The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall

by Tony Johnston

  Little dragons were one thing. Marthur could see them and knew what she was dealing with. But a big weird tongue? Her imagination went nuts. What’s attached to this thing? What if it’s connected to a monster that’s about to burst through the wall and start slurping up kids? Jeez!

  “You’re a Snapdragon,” she reminded herself. But she couldn’t save the whole school from the monster in the wall. (It was hard enough saving them from Klunk.) Still, she had to warn everybody!

  Marthur shot out of there like a cannonball. Even if they’d still been lying in ambush, Rufus and his scruffians couldn’t have caught her. She sped as fast as a polished pig. (Maybe faster.)

  “A HEE-NOR-MOUS TONGUE!” Marthur hollered as she hurtled down the hall.

  “What are you blatting about?” Dr. Klunk came clumping around a corner. Marthur had taken so long, he’d come to give her a few hundred demerits. She was so startled, she dropped the paper towels. They fluttered down like limp brown leaves.

  “A tongue! A m-m-monster’s one Marthur stammered. “In the w-w-wall of the girls’ bathroom!”

  Klunk didn’t believe her. But he had to check it out—in case the king (ridiculous!) was really coming.

  “From hedgehog pee to giant tongues! A principal’s work is never done!” Klunk groused. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go!”

  “Where?”

  “To the office, of course. I need backup.”

  Marthur scrambled after him. “Don’t you need paper towels?”

  “THAT dried up, you took so long, little missy. When this tongue business is over, I’ll slap you with enough demerits to keep you in detention for the rest of your life!”

  “What about the dragons?” Marthur asked nervously. “Did you—find them?”

  “I found a purple egg carton—empty. That Ferlin’s as slippery as a greased eel.”

  Marthur nearly collapsed with relief. Then she felt silly. Ferlin was a wizard. She had tamed dragons. Turned them back into eggs. Cleaned the boiler room in a finger-snap. She didn’t need Marthur to save her from anything.

  With Marthur at his heels, Dr. Klunk scrugged into his office and yelled at his secretary, Miss Tweezers (rhymes with sneezers). “Get Snapdragon! Tell him to get over here pronto, chop-chop, ASAP, on the double! And to bring a golf club! We’ve got trouble!”

  Miss Tweezers called Luther on her walkie-talkie and reported back. “He’s only got a broom.”

  “Well, he jolly well better bring it! Anything could happen!”

  Pretty soon Luther Snapdragon reeled in. He was so weary from overwork, he wobbled.

  “Follow me,” Dr. Klunk snapped. “We’re after a tongue!”

  “I see,” Luther Snapdragon said blearily. (But he didn’t.)

  Marthur hugged her father—and propped him up.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she said. “Please be supercareful.”

  “Cut the fond adieus, little missy,” hissed Klunk. “You’re coming with us. You’re leading the way!”

  XV

  They hustled to the bathroom, Marthur in front, Luther Snapdragon next, brandishing his broom, gentle though he was. (Guess who was last?)

  “Hey,” said Klunk. “This is the boys’ bathroom.”

  Marthur was astounded. Flabbergasted. Amazed. Dumbfounded.

  No wonder Rufus hadn’t found her. Who’d look in there for a girl?

  “Oops.” Marthur blushed to the tips of her ears.

  “A girl in the boys’ bathroom! That’s a blot on your permanent record,” Klunk shot.

  The tongue was waiting for them. Doubtless expecting the worst, Klunk shoved Marthur in first.

  “Brace up,” her father whispered. “Look to the positive. Maybe it’s a friendly tongue.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” said Marthur, though jangled with fear. Then they tiptoed in.

  “There it is.” Marthur pointed, shielding her eyes from its flare.

  “Watch it,” Klunk hissed from a safe distance. “It could be dangerous.”

  It was dim in the boys’ bathroom. Slowly, warily, Marthur and her father sneaked closer. Luther held the broom at the ready. They looked harder—and sighed with relief, like air whooshing out of two giant punctured balloons.

