy in my classroom. I love your sense of humor, your sense of exploration, your willingness to try new things, even when they are hard (like math . . . and like getting used to Justin’s move).

  You’ve used this passport well. Have a great time with your ‘real’ passport. Please send me some postcards. Have a great time in London and Paris.”

  I look up at Mr. Cohen and grin.

  I will send him postcards, for I, Amber Brown, am going to London, England, with my Aunt Pam and then I’m going to Paris, France, to see my father.

  It’s a real trip, not a pretend one, and I can’t wait for it to begin.

  Chapter

  Two

  First stop . . . London, England.

  Amber Brown in London, England.

  I like the way that sounds.

  I wonder if I’ll come back with an English accent.

  I wonder if I’ll meet any kings and queens when I visit their castles, and I wonder if they’ll let me try on their crowns.

  I wonder what it’s going to be like to spend two weeks alone with my Aunt Pam in a foreign country.

  I know that there is this amazing clock in London named Big Ben . . . and I wonder if there is also a Small Ben, a Medium Ben, and an Extra-Large Ben.

  Second stop . . . Paris, France. I’ll stay with my dad and Aunt Pam will stay with her friends.

  I, Amber Brown, am one very excited kid.

  “Amber, honey.” My mother walks into my bedroom and puts a pile of clothes on the bed. “This is the last time we pack your duffel bag. I’m serious.”

  Flopping on my bed, she lies down next to my duffel bag, puts my baseball cap over her face and pretends to cry. “I’m going to miss you but it’s great that you’re going. I just wish I didn’t have to spend the time before you go nagging about packing.”

  I decide to help her out. “Don’t worry, Mom. You just lie there and I’ll yell at me for you.”

  I pull the baseball cap off her face and then walk over to the mirror and say in my most grown-up voice, “Amber Brown, this is absolutely the last time you pack . . . absolutely . . . last . . . final . . . no more packing. You’re driving your mother crazy. Pack. Unpack. Repack. . . . Three weeks ago your Aunt Pam calls and tells you about the trip. You hang up, run to your room. Pack. Then your father sends you some clothes from France. . . . You unpack . . . and repack. And you try to sneak extra things into your duffel bag . . . your stuffed animals, your Monopoly® game, Tarzan the Ape, Rock and Rocky. Your own very tired mother has to go through the bag and take them all out. You pack. Unpack . . . and repack.”

  My mother’s laughing.

  Putting my hand on my hip, I keep staring at the mirror and continue to lecture myself. “Amber, this is no laughing matter. Look at the mess you’ve made. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.”

  I stamp my foot and then turn to my mother. “Is that good enough? Did I leave anything out?”

  “Good enough.” She motions me over to get a hug.

  I hopscotch over. “Pack. Unpack. Repack.”

  We hug.

  The telephone rings.

  I rush over and pick up the portable.

  A man asks to speak to Sarah, my mother.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  “Max,” the man answers. “You must be Amber.”

  I turn to my mother. “Some guy named Max and he knows my name.”

  She smiles, then as she takes the phone out of the room, she starts talking to him in this very nice voice.

  I hear her say, “I can’t wait to see you either.”

  And I was so worried about her being lonely.

  All of a sudden, I, Amber Brown, have a lot of questions.

  “So, who’s Max?” I ask when she comes back. I, Amber Brown, want answers.

  “He’s the brother of a friend of mine at work.” She smiles. “He asked me out.”

  “A date.” I gasp. “Didn’t you tell him that you don’t go out on dates? That you and Dad are just separated?”

  “No.” She sighs and brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Honey, I told Max that I will go out with him. Darling, you’ve got to accept that your dad and I are going to get a divorce. We haven’t lived together for six months and we’re never going to live together again. I think that it’s time for me to start seeing other people. Don’t you?”

  “No.” I plop down on the bed and pout. “I want you and Daddy to get back together again. I don’t want you to go out with other guys. Are you going to marry this guy . . . make me live with lots of stepbrothers and sisters . . . half brothers and sisters . . . ?”

  “It’s just a date.” My mother laughs.

  “I watch talk shows,” I say. “I know what can happen.”

  My mother motions for me to stand up and come over to the duffel bag.

  Then she hands me the two sweatshirts that my father sent from France, one of the Eiffel Tower and one from Euro Disney.

  “It was nice of Daddy to send these so that I can wear them in London,” I say, packing them. “He could have waited until I got to Paris. Then we would have had to buy more clothes here. See, Mom, he’s being helpful, thinking
about what we need.”

  She looks at me. “Amber. No matter what has happened between your father and me, I don’t want you to ever forget that your father loves and misses you very much. I know that you miss him and that it’s important for you to visit him.”

  She pauses for a minute, thinks and then repeats, “ . . . visit him.”

  “I miss him a lot,” I say. “Don’t you?”

  Quickly she shakes her head, and loudly says, “NO.”

  I can tell that my mother doesn’t want to talk about my father anymore so I don’t say more about him.

  My mother closes the luggage, pulls a little combination lock out of her pocket and puts it on the bag.

  “I don’t know the combination.” I tug at her sleeve.

  “Exactly,” she says. “That way you can’t add one more thing to the bag.”

  We look at each other.

  “Let’s have some ice cream.” She smiles.

  “Chocolate chip with cookie dough?” I lick my lips.

  She nods and then starts to hopscotch out of the room, saying, “Pack. Unpack. Repack.”

  I follow, doing the same thing.

  Hopping, I think about how much I’m going to miss her even though I really want to go.

  I wonder what’s going to happen to her while I’m away.

  I, Amber Brown, am going to talk to my dad.

  Maybe he can move back and they can learn to love each other again.

  Maybe.

  Chapter

  Three

  “Amberino, you’ve beaten me again.” Aunt Pam holds up her Travel Yahtzee® scorecard. “Twenty-two games to three.”

  Amberino is Aunt Pam’s special nickname for me.

  Years ago I made her promise not to call me Amberino in front of the kids in my class.

  We start Game #26.

  I’m tired already and we haven’t even gotten on the plane.

  This morning I was so excited that I got up at 5:30 A.M. and the plane doesn’t even leave until 7:00 at night.

  After some last-minute shopping, we “dined” at McDonald’s. One last vanilla milk shake and french fries before going over the ocean. Two weeks we’ll be gone. . . . I slurped that shake to the bottom and wet my finger to get out every last bit of salt and french fry.