“Yeah? You do everything right, you—you-BRAIN-O!”
Rufus grabbed the carton, tore it open, and set the eggs on the edge of a ledge.
“Dance!” he snarled.
The eggs lay there on their gleaming white sides, their small shoes shining like black jelly beans.
“Dance!” Rufus yelled.
Not a wiggle. Not a jiggle.
“DANCE!”
“They’re the wrong eggs,” Marthur said in desperation. “I made a mistake.” (Now she was a liar, too.)
“Right, nimble-wit. That’s why they got feet.” Rufus gave the eggs a hard-boiled glare.
“Ya won’t dance?” he fumed. His Big Plan was squelched. “Maybe you’re good for something else—like eating. Come on, guys, let’s cook the Dirty Dozen!”
Marthur screamed, “You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“If you do, you won’t get rich!”
“These lazy eggs aren’t worth a dime, anyways!”
“But it’s—it’s—murder.”
“They’re eggs, brain-o!” Rufus roared. “But since you care so much, you get to watch me boil ’em. In the boiler room!” He laughed and snorty-snorted, like a pig.
Rufus shoved Marthur along in front of him. As she stumbled home, Marthur racked her brain about what she’d done to make him hate her. And she racked her brain for a way to save Ferlin’s eggs.
It’s all my fault, she thought. Think fast or the little dancers are goners!
IX
Marthur was undone. A waterwall of tears welled behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let Rufus see them. When they reached the boiler room, she fumbled with the doorknob, hoping to dart in quickly and slam the door on the hooligans.
“Get a move on, fumblethumbs,” snorted Rufus. “We’ve got cooking to do. The Dirty Dozen’s goin’ DOWN!”
Luther Snapdragon opened the door.
“Daddy!” The tears nearly gushed.
“Come in, everybody!” yelled Luther Snapdragon enthusiastically, removing his earmuffs. “It’s always nice to see Martha’s friends!” (He, of course, called her by her real name.)
Rufus and his pals swarmed in.
“Nice pipes!” Rufus shouted with fake politeness, seeing the ancient steam heater.
“Thank you, young man!” replied Luther Snapdragon, as the heater kronked and hissed.
“They have to go, Daddy!” cried Marthur urgently.
“They just arrived! And welcome they are!” stated Luther heartily.
“But, Daddy, it’s Rufus! He’s going to boil eggs!”
Marthur was jumping up and down as if fleas were nipping her legs.
“Eggs-cellent!” Luther Snapdragon joked. “The water’s ready! I was boiling it for coffee!”
“Eggs-cellent!” Rufus grinned.
“Nothing tastier than a-negg!” shouted Luther with gusto. “Martha and I favor poached.”
Marthur was about to pop. Her father didn’t know about Rufus because she hadn’t told him. If she had, no doubt he would have smiled and spouted his solution to everything: “Hold fast, my dear! Show them you’re a Snapdragon!”
“Mr. Snapdragon!” Rufus shouted, all smarmy. “I sure admire your daughter’s brains!” To Luther, Rufus seemed to be a nice young fellow.
“She is quite bright!” yelled Luther with pride. (Marthur’s photo was often in the local newspaper; she won lots of prizes at Horace E. Bloggins.)
Luther Snapdragon glanced at Rufus’s (stolen) watch. “Oh, my word! Dr. Klunk wants me right now. Gotta go. Cheerio! Hold fast!”
“DADDY! WAIT!” Marthur yelled after him. But her throat was still sore from the night before. So the words scraped out in squeaks.
“Daddy can’t help you now, megamind!” Rufus taunted. “Let’s get to it!”
In a wink the Dirty Dozen were awash with water in a pot on top of a pipe. Steam clouded. The pipe hissed. The water burbled.
Rufus rubbed his hands together. “This is what you get for wrecking my plan! You won’t dance, you lose, chumps!” He smirked at the twelve white lumps.
The water boiled faster. It roiled and rolled quite jollily—like in an old-time cauldron.
“STOP!” Marthur yelled. “You’re killing them!’’ She flailed at the pot, hoping to dump it over. But the minions grabbed her first.
Marthur nearly dissolved. But she didn’t. She stuck her chin out instead.
