“Certain!’.”
Marthur leaned close to the carton. Twelve times she whispered shyly, “Good night.” She heard a dozen mumbled “good nights” in reply and shivered with delight.
“Thanks, Ferlin,” said Marthur. “I feel much better.”
“Jolly good,” said Ferlin. “But remember—don’t tell anybody.”
“I never would,” Marthur promised.
They went their separate ways. It was late and the school was pretty quiet. But a few kids were still straggling around, having a bubble-gum-blowing contest—even though that was against the rules. Marthur wouldn’t tell on them. Everything was against the rules at Horace E. Bloggins.
“Hi, Marthur!” the kids yelled between bubbles. “Wanna hang out?”
“Hi!” she called back cheerfully. “I can’t. I’ve got to go see my father!”
Marthur was definitely perked up. Eggs with legs. She giggled on her way to the boiler room. Like magic, Marthur had forgotten her troubles—clanking pipes, her mangled name, and Dr. Klunk and Rufus. She had also forgotten about the king.
IV
Marthur never saw her father much; he was so busy doing junk for Dr. Klunk. That made her terribly sad. Their hours rarely crisscrossed. But when they did, the Snapdragons made the most of it. After they gulped supper (in case he had to leave in a rush), Luther read aloud to Marthur (both without earmuffs). He read any story bit he could fit in before some more work came up, hollering over the scronk of the pipes.
Sometimes he stopped reading and bellowed out of the blue, “What’s your dream, dear? Apart from wanting bacon, I mean. What’s your utmost fondest most preposterous outlandish wish?”
Marthur would gaze at a picture on the wall. (With love, Luther Snapdragon tacked up all of her drawings.)
“I want to be a teacher. Just like Ferlin. She makes things better for the kids at Horace E. Bloggins.”
Marthur’s wish was always the same.
“How I love to hear that,” said her father every time. “It’s an unselfish dream—the very best kind.
“Hold fast to dreams,” Luther quoted at the top of his lungs while the pipes clanked, “’Cause when dreams go—well, they just go. A great poet wrote that.”
Each time her father said the poem, it was a bit different. But he always got the gist.
Still thinking about the dancing eggs, Marthur danced through the door and into the boiler room.
“Hello, my sweetheart!” cried Luther Snapdragon above the hiss of the pipes. “Did you have a frabjous day?” (He enjoyed using odd words to entertain her.)
“FRABJOUS!” hollered Marthur. Then they both laughed.
“Can we read, Daddy?” Marthur asked.
“I’ve only got time for the ‘hold fast’ poem, then it’s back to work.” Luther blasted out energetically, “Hold fast to dreams. ’Cause if dreams run, life is like having—uh—no sun! A great poet wrote that.”
“I know,” Marthur yelled, “a very great poet!”
“What’s your dream, dear?” Luther asked.
“To be a teacher. Just like Ferlin,” said Marthur. “Daddy, what’s your dream?”
“For your dream to come true. Well, gotta go!”
Luther kissed her on the top of the head (in a hollow spot where she’d cut some gum out).
“Hold fast, my dumpling!”
“Hold fast, Daddy!”
Luther Snapdragon hadn’t been gone long when—wham! wham! wham!—a frightful pounding rattled the sweltering boiler room. Marthur had put her earmuffs on while she did her homework. But the racket was so loud, she still heard it. (And felt it.) Suddenly, a length of old pipe slumped like a log on a fire. She braced herself for the whole place to cave in.
But nothing collapsed on her. The sound was coming from only one spot. Somebody was pummeling the door! (Luckily, she’d locked it.)
“Who is it?” she yelled.
“Rufus, you doofus!”
Marthur’s stomach dropped. What in the name of all that was horrible was he doing there? Why wasn’t he home? And why would he come to Marthur’s, of all places?
May as well be the big bad wolf, Marthur thought. She held her breath and waited for him to huff and puff and blow the whole place down.
“What do you want?” She tried to sound brave, but her voice was shaking.
“I WANT THOSE DANCING EGGS!”
V
Marthur’s legs quivered like jelly. Her head spun. The dancing eggs were a secret between her and Ferlin!
“What did you say? You want to dance?” she shouted at Rufus, hoping she’d heard him wrong.
