Mrs. Marshall, my third-grade teacher, points to the clock. “P.E.’s in five minutes. If anyone needs to use the bathroom, I’d do it now.”

Her words fight with the ones on the page. But Charlotte’s Web has me more entangled than a trip to the pee-smelling hallway bathroom.

I ignore her suggestion and keep reading. A tear slides down my cheek when Fern’s mean ole daddy makes her sell her pet pig, Wilbur, to the Zuckermans.

One tear is about all I have left to cry over animals. Just last week, my own mean ole daddy shot puppies. That neighborhood mutt Daisy gets pregnant every few months, and any puppies I can’t find homes for fast enough, daddy uses for huntin’ practice. Backyard’s more dug up than a moonshiner who’s forgotten where he stashed his coffee can of cash.

The bell rings. Mrs. Marshall places a soft hand on my shoulder. “Christy. You okay?”

I wipe the tear, slam the book, and toss it in the storage bin under my desk. “Musta gotten something in my eye,” I lie.

I shuffle outta my desk and find my place in line—behind smartie pants Jonathan Upshaw, and in front of my only friend at East Central, Carla Winters—who lives in the same trailer park as me.

Mrs. Marshall has made us line up alphabetically all year. I guess I don’t mind. But I feel bad Carla’s always last.

“Ms. Stockman’s in one of her weird moods,” Carla warns.

“When’s she not?” I respond. The East Central P.E. teacher must’ve taken this job just to torture us kids.

The class follows Mrs. Marshall to the hallway where Ms. Stockman waits—a kickball in one hand, a clipboard in the other. “Up against the wall. Now,” she orders.

Mrs. Marshall says, “Have fun and be good.” Then she disappears back down the hallway.

I wanna go with her. I don’t wanna play kickball. I don’t want Ms. Stockman to scream at me to run faster. I wanna go with Mrs. Marshall and tell her I’m too tired to play kickball cuz I was up most of the night tryin’ to get my baby sister to go to sleep. Mama and Daddy’s yellin’ woke her. I wanna tell Mrs. Marshall. But I say nothing. Instead, I plant myself against the bumpy block wall of the third-grade hallway while Ms. Stockman reminds us how to play kickball like it’s not one of the only sports we ever play.

“Last call for bathroom break. Remember, there’s no pee in P.E. Once you get to my field, no one leaves unless it’s on a stretcher.”

Ms. Stockman must know there is a P in P.E. Still she says her favorite phrase each week. She sounds like a dummy. But nobody dare raises a hand.

“Alrighty then. Team Marshall, let’s go.”

We follow her to the P.E. field. The sun beats down on my sleeveless shoulders. But I don’t ever get a sunburn. Kids like me and Carla who run the trailer park streets til sundown never do.

Once we get to Ms. Stockman’s field, she picks Jonathan and Miss Popular Emily as team captains. Jonathan and Emily take turns picking their friends and the fast kids. Until as usual, me, Carla, and that big kid Josh are the last three.

Jonathan picks Josh. Emily ends up with me and Carla.

I take my place at center outfield and stand with my legs hip-width apart as Ms. Stockman said. Carla’s to my far right. Some new kid to my left.

I don’t mind outfield. I get to think. Today I’m thinking about that one time when I got invited to Daphne Smith’s sleepover. She had the three-story Barbie Dream House—the one with the real working elevator.

I pretend I’m Daphne. When I get home, I’m going to redecorate my Barbie Dream House. I’m going to move the furniture around and then invite all Barbie’s best friends over.

That’s when it hits me.

I have to pee.

I should’ve gone when Mrs. Marshall told us. I’m so stupid. There’s no way Ms. Stockman will let me go back to the building. But I have to ask. I run to where she stands next to Jonathan at first base.

I’m out of breath. “Ms. Stockman, can I please go to the bathroom? It’s an emergency.”

“Christy Vaughn. You know the rules. No one leaves my P.E. field unless they’ve broken a bone. And since you just ran, you clearly haven’t. Back to center outfield. Twenty minutes. You can make it.”

“Please, ma’am,” I beg. I can’t make two minutes, much less twenty.

“Go.” She points a thick finger toward my spot on the field.

I jog back and assume the stance. I squeeze with everything I’ve got. I can’t pee my pants. Not in front of Jonathan Upshaw. Not in front of Emily Sterling. Not in front of Ms. Stockman.

As hard as I try, I can’t hold it. Warm urine runs down my legs—past a bruise from a whipping from Daddy for not taking off my shoes before coming in the trailer. It matts down the new leg hair Mamma says makes me look like a boy.

Pee seeps into my mismatched holey socks and then fills my dirty canvas sneakers—leaving all my garments yellow-tinged.

Snot pours outta my nose. I wipe it onto my cut-off denim shorts.

Salty tears sneak into my mouth. My whole class eyes me. Some laugh. Some look sad.

The pee and tears eventually stop. My shorts, socks, and shoes smell. I smell. But most days I do. Even days when I don’t pee my pants.

P.E. ends and no one talks to me. No one looks at me. Not even Carla. We follow Ms. Stockman back to the third-grade building. She points to the bathroom. I go. A little late now.

I wet some paper towels and take them into a stall. I peel off my shoes and socks. I pull down my cutoffs and dingy underwear. I do my best to clean the urine off my legs and feet. Then I put back on the pee-soaked shorts and shoes. I toss the socks and underwear in the garbage can. I’ll probably get a whipping when I get home for throwing them away—and for peeing myself at school.

I take as long as I can in the bathroom. I hope the end-of-school bell rings soon. I’ll run to the classroom after everyone leaves and grab my stuff. I just hope I don’t miss the bus.

I wash the dirt streaks from my cheeks and dry my face with a sandpaper-ish towel. I can’t drag this on any longer. I open the bathroom door. An arms-crossed Ms. Stockman is waiting for me.

“You feel better?” She smirks.

A beet-red-faced Mrs. Marshall emerges. “How dare you. I’m reporting this to Mr. Martin.”

“Good luck.” Ms. Stockman smirks again and leaves us alone.

“Sweetie. I’m so sorry this happened. Let’s head over to the school nurse.”

I don’t know what to say. I throw my arms around her neck and let some tears come. Her dark hair smells like peaches. She hugs me back.

“Come on. Let’s get you some clean clothes.” She holds my hand and walks me to the school nurse.

I’ll still get a whipping when I get home. But right now, holding Mrs. Marshall’s hand, I know for sure someone loves me.

Just like Charlotte saves Wilbur, maybe Mrs. Marshall can save me.

The End

Children almost always hang on to things tighter than their parents think they will.

-E.B. White