“Isn’t cooking a gas?” Rufus gloated. “You’re the Marthur Stewart (rhymes with blooert) of Horace E. Bloggins!”
The eggs thudded against one another like small stones. Strange sounds erupted from them. Suddenly—crrrr-ick! crrrr-ock! crrrr-eek!—they cracked open.
“Criminy!” Rufus screamed.
A dozen tiny dragons gleamed in the boiling water, eyes lit with devilment, hissing their heads off. And they were clawing their way out.
X
The dragons roared from the rim of the pot:
“Cook us in bug juice!
Char us in oil!
Fry us in Brylcreem!
Bake us in soil!
Braise us in soy sauce!
Give it a whoil!
The hotter the better!
We love to boil!”
Their eyes spurted sparks of burning green. Their scales blazed like leaves aflame. They belched (loudly) fireballs like Roman candles.
Marthur was delighted. The eggs were alive—and transformed!
“Hurrah for the dragons!” she croaked.
“Duck!” yelled Rufus. A surging fireball singed his baseball cap.
The scaly creatures scrambled free. They prowled along the pipes, pawing the Snapdragons’ laundry, hissing and hurling fireballs and smoke bombs at will. (They paused now and then to chortle bloodthirstily.)
The boiler room turned to chaos. Pandemonium. Bedlam. A total hullabaloo.
“We’re cooked!” roared Rufus, scared out of his skull.
“We’ll be torched! Scorched! Blistered! Burnt to a crisp! Toast!” shrieked his gang. They were too rattled to dash for the door. They scrunched themselves into comers like roaches and whimpered.
Marthur was surprised to realize that she wasn’t frightened. In fact, she felt pretty calm. Her father’s slogan rang in her head: Show them you’re a Snapdragon!
She pulled herself up to look as tall as she possibly could (about four feet). “Dragons!” Marthur shouted over the din. “My father’s old! He works to the bone! He’ll be pretty upset to come home to this mess. You’re having lots of fun. But stop, please!” Her mind raced. Even if the dragons relented, how could she ever clean up? (At least she didn’t have to do laundry; they’d burned that.) Her voice quivered a little, but she held fast—a Snapdragon at her best.
Marthur’s words slowed the dragons down a bit. But they were too full of razzmatazz to quit.
“CEASE AND DESIST THESE PYROTECHNIC ANTICS!” thundered a furious voice.
At once the dragons ceased and desisted charring the premises. They went stiff—except for their mischievous glittering eyes.
“Ferlin!” cried Marthur. “Thank goodness!”
“Run for it!” screeched Rufus. “I’ve seen her in action. She’s a witch!”
“The proper term is wizard!” snapped Ferlin.
The boys hotfooted it away. As they shot past, the dragons spouted sparks at the seats of their pants. Rufus turned back to yell, “Wait till Klunk hears that Daddy’s dragons are trashing school property!”
Whang! Marthur slammed the door in his pinched-in weevil face. She looked at the devastation, then at Ferlin.
“Funny!” Marthur shouted. “In spite of everything, I feel good!”
“Slamming doors has that effect!”
“Are you really a lizard like you told Rufus?” Marthur asked.
“Wizard.”
“But I thought wizards were—”
“Men? Oh my, no. Some of the greats are women.”
“Are you one of the grea
ts?”
“Let’s just say I have a certain... Reputation.”
Ferlin raised a hand and commanded, “Aroint thee! Out! Begone!” With that, the smoke sucked itself out the door. All signs of havoc vanished. “As you were,” Ferlin ordered the dragons.
With a clashing of claws and a flurry of shell shards, once again they were eggs. “And put on your shoes.”
Grumbling, the eggs obeyed. Then they hopped back into the purple carton—the carton decorated with the weird old spoon.
“That settles that,” Ferlin said, dusting ashes from her hair.
“Sorry about the eggs.” Tears glazed Marthur’s eyes. “I didn’t want—”
“I know what happened,” said Ferlin gently.
“Ferlin?” said Marthur, still shaky.
“Yes?”
“Can’t you use your—er—special techniques to nicen-up Klunk and Rufus?”