“In your dreams, brain-o! I want the eggs!”
So... She hadn’t imagined that scraping sound outside Ferlin’s classroom. It was Rufus the rat, spying for Dr. Klunk.
“Which eggs?” Marthur stalled like mad. “Ferlin’s got goose eggs and tortoise eggs and platypus eggs and hummingbird eggs and eel eggs and grouse eggs and louse eggs and snake eggs and steak eggs and—”
“Shut your stupid egg-a-thon up!” Rufus hollered. “Anyways, there’s no such thing as steak eggs.”
“Where do you think steaks come from?” Marthur blathered on.
“Don’t mess with me, smarty-pants. I mean the eggs your precious Ferlin pulled from her purse. I’ve got a plan for those little hoofers!”
“What gophers?” Marthur shrieked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Yeah, right!” Rufus roared back. “Get ’em or I’ll pulverize—” Rufus stopped. He had a better idea. “Get ’em or we’ll dump over every trash can in school!”
Marthur groaned, imagining mounds of garbage everywhere.
“Your daddy’ll look like a slacker and lose his job. Then you’ll be in the street—and you’ll stop buggin’ me!”
“Me bug YOU? You’re crazy!”
“Shut your face and get the eggs from that science freak!”
“No!” Marthur yelled frantically. “They’re Ferlin’s!”
“Tough tarantulas! I want ’em! An’ I want ’em TOMORROW!”
Marthur gasped. “But how!”
“You’re so smart, figure it out.”
“I CANT!”
“Swipe ’em, brain-o!”
Then Marthur remembered the king. She was desperate, so she hollered out, “The king is coming—and he’s going to get you!”
“A king! Man, you’ll try anything!” Rufus cackled like a lunatic hen. “Now get those eggs, or Daddy’s had it!”
Marthur heard him scuttle away. Ferlin’s words rang in her ears: “But remember—don’t tell anybody.”
Marthur was aghast. She’ll think I told Rufus! Ferlin trusts me. How can I steal from her? But if I don’t...
Marthur’s world was falling to pieces. She’d lost her name. She was about to become a thief and lose her friend Ferlin. For some crazy reason, Rufus hated her. Even if she got the dancing eggs, he was rotten enough to dump the trash, anyway. Then her father would be bogged down with more work—or he’d lose his job and they’d be on the street. On top of everything else, from shouting she had a sore throat. It was too much. A king couldn’t help her. Nobody could. Marthur threw herself onto her cot and sobbed.
The next morning Marthur woke up wanting to urp. She’d hardly slept a smidgen. Dumped-over trash cans and stolen eggs got scrambled up in her nightmares. She was tom in two. What should she do about the little dancers? And what about her father?
Luther Snapdragon had always told her, “Blood’s thicker than soup.” Now, crumpled on her rumpled cot, she knew what he meant: Family comes first. She had to stick by her father—and steal from her teacher.
Maybe a king really was coming. But she just couldn’t wait for such a far-fetched thing. She’d steal Ferlin’s key from Luther’s master set and snatch the eggs when Ferlin wasn’t there. Just one teensy problem: The watchful griffin would probably eat her. Yikes! She’d have to heist them from under Ferlin’s nose!
L
ittle by little, Marthur hatched a plan. She’d snitch the dancing eggs during science class.
VI
It took Marthur a while to work out her plan, so class had already begun when she slouched into the room, hunched under her father’s heavy dark coat. Her own was too raggedy and small to cover up stolen eggs. She looked like somebody wearing her own shadow.
Ferlin had just launched a small rocket fueled with cranberry juice. The rocket sizzled around the ceiling. All eyes were fixed on it. All but Marthur’s. She pretended to spit her gum into the wastebasket while she looked all around. The eggs were nowhere in sight! Of course, Ferlin wouldn’t just leave them out for somebody to pick up. Maybe break. Where were they?
Marthur stooped down, fumbling like she’d missed the wastebasket. And—what was this?—on the handle of a small cupboard, she saw the selfsame design as on the egg carton: that funny old spoon. She gave the handle a little tug, and—oh my!—it opened. Inside the cupboard was the purple carton.
