by Tim Harris
The camera pans across to another police officer who is loading evidence into a van.
He’s wheeling a hot-pink bike. It has ribbons on the handlebars, and there is a basket on the front.
Ding!
Click! Clack! Click! Ping! Ping!
Clack!
Toby stares at the television, and his jaw drops open. “Now that is a bike made in heaven!”
5
Questions & Answers
The smell of pancakes wafted through room 12B the following Monday morning as the students took their seats. Mr. Bambuckle, who had watched the news with great interest over the weekend, handed Victoria the first pancake.
“You were right,” she said, taking a satisfied bite. “Cake does make a wonderful vehicle.”
Mr. Bambuckle grinned before passing the plate around the room.
Sammy Bamford straightened his baseball cap and scarfed down his pancake in one mouthful. “Thanks, Mr. Bambuckle!”
Evie Nightingale held her pancake in two hands, nibbling it at the edges. Her eyes darted around the room, on the lookout for any signs of Miss Frost’s return.
Slugger Choppers slammed his fist down onto his pencil case in hungry excitement, scattering stationery across the floor.
Victoria, who was thoroughly energized following her cake-related adventures over the weekend, left her desk to pick up the strewn stationery.
Slugger, meanwhile, was already drizzling homemade berry sauce over his pancake, licking his lips in anticipation.
Mr. Bambuckle saved the last crumb of his own pancake and clicked his fingers. Dodger emerged from an inside pocket of his jacket and pecked at the pancake crumb. He chirped his thanks before taking off, disappearing through the door like a blue gem shot from a gun.
“Where’s Dodger going?” asked Ren.
“Top secret business, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Bambuckle.
“Does Dodger sleep in your pocket?” said Scarlett.
“Wouldn’t you sleep in a pocket if you found one large enough?”
Evie giggled, then shrank back into her chair at the sound of her own laugh.
“Dodger has slept in my pocket from the time he was an egg,” said Mr. Bambuckle. There was a hint of sentiment in his voice. “I found him all alone in a nest in the Canadian wilderness. He had nobody to look after him.”
“He must be like family to you,” said Carrot. The orange-haired boy knew all about small families, being brought up by only his pop.
“Indeed, he is, my dear Carrot,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “But there’s something else about Dodger. Something rather peculiar…”
“What is it?” said Vex. “What’s peculiar?”
Mr. Bambuckle paused. “I doubt you’d believe me…even if I tried to explain.”
The students knew better. They had learned to trust their teacher above all others at Blue Valley School. They pressed him further.
“You can tell us.”
“We believe you.”
“What’s peculiar about Dodger?”
Mr. Bambuckle clicked his fingers, and Dodger flew back into the room. The blue jay circled the teacher before resting on his finger, blinking alertly under the classroom lights.
“He’s the same color as your suit,” said Ren, who was a master at observation.
“And that, dear Ren, is the peculiar mystery,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “When I first put Dodger’s egg into my pocket, my suit was gray. But as soon as his egg hatched, my suit burst into the same color as his feathers. He turned my jacket blue.”
While most children would scoff at an impossible story like this, the students in room 12B simply nodded in fascination. Such was their understanding of their teacher’s mysterious ways.
Dodger dived off Mr. Bambuckle’s finger, vanishing back inside the pocket. The students could have sworn their teacher’s jacket glowed just a fraction brighter.
Ren was in detective mode. “Do you ever take your jacket off?”
Mr. Bambuckle thought about this before doing something the students did not expect. “How about I show you?” he said, slipping the jacket from his shoulders and holding it out for inspection.
Vex was at the front of the room in a flash, thrusting his hands into the pockets. He grew increasingly frustrated, turning the jacket inside out in his hasty search. “They’re all empty,” he said finally. “I can’t even find Dodger.”
Mr. Bambuckle casually put the jacket back on and reached into the lowest exterior pocket, pulling out a small frying pan. “It’s amazing what can fit into a pocket, dear Vex. This is for when I have breakfast alone.”
Vex ran his hand through his dark hair in frustration. “But I just checked that pocket! There was nothing in it!”
Mr. Bambuckle smiled at Ren. “I often take it off, dear Ren. How else would I swim in the Amazon?”
“What’s the Amazon like?” said Sammy.
For a fleeting moment, the distant sound of drums floated through room 12B.
“Perhaps one day, you’ll answer that question for yourself, Sammy,” said Mr. Bambuckle.
“Where else have you been?” said Ren.
Mr. Bambuckle paused. “I suppose an easier question would be aimed at where I haven’t been.”
Ren persisted. “Which is…?”