“I’m afraid not, Marthur. People must change by themselves. Tricks don’t count,” Ferlin said. “Well, don’t forget our little class tomorrow. After school.” Then, her handbag bulky with dragon eggs, she swooped out.
“Good night,” Marthur whispered.
She thought she heard “Good night” float back.
The eggs were safe. And the next day (Hold fast!) she’d learn how to teach. Marthur should have slept well. But she kept hearing Rufus’s threat: “Wait till Klunk hears that Daddy’s dragons are trashing school property!”
Even though the boiler room was clean again, Marthur knew her troubles weren’t over. Why couldn’t that weird saying be true? Why couldn’t there really be a king on the way to Horace E. Bloggins School?
XI
Open up, Snapdragon!” A sharp shout shattered the morning.
“Dr. Klunk!” yelped Marthur, leaping up from her cot. She dashed to open the door, hoping to hustle Klunk away before he woke up her father.
“Good morning, Dr. Klunk,” Marthur greeted him sweetly (but loudly—because of the pipes).
The way he snarled at her, you’d think she’d said, “Rotten day to you, you old canker.”
Dr. Klunk glared like a gargoyle through his wraparounds. Rufus Turk slouched beside him (without his minions for once). He was one big smirk.
“Don’t you dare ‘Good morning’ me, little missy,” Klunk stormed. “The word is out, the king is coming. The king? POOP! I’m in charge here. Clean up this place! And cough up those dragons! I can control ’em if anybody can! I’ll show the interloper that we don’t need him!” He buffaloed his way in, Rufus swaggering in his wake.
Then Rufus stopped short. He gawped. “I don’t get it. Where’s the dragons? Where’s the smoke? Where’s the total DEVASTATION?”
Luther Snapdragon woke up and coughed.
“Little case of smoke inhalation?” snapped Klunk.
“Smoke?” asked Luther Snapdragon, grogged with sleep. “No, thanks.” (He was highly against cigars and cigarettes.)
“From the dragons!.” Klunk ranted. “You savage! You’ve blatantly allowed them to deface school property!”
“Dragons?” Luther sat bolt upright, flabbergasted.
“No use playacting. Your name’s not Snapdragon for nothing,” Klunk puffed, pleased at making that connection.
“He’s innocent!” cried Marthur. “And he needs his rest. Can’t you see—there are no dragons. And no defacing.”
“There were! And there was smoke and fire!” bellowed Rufus. “I swear!” (Unfortunately, he swore a lot.)
“Where’s the proof?” asked Marthur.
Klunk snorted. “I’m the principal. I don’t need proof!”
“But there’s nothing wrong,” Marthur insisted.
“Maybe there is. And maybe there isn’t.” Klunk glared. “I’ll talk to that Ferlin woman next. Rufus informed me you’re in cahoots.”
“Cahoots!” Luther was aghast.
“Pipe down. Snapdragon! You’re on probation!”
“Probation!” cried Marthur. “That’s not fair!”
“Fair, shmair,” Klunk sneered.
Luther Snapdragon asked nervously, “Can I still work?”
“Don’t miss a minute—or you’ll be on SUSPENSION!”
When the intruders were gone, Luther Snapdragon said in his usual cloudy way, “What’s all this about savages and kings?” Then he asked gently, “Martha, dear, do you have something to tell me?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she replied truthfully. “But first I’ve got to warn Ferlin to hide the dragons!”
XII
In the science room there was a telephone. And a red baboon. And a picture of—George Washington. And there were three antbears sitting on chairs. And two little lizards. And a pair of gizzards. And a unicorn brush. And a sink full of mush.
“Good night!” cried Dr. Klunk, jostling past some early pupils. “What a room!” The griffin was enjoying its morning ration of figs. It statued itself immediately when Klunk blammed in. Klunk shoved the griffin aside and roared up to Ferlin.
Marthur tore in after him. “Ferlin! They’re coming! Hide the—”
Pwoff! She plowed into Dr. Klunk, nearly knocking off his shades.
“Hide the what?” Klunk growled.
Marthur thought fast. “Onions!”
“Yeah, right,” snarled Rufus. He stood glued to the principal, like a nasty little shadow.
“Hide the onions!” proclaimed Ferlin. “The slightest exposure to light might utterly spoil our class experiment!”
“Never mind onions! My sources say you have fire-breathing dragons in your possession!” Klunk stated like the gasbag he was. “I’m confiscating them! No more flaming around! No more scorching! I can keep things as shipshape as anybody. The king may be coming, but I don’t need him!”
“Dragons?” said Ferlin. “Amazing.”
“She’s faking,” rasped Rufus. “I saw ’em. They burnt my pants. Look!”
Rufus always wore the same pair of jeans. He knew the proof was there, right on his rear. Klunk checked that and roared, “What singe, you little rodent?”
Rufus pretzeled himself to look. Marthur giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your jeans just turned plaid.”
Rufus’s eyes flared like matches. His face got splotchy with fury. “My singe! My jeans!” he screamed. “Turn ’em back!”
He jostled Marthur and hissed, “This ain’t over yet, Miss Special Class. Me an’ the guys’ll be outside...” The threat hung in the air like a bunched fist. Then Rufus bolted, muttering, “Plaid!” Like it was the worst curse word in the world.
“Dragons. I don’t recall any,” mused Ferlin, getting back to the larger problem. Klunk didn’t wait for permission. He began ransacking Ferlin’s stuff with gusto. He’d show any king who happened by just who controlled things at Bloggins.
Klunk dug about like a truffle pig. Marthur watched nervously. Uh-oh!—she spotted the dragon-egg carton (still smudged with soot from the night before). Marthur gasped in horror. Dr. Klunk was so close, he could sneeze on the carton! Now Ferlin was really in for it!
Marthur had to distract him. “Hold this,” she said, shoving one of Ferlin’s hedgehogs at him.
Klunk held it gingerly, as if it were a tiny spiny football.
“Hey, little missy!” he shouted at Marthur. “Whaddya think you’re doing?” Then he stopped stock-still. “Go to the bathroom at once!” he yelled.
“But I don’t have to.”
“You do have to! I need paper towels! The KING is coming any minute and look what this—this—creature has done!”
The hedgehog had peed on Dr. Klunk.
Marthur glanced at Ferlin. “Can you do without me?” she asked.
“We will be fine.”
“What about the—” Marthur stared wildly at the egg carton.
“I’ll see to them. After all, you’re going to need them later,” Ferlin said.
Marthur felt stupefied. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what
I mean. Now go. We will be fine.”
But I won’t be, Marthur thought. She knew Rufus and his gang were waiting for her. Still, she had no choice.
Marthur gulped and went out.
XIII
Yo, brain-o!” Rufus hooted. “Wait up!” He and the minions poured from the gloomy hallway.
As if! Marthur took off. Not only was she smart, she was also a pretty fast runner. She spurted into high gear. She sprinted as though ten thousand demons were snapping at her heels. (Really, there were only six.)
The boys stampeded after her, yelling like wild apes. Once Marthur looked back fast and nearly whiplashed herself. They were still rumbling close behind, their sneakers squeaking like anything.
Marthur turned a corner and zipped through a door.
“Safe—for now,” she panted. “Those guys wouldn’t be caught dead in the girls’ bathroom.”
Marthur was pooped from running. Pooped from worrying. About her father. And Ferlin. And Rufus. And the dragons (which Dr. Klunk had probably already found). And the teaching lessons (which would probably never happen). She would have loved nothing better than to collapse on the bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the cool tiles. But the paper towels! Dr. Klunk was waiting.
Before going back, Marthur turned on the tap and doused herself with cold water. She felt a speck better. She grabbed a gob of paper towels, took a deep breath, and prepared to run for it.
Just then, for some uncanny reason, Marthur glanced at the wall to the left of the towel dispenser. Two seconds before, there’d been nothing there. But then, there it was. From nowhere, it had just appeared.
Something bizarre was sticking out from the tile. It was a long pink tongue.
XIV
Marthur froze. The big tongue just hung there, glowing with a peculiar pink tinge. A bloodred stone was lodged in it like a great big cough drop. And where the tongue got skinny, there were lots of gems and strange scratchings, like writing.
“Gol-leeee!” Marthur yelled. It was so bedazzling, she had to shield her eyes.
The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall Page 3