Slowly—so slowly—she placed one hand on it. Marthur nearly stopped breathing. What if the eggs yelled for help? (If they could say good night, they could scream bloody murder.) She had to take that chance.
Trembling, she sneaked a peek at Ferlin. With a ruler (which looked a lot like a wand) the teacher was urging the rocket onward in a blast of rainbow stars. It surged around the light fixtures and began orbiting one. Ferlin watched in scientific triumph, oblivious to Marthur.
Suddenly, Marthur got the sweats. Ferlin knew. Ferlin always knew. Heart thumping and cartonless, Marthur raced back to her desk.
All day she festered. During recess she searched for a colorful bird or a beautiful blossom—the slightest sign that things would be okay. She saw some nice stuff. But the fact remained: As soon as she stole those dancing eggs (and she had to), she’d be a thief.
At noon everybody in the whole school was stuffed into the lunchroom, creating a fabulous hullabaloo. The little kids were eating pretty nicely. The older ones gobbled. Rufus and the bruisers were done eating. They were cruising for trouble.
Rufus grabbed a gob of paper-covered straws. “Watch me, guys!” He dipped a straw in somebody’s mashed potatoes, blew like crazy, and shot the wrapper to the ceiling. The paper stuck. “WHOOPEE!” Rufus roared.
Rufus’s minions grabbed straws, loaded them with potatoes, and shot the wrappers at the ceiling. Soon wrappers and wrappers and wrappers hung down like flimsy little stalactites. The rest of the kids just gawked.
“I’m gettin’ Klunk!” Rufus yelled at them. “I’m telling what you guys did!” He and his rowdies scuttled away. Their laughter rang in the halls.
What were the kids going to do? They couldn’t get the straw wrappers down. Klunk was going to blame them for the mess. Marthur was sitting with her friends, eating a peanut butter sandwich (with no peanut butter). Suddenly, she spronged up. She knew where her father kept a ladder. In a flash she hauled it out, scrambled up, and yanked the papers down. Two fifth graders held the ladder for her.
Then—zippo!—Marthur stashed the ladder and scooted to her seat. She put a finger to her lips. The kids sat like sphinxes, waiting.
Klunk roared in, his spies behind him. “Okay,” he blustered. “Number facts for a week for this little straw caper!” (He didn’t know any number facts; that didn’t matter.)
“What caper?” The kids started buzzing, looking puzzled.
Klunk pointed a fat finger at the ceiling. “That—” He nearly choked. “Rufus, you moron! You oxy-moron! There’s nothing up there!” He spluttered and stalked out. All the kids glanced at Marthur. They clapped—silently.
“Hey, brain-o!” Rufus bellowed louder than usual. He was burned. He couldn’t figure what had just happened, but he suspected Marthur. “You said you’d share your lunch with me. Eggs. Remember?”
He stood by a trash can, tipping it farther, farther, farther....
“Don’t do that!” Marthur screamed. “You’ll get them. After school.”
“I better.”
VII
School was out. Kids were streaming from the dark brick corridors of Horace E. Bloggins like trails of noisy ants. Some were already biking away. Some were waiting (noisily) for the buses. By now most of them had seen the carving with the bizarre prediction about a king. “Are you the king?” a boy asked his friend. “I don’t think so,” said the other boy, feeling his head for a crown. They laughed.
Last chance to filch the eggs. Marthur had a headache from worrying. Ferlin was going to hate her. But what could Marthur do? She had to keep her father out of trouble.
She hurried to the science room, the big coat flopping like a hound’s loose skin. But on her way, she heard yelling. Bugged by the straw-paper incident, Dr. Klunk was making some first graders nail Jell-O to a tree. (Dr. Klunk didn’t like first graders—or trees.) “The Jell-O stays put or you’re doing laps, people! Fifty big ones! Now start nailing!” he hollered gleefully.
Marthur glanced over. The first graders were trying to swing at the nails, but they could barely lift the hammers. The Jell-O jiggled through their fingers and plopped to the ground before they could get a nail near it. Some of the kids were already dragging around the track, crying and crying. Marthur needed the eggs—NOW. But she couldn’t stand watching the poor kids suffer.
“STOP!” she shouted. “I’ll do the laps—for all of them!”
Dr. Klunk brightened. If Marthur ran all the laps (he couldn’t figure out how many, but he knew it would be a lot), she’d collapse on the track. That would be excellent to watch.
“Hop to it, little missy! The rest of you get lost!”
Marthur’s mind spun, trying to think of a way out. She crossed her fingers. “I’ve got a doctor appointment,” she fibbed, and felt horrible. “But I’ll do double—tomorrow.”
Klunk stared at her from behind his wraparound shades. “Make my day.” He grinned.
Marthur heaved a huge sigh of relief and dashed for the science room. She knew Ferlin would still be there. She always stayed late.
“Hi, Ferlin,” she said limply.
“Hello, Marthur,” said Ferlin, bebangled with outlandish jewelry. “Something on your mind?”
Marthur got flustered. She couldn’t very well say, “I’m gonna steal your dancing eggs.” She had to distract her—so she blurted, “I want to be a teacher! That’s my dream.” She added, “Hold fast to dreams ’cause they are broken birds.”
“An unusual sentiment,” remarked Ferlin.
“It’s a famous poem that means don’t quit on stuff,” Marthur said. “I won’t quit on teaching. Will you show me how?”
“I was wondering when you were going to ask,” Ferlin said mysteriously.
“You knew about my dream?”
“Since kindergarten.”
Marthur gaped. Finally she said, “So. Will you teach me?”
“Now?”
“Yes—please.” While Ferlin taught, she was in another world. She absolutely riveted on a topic and noticed nothing else. Once she got going, Marthur could easily snatch the eggs.
“Teaching is the finest job there is,” said Ferlin vigorously. “I would be overjoyed to show you its intricacies. But I’m on my way home. Instruction starts tomorrow.”
“OH NO!” Marthur yelped.
“What?”
“I—er—needtosharpenmypencil!”
“Go ahead. I’ll get my things.”
Marthur rushed to the little cupboard with the weird spoon symbol on it. She fake-cranked the pencil sharpener like mad, keeping a wild eye on Ferlin. The second Ferlin’s head was turned, Marthur opened the cupboard, whisked out the purple carton, and bundled it under her sloppy coat.
“Marthur...,” Ferlin said slowly, peering from under her bushy eyebrows.
Help! I’m caught! Marthur thought, feeling lower than a dirt-digging worm.
“Would you snap off the light?”
Marthur nearly fainted. “Uh—sure.”
“Same time
tomorrow, first teaching lesson.” Ferlin sparkled merrily as they went out. “Till then, ‘Hold fast to dreams’!”
Her heart thumping nearly through her chest, Marthur held fast to the stolen eggs.
VIII
In a panic Marthur lurched along the dim corridor, clutching her father’s coat closed. She could feel the eggs jiggling inside the carton. And she was almost certain she heard them giggling.
Marthur’s brain buzzed. Her very first teaching lesson was the next day. She should have felt like floating; instead she felt heavy as lead. What have I done? she thought. I’ve burgled! I’m a thief! A crook! I’m as horrid as Rufus and Dr. Klunk!
Then she worried, Ferlin knows. I know she knows. She always knows everything—even before it happens. “Hold fast to dreams. ” Right. Now Ferlin will never teach me to teach. Even if I do learn, what teacher would filch mage eggs? A good teacher would never do such a thing! And what about Daddy? Klunk will find out what I’ve done, and he’ll be out of a job!
Marthur spun around. “I have to take them back!” she said out loud, running toward Ferlin’s room.
“That’ll happen,” sneered Rufus, pouncing from a dark doorway. “Give ’em over or well pound you to jelly!”
He was surrounded by his meatball minions. They usually hung around after school to see if there were any kids left to pester. But this time they’d been hanging around waiting for Marthur.
“You don’t really want them,” Marthur said, nonchalant outside, inside a total quiver.
“I really do. I’m gonna charge people oodles to watch ’em dance their little legs off. Even though I’m a kid, I’ll be RICH. Then I won’t have to get good grades like you, brain-o. That’ll show my dad—”
“Show him what?”
“None o’ yer beeswax, Einstein!”
“Why do you hate me?” Marthur blurted. “I never did anything to you.”
The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall Page 2