“Nowhere.”
Fifteen collective “Wows” left the mouths of fifteen impressed students. This led to fifteen hands being thrust in the air.
“What’s the most dangerous place you’ve visited?”
“Have you ever been lost?”
“What’s your favorite country?”
“Tell me more about the Scottish Highlands!”
“Can you speak any other languages?”
Mr. Bambuckle took a great deal of time answering the questions. He treated each one with enormous respect. His colorful responses—though never exaggerated—expanded the imaginations of the students. The children were in heaven.
Mr. Bambuckle’s musical voice filled room 12B for hours that morning. The students—skipping morning recess to stay in the classroom—hung on every word as though each were an invisible treasure.
By the time the lunch bell sounded, the students felt as though they’d returned from an around-the-world adventure.
Before dismissing the class, Mr. Bambuckle scanned the room with thoughtful eyes. He sensed there was more potential in this odd collection of students than there was in any other group he’d ever taught. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind.
“I’m going to the cafeteria today,” said Albert Smithers, pulling a coin from his pocket. “Straight after I visit my buddy in the library.”
“Your buddy is a maniac,” said Vex, stifling a yawn.
“Strong words coming from you,” said Scarlett.
“The cafeteria… What a splendid idea,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “I think I might join you, Albert. I believe the lovely Carol is on duty today.”
“Oh no.” Albert groaned. “Cafeteria Carol gave me a microwaved hot dog the last time she served me.”
“What’s so bad about that?” asked Myra.
“It wasn’t microwaved. And it wasn’t a hot dog. It was a slab of tofu that wasn’t cooked through evenly. Some of it was still frozen hard as a rock, and I chipped my tooth. Then she laughed at me.”
“Oh,” said Myra. “She gave me frozen tofu once as well. Luckily, I managed to sell it on as sibling repellent. Nobody likes tofu!”
“Fear not, dear Albert,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “I hear the chicken noodles are good this time of year. Come on. Let’s go!”
Not you again.
Delightful Carol, it is so wonderful to see you.
What do you want?
What do you have?
The menu is on the wall. Read it your
self.
A splendid idea, Carol. Though it’s a tad far for my eyes to read. Would you kindly pass it here?
Please.
That’s correct.
Say “please.”
As you wish.
Just say it.
Okay.
What are you waiting for?
The menu.
Here—just take it.
Thank you, dear Carol. My, there are so many choices.
What do you want?
Please!
If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not sneeze.
Bees? What bees?
PLEASE!
I’m not paying any fees, dear Carol. Coffee is expensive enough as it is.
Ugh! You’re a pest!
Thank you, though I’m hardly the best.
I said “a pest”!
There’s no need for a rest.
Do you have a hearing problem or something?
Only when it allows others to see who they truly are.
What’s that supposed to mean?
You will discover in time, beautiful Carol.
Stop messing around and place your order.
I already did.
Remind me.
I would like a coffee.
I would like a coffee, PLEASE!
Well, I would love to make you a coffee, but I simply don’t have the time.
I didn’t ask for one.
You said, “I would like a coffee, please.”
Argh!
With due respect, lovely Carol, we’ve been here before. Remember the time you kept ordering chocolate from me when it was I who wanted it from you?
That nearly cost me my job.
Well, we couldn’t have that now, could we? Not when you have a reputation to maintain.
What reputation?
The one you have with the students.
I hate the little critters.
They adore you.
No, they don’t. They rarely come to the cafeteria when I’m on duty.
I beg to differ. There’s a student waiting behind me right now.
I don’t care. Just take your coffee and go. I’ve had enough of you.
Should I not pay for the coffee?
Just take it and go!
You’re very generous.
Get out of here!
As you wish. I do hope you’ll be as generous with Albert as you were with me.
Who is Albert?
Why, this fantastic young man…
Who are you?
I’m Albert Smithers. You’ve served me exactly seventeen times before.
I don’t remember, and I don’t care. What do you want?
Hmm, the chicken noodles do smell good.
Is that what you want?
Yes.
Yes, please.
Yes.
Yes, please!
Yes.
Do you know any other words?
Yes.
I don’t believe you.
I know all 171,476 words in the Oxford dictionary.
That’s just scary.
Do you mean scary in the alarming, horrifying, or spooky way? Or scary in the intimidating, unnerving way?
Who are you?
I’m Albert Smithers.
Yes, I know that part!
Well, you did ask.
I suddenly remember why I don’t like children.
Children are complex creatures, influenced by those entrusted to guard over them and establish scholarly acquirements.
Can you speak English