by Manfred Koehler

I can’t believe I’m reading Robinson Crusoe. This book’s a few hundred years old. At least it’s abridged, which means short. The shorter the better.

Short books are the only way I’m going to win this year’s school reading contest.

Of course this strategy has one big problem: Everyone uses it, including Barb Little, last year’s reading contest winner. Barb and I go to the same middle school youth group, but that doesn’t mean we’re best friends or anything—especially since she read 287 books during last year’s competition. I didn’t even get half that.

But Robinson Crusoe will be book No. 166 for me this year. I plan to read more than 300 books.

I’m determined to win.

Brush-Off

My older brother, Biff, just plopped on the sofa beside me. That’s not his real name. I just call him that because he always talks about "biffing" people. He’s a big guy who pumps weights like crazy, but usually he’s pretty likable.

Right now, though, he’s just plain annoying.

He’s chewing on this noisy granola bar, staring at me like I just crawled off of some lost island.

"Still reading books, Jenn?" he asks, crumbs falling from his peach-fuzz mustache.

"Great observation," I say, bothered that he’s talking to me. "What’s it look like? I’m playing football?"

Football is all Biff thinks about. The guy’s a fanatic. If he doesn’t have pumped leather in his hands, he’ll pretend by grabbing the dining room vase. It’s about the right shape and size for a football. "Go for the bomb," he’ll yell. Then he’ll take seven steps back, throw this exaggerated pass, shield his eyes, then fall to the carpet grunting, "Late hit, Dude." The whole time the vase remains in his hands.

It’s amazing he hasn’t smashed the thing.

Biff can’t even hold an intelligent conversation anymore. He’s been biffed in the head once too often playing football, if you ask me.

"Robinson Crusoe? Isn’t that old?" he asks.

I give him a nasty stare and hide behind my book. That should cut him off.

But he’s not getting the hint.

"What’s it about?" he insists. "Does it really all happen on a Friday?"

I roll my eyes, curl my lip and give him a slow growl.

Biff raises both hands and backs off. "I can’t even have an intelligent conversation with my only sister anymore. Maybe I’ll talk to a bear just out of hibernation. It might be safer."

I shake my head and keep reading.

Pushover

Three chapters to go. I can’t remember what Robinson Crusoe is about, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll have it done by supper and be able to work on Nos. 167 and 168 before I go to sleep.

My eyes are buzzing over the next page when my kid brother, Mikey, comes running into the room. He jumps knees first into my stomach. He’s only 3 years old, but he eats like Biff. The little guy packs a wallop. I gasp and fight to suck in air. My book tumbles to the carpet.

"Play with me!" Mikey yells, bouncing as if my legs were a trampoline.

My eyes water while I catch my breath. I push Mikey to one side and sink my face into my hands.

"I hurt you?" he asks.

I nod my head lamely.

"I sorry. I no do that again." Mikey stands on the sofa to give me a hug. He ends up stepping on my leg.

I yelp and grab him by the armpits.

"I sorry. I sorry!" he yells.

Moaning, I set Mikey on the ground and give him a big hug. A tear slips down my cheek. I’m still learning to forgive, and that hurts more than Mikey’s antics do.

I brush away another tear and Mikey calms down, so I pick up Crusoe and continue reading.

I get about halfway down the next page when Mikey starts chanting, "I want to play. I want to play."

I ignore him and keep reading. I’m not absorbing this book at all, but I wasn’t before either, so it doesn’t matter. Book No. 167, here I come.

Mikey is really getting loud now. "I want to play. I want to play."

I shake my head and flip the page.

Suddenly, the book gets pulled out of my fingers. Mikey pushes his face in front of mine and holds the book behind his back.

"Why you never play with me anymore?" he asks, his words blubbery.

My eyes roll into the top of my head. Mikey restarts his "play with me" chant. Before I can think straight, I reach behind Mikey’s back, tear the book from his hands and give him a too-hard shove.

He steps back, tries to stay on his feet, spins once and falls on his back. His head bangs the table leg behind him, the table rocks and the dining room vase tumbles to the ground.

Smash.

Mikey’s still howling when Mom runs into the room.

Wake-Up Call

I’m alone in my room, which suits me fine. Going without supper is a little tough, though. And paying for that vase is going to be even tougher.

I’m supposed to be doing homework, but it sits in a pile beside me. The way I figure, reading books is homework, too. Besides, how am I supposed to win this contest if I do every little math problem and history question?

I gaze at the dusty Bible on my shelf. I know I should read it, too. But I don’t have time. I have a contest to win.

A knock on my door interrupts the last chapter. "You’ve got a phone call," my mother says. "Ten minutes, no more."

No problem there. I grab my phone, hoping whoever it is will hurry. For some reason, I don’t like talking on the phone these days. Most of my friends don’t even bother to call anymore.

I can’t believe it. It’s Barb Little.

We do the small talk thing. I’m dying to ask her how many books she’s read, but I’m not sure she’ll tell me. I wouldn’t want to tell her how many I’ve read.

I ask anyway.

"Only 57," she says.

"What? That’s not very many," I reply.

"Yeah, I know," she continues. Then she tells me the story of what it took to win last year’s contest.

"First off, I hardly got any of my homework done."

I stare at the pile on my desk.

"Then I totally avoided my family. I found my two sisters annoying. I couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation with either of them. Instead, I just hid behind a book."

I gulp and hold the phone more tightly to my ear.

"I hated talking on the phone, so my friends stopped calling. I was a total bear to be around."

Barb keeps talking. "Of all the books I read, I can’t remember any of them. Which, by the way, is why I called."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The judges of this year’s contest have decided to interview the winners," she says.

"Interview?" This does not sound good.

"Yes, the judges are going to ask questions about three of the books on each winner’s reading list," Barb says. "They want to make sure the books were not only read, but also comprehended."

"Comprehended?" I blubber. "You mean I actually have to understand what I’m reading?"

"That’s it," Barb says. Then she really surprises me. "I want you to win this year’s contest, Jenn. I don’t want you to be disqualified like I deserved to be last year."

I nod, not knowing what to say.

"You know what the worst thing was about winning last year’s contest?" she asks.

"What?" I ask lamely, not sure I want to hear more. Tears pool in my eyes.

"I stopped reading my Bible, something I really enjoy," Barb says. Her voice sounds determined. "I’m not going to make the same mistake this year."

Turn Around

Mom’s at my door as Barb hangs up. She’s got this worried look on her face. Mom hasn’t seen much of me in a long time.

Before I can think straight, I run and give her a big hug, burying my face in her blouse. I’ve got a few apologies to make. And I think I’ll start Robinson Crusoe from page one again.

	Q: What dessert do birds like best? A: Chocolate “chirp” cookies. Rawlin K., 11, Louisiana Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe