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Pumpernickel was one of those artichokey kind of words that only Pinch Face herself could spell. I bet she can’t spell aardwolf, thought Judy.

“Judy,” Mr. Todd said, “if you study your spelling words and pay attention in class, you can avoid getting white cards and we’ll both get along famously.”

There it was again. That word.

It was almost time for Science, her best subject, so it would be easy for Judy to pay attention. She’d sit up straight and raise her hand a bunch, like Jessica Finch.

She, Judy Moody, would not get another white card.

Judy studied the squirming worm on her desk up close.

“As you all know,” said Mr. Todd, “we’ve been raising mealworms. Today I’m passing one out for each of you to examine. You can often find mealworms at home. Where do you think you would find them in your house?”

Judy raised her hand.

“They like to eat oatmeal and flour and stuff,” she said when Mr. Todd called on her. “So maybe in your kitchen?”

“Right. Good,” said Mr. Todd. “They are actually the larvae of a type of beetle. The flour beetle. Mealworms are nocturnal,” said Mr. Todd. “Who can explain what that means?”

Judy’s hand shot up again.

“Judy?”

“They sleep in the day and wake up at night,” said Judy.

“Fine,” said Mr. Todd. “This kind of mealworm is called a T. molitor. Everyone take a minute and count how many segments you find on your mealworm. Then write it down in your notebook.”

Judy counted thirteen segments, not including the head. She wrote it in her notebook right away. While she waited for the next question, she let the mealworm climb up her finger. She let it climb up her pencil. Rare! The mealworm perched on her eraser.

“Mealworms have an exoskeleton,” said Mr. Todd. “What do you think that means?”

Judy knew everything about bones and skeletons. Inside ones and out. She knew the answer again. Judy shot her hand straight up in the air. Judy forgot about the pencil in her hand. She forgot about the mealworm on the tip of her eraser.

Mr. Todd called on Rocky.

Judy watched her mealworm fly through the air. She watched it land smack-dab on Jessica Finch. She watched it crawl up the front of Jessica’s shirt and right up onto the tip of Jessica’s ponytail.

Judy forgot all about the white card. She waved her hand wildly at Jessica until Jessica looked up, then pointed frantically at Jessica’s head.

“Aaagh!” Jessica screamed worse than a hyena and flicked her hair to shake off the mealworm. T. molitor sailed through the air, hit the chalkboard, and fell to the floor. Class 3T went wild.

“Class!” said Mr. Todd, clapping his hands. “Everybody quiet down. Jessica,” he said. “I’ll not have anybody throwing mealworms in my classroom.” He wrote her name on the board.

“But I didn’t . . . it was . . . she did! . . .”

“That’s enough. See me after Science for a white card.”

Jessica glared squinty-eyed at Judy. Her pointy ears looked pointier. Her pinched-up face looked even pinchier. Judy faced front.

Judy knew it was all her own fault. But she did not want to get a third white card.

Jessica Finch probably never got a white card before, thought Judy. She probably didn’t even know before today what it felt like to get in trouble. All Jessica had was one puny little white card, and one puny little white card never hurt anybody.

For the rest of the morning, Judy felt more and more like a bug. No, a louse.

After lunch, her neck started to itch. Then her elbow. She scratched her left knee. Her toe itched inside her shoe.

By the end of the day, Judy went to talk to her teacher. “Mr. Todd,” she asked, scratching her ankle, “do you think not telling the truth can make a person itch?” Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“I think so,” said Mr. Todd. “Is there something you’re itching to tell me?”

“Yes,” said Judy. Scratch, scratch. “In Science today?” Scratch. “It was my mealworm.” Scratch. “My fault.” Scratch, scratch. “Not Jessica Finch’s.”

Judy told the whole truth.

“Thank you,” said Mr.