  The tongue wasn’t dangerous. In fact, it wasn’t a tongue at all. It was an old handle. A very old handle. (Maybe the oldest handle in the world.) It was wedged deep into the cold masonry of the boys’ bathroom of Horace E. Bloggins School.

  “Well?” snarled Klunk from way far back.

  “It’s just a handle!” the Snapdragons chimed together.

  Klunk immediately muscled himself in front to see.

  The ancient handle was WONDROUS STRANGE. Fantastic. It was hammered of solid gold that shone with the pink glow of the ages. A colossal ruby (not a cough drop) flamed at its widest expanse; diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and amethysts and aquamarines and opals and topazes and tigereyes encrusted the rest—except for where the old-fashioned writing was.

  Marthur’s mouth dropped open. She recognized the handle! It was part of the emblem on Ferlin’s egg carton!

  Dr. Klunk and Luther Snapdragon and Marthur peered closely. They squinted like mad. The mysterious, spidery letters declared:

  Whoso Pulleth This Spoon

  from This Wall

  Is Rightwise King of All Bloggins.

  “Well, I’ll be a star-spangled banner!” Klunk blazed.

  His eyes glazed with excitement. Marthur could see them burning behind his dark glasses. Klunk yelled, “Rufus, I know you and those nincompoops are out there! Stand guard! Nobody comes in!”

  “Sure thing!” Rufus yelled from where he was lurking.

  “Stand back, you two! Give me room!” Klunk ordered, seething like an overloaded socket. “I’m going to yank this spoon out! I AM THE KING!” he screamed. Like the guy who sells mattresses on TV.

  Marthur and her father gaped at Klunk, horrorized. Klunk gripped the spoon handle. The ruby gazed at him like a big red eye. He pulled.

  Nothing happened, except he slipped and—oof!—went sprawling. Klunk struggled up and tugged again. Zilch. The spoon remained rooted like a great gold tooth.

  “Must be some sort of test,” muttered Klunk. (He’d never passed a test without cheating in his life.)

  He wedged one foot against the tile for leverage and strained like an ox. His neck swelled. His collar got tight. His eyes bulged. His face turned blue. A button popped.

  “Come out, you stupid utensil!” By then he was pretty mad. He was sweating like a pig, and the jewels had scraped his pudgy hands.

  But the spoon stayed stuck.

  “A real gut-buster,” Luther Snapdragon remarked.

  Klunk yelled, “Don’t just stand there, you two! Get out! Do some homework! Go sweep something!”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Snapdragons.

  “WAIT!” Klunk’s shout echoed like a cheap brass bell. “This spoon is TOP SECRET.” (It wouldn’t be for long, when he told Rufus.)

  He yanked off one shoe and slid his smelly sock over the handle as a flimsy disguise. (As if one reeking sock could throw anybody off the scent.)

  “Don’t tell a soul,” Klunk warned again, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  There was nothing more to do there. The Snapdragons slogged down the hall. Marthur slumped.

  “Jolly up, dear,” said her father. “Look to the positive. Dr. Klunk doesn’t have the spoon.”

  “Yet.”

  XVI

  The rest of the day moved along slowly, like a river of mud. Only Marthur’s body was in class; her mind was on the spoon in the bathroom wall. At least part of it was. The rest of her mind was on her first teaching lesson, which was coming after school.

  Marthur must have checked the clock a hundred times at least. But that made the time completely creep.

  FINALLY school was over. Marthur raced for Ferlin’s room.

  “Just a red-hot minute, little missy!” Dr. Klunk roared in her ear. “
You’ve got laps to run, remember?”

  OH NO! The Jell-O laps! No way would Klunk let her off again. So Marthur dragged out to the track and started jogging. Around and around. To keep from crying, she kept saying, “You’re a Snapdragon. You’re a Snapdragon.” Somehow that got her through—that and the thought that she was saving the first graders.

  At last Marthur finished. Night was coming. The lights in the corridors were already on. No other kids were around. Slowly, she dragged to Ferlin’s room. (She couldn’t race; she was too pooped.)

  “Hold fast!” Marthur told herself, though she didn’t have much hope that Ferlin had waited so long. Maybe she wouldn’t want to teach her at all, Marthur was so late.

  Sure enough, the lights were out. Marthur’s heart dropped. She’d lost her chance. But just in case, she squinted through the window. Maybe Ferlin was doing an experiment in the dark.

  The instant she looked, the blank chalkboard began pulsing with a greenish light like it was lit from inside. A message appeared on the chalkboard:

  Attention, Marthur.

  Change of schedule.

  Come back tomorrow.

  Marthur was so happy, she nearly cried.

  She went home dazed and confused. What was the ancient spoon all about? Why was it the same as the one on the egg carton? And why had Ferlin said that Marthur was going to need the dragons? Nobody needed dragons. Nobody even believed in dragons. Ferlin must be losing her mind.

  By the time Marthur got to the boiler room, her father had gone to work. He had left her a cheerful note:

  Dearest Martha,

  Off to the salt mines. Speaking of salt, there are three grains left for your egg.

  Poach it up!

  Love, Daddy

  P.S. Don’t worry about the TOP SECRET.

  Marthur couldn’t “poach it up”—what if it were a dragon egg? Anyhow, she was too stressed to eat. Probably right then, Dr. Klunk was prizing the wondrous spoon from the bathroom wall. Probably the next day he’d be king. Then the kids at Bloggins would really be at his mercy! (And he didn’t have any.)

  King Klunk. Not even King Kong would be worse.

  XVII

  A juicy rumor spreads itself. But as soon as Rufus found out about the spoon, he nudged that story along.

  The next day, on her way to class, Marthur overheard the buzz: “Whoso pulleth this spoon from this wall is rightwise king of all Bloggins.”

  She nearly screamed, “Everybody knows! Daddy and I will be blamed for telling!” She imagined the two of them huddled in a cardboard box in a dingy alley, snow peltering around their ears, and nearly burst into tears.

  It didn’t take long for kids to begin trickling out of science class. Some said they had the flu. They doubled over and held their bellies and looked fake urpy. Some squirmed and pretended they urgently needed to go to the bathroom. (They did, Marthur knew—to wrench at that spoon.) Everybody wanted to be king.

  One kid said he could hear his grandmother calling him—clear from another state. Ferlin gave him a hall pass. “For outstanding imagination.”

  With splendid generosity, she dispersed hall passes to everybody. Soon the room was empty except for Marthur and Ferlin.

  “Well then,” said Ferlin. “Now that they’re all sardined in the bathroom, let’s get to our teaching.” Her eyes burned like new stars.

  Marthur was dying to talk to Ferlin about the miraculous spoon. And the king who was supposedly coming. Why not tell? She and her father would soon be in trouble for blabbing, anyway. But she didn’t even have time to open her mouth before Ferlin launched in.

  “The first lesson of teaching is written on the board,” proclaimed Ferlin.

  Marthur looked. She saw nothing but a green expanse.

  “I don’t see it,” she said.

  “I said, the first lesson of teaching is written on the chalkboard growled Ferlin.

  Instantly, the chalk floated up and scribbled:

  No gambling.

  “Wrong list!”

  The chalk wrote:

  You never know what you’re teaching.

  Marthur was already confused. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, imagine you’re teaching geography,” said Ferlin. “The location of places like Chichicastenango. Ashley throws a spit wad at Sam, so you shout at her. What do your pupils learn?”

  “To throw spit wads?” ventured Marthur.

  “They learn that it’s okay to shout,” said Ferlin. “A teacher must be on her toes at all times. Be vigilant. Watch out.”

  “Gee,” said Marthur. “Teaching is hard”

  “You bet your sweet tooth it is.”

  Prink! Just then something struck a window. Marthur looked up. Prink! Prink! Prink! Prink! Prink! Prink! Prink! Gleams of gravel glanced off the glass. Marthur heard sniggering.

  “That Rufus,” she grumbled. “Why isn’t he in the bathroom with everybody else? He’s spoiling your magnificent lesson. Can’t you—”

  “Yell at him?” suggested Ferlin. She looked hard at Marthur and raised her eyebrows, which resembled two fuzzy white caterpillars.

  Marthur thought about that. “Then he’d learn how to yell—” Under her breath she muttered, “—better.”

  “Excellent!” said Ferlin. “You’ve learned Lesson One. Now let’s turn Rufus into popcorn and pour butter over him.”

  Marthur giggled. “That’s kind of drastic, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I don’t hear him anymore. I think he’s gone.”

  “Good. That saves me some butter. Well, Marthur, that’s it for today.”

  Marthur said, “I love teaching!”

  XVIII

  Marthur should have been elated about her first teaching lesson. She should have dawdled and danced in the halls and, for fun, tried not to step on cracks. But she had a feeling something bad was going to happen. Her skin felt crawly. She shivered and started walking home fast.

  The school halls were empty. And quiet. And spooky. To calm herself down, Marthur began repeating the “hold fast” poem. She was so jittery, she got it pretty mixed up: “Hold fast to dreams. If they croak you’re out of luck. When dreams break it snows and snows. Hold fast to birds or you will freeze.”

  Her father was right. It was a great poem.

  “So,” a sneery voice said suddenly, “how was your special class—with your own special teacher?”

  Rufus! (In jeans again.) She nearly fell down from fright. But then she thought: Marthur, you’ve faced dragons and Klunk and a giant tongue (sort of). You can face brat-boy easily. Quickly, she gathered herself. She looked at Rufus and imagined—a tub of popcorn, each Rufus-faced kernel oozing with butter. Marthur’s fear melted. She wasn’t scared. In fact, she was peeved, vexed, incensed, aggravated, exasperated, riled, wroth, and totally ticked off.

  “You—you—you—bully!” she cried. “Why are you always picking on me?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you’re smart.” Rufus spit that out like it was gopher poison. “Now you’ve got your own special teacher to make you smarter.” She could tell it infuriated him.

  “Golly!” yelled Marthur. “What is your problem?”

  Rufus glared at her. He balled up his fists. He dropped into a threatening crouch. “My dad thinks I’m brainless ’cause I do crummy in school,” he mumbled, whiffing a little jab close to her. “He wants me to belike you,” he snarled. (Jab, jab.) “Little miss brain-o. I’m gonna kronkle you!” (Jab. Jab, jab, jab.)

  So. That was it! You could have knocked Marthur over with a baby’s breath.

  “Rufus Turk, you’re CRAZY! Your father doesn’t know me, either!”

  Rufus put his arms down, but his fists were still ready. “He sees your stupid mug in the paper. Every time you win a stupid prize. For spelling. Or math. Or science. I’m sick of hearing ‘Be like that kid. She’s going someplace.’”

  “I STUDY,” Marth
ur said. “Did you ever try that?”

  “I’m no good at it. The dancing eggs. They were gonna make me rich. Show my dad how smart I am. But you—you and that witch—”

  “She’s NOT a witch! She’s a teacher. A magnificent one!”

  “Magnificent, magnificent,” Rufus taunted. “You can’t even use normal words! Jeez!”

  “Well, she is.”

  “Anyways, somehow you weirdos wrecked my dragon deal,” Rufus snarled. “But I don’t need to study now. I’ve got another plan. A better one. I’M gonna be king.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m gonna grab that old spoon,” Rufus said, “so’s I can wear a crown, sit on a throne, and be boss of everything. Then my dad’ll know I’m somebody. And you better not tell—or else.” He took one more fake jab at her and stalked off.

  Gee-minnooties! Everybody was telling her not to tell stuff. Marthur couldn’t tell, even if she’d wanted to. She was speechless.

  The whole way back to the boiler room, Marthur thought about Rufus. She’d told him he didn’t know her. But she didn’t know him, either. Poor Rufus. He just wanted to please his father.

  When she got home, Marthur stumbled into her pj’s. Her belly was grumbling. She’d only had a piece of (stale) cheese for lunch. She looked around for something to eat. On an orange crate, she saw a greasy bag and a note:

  My dearest darling dumpling,

  Here’s a little sumpling. (Har! Har!)

  Love, Daddy

  Her father had left her three slices of bacon from the cafeteria.

  “I love you, too, Daddy,” Marthur said into the air. Then, like a leaky pipe, she burst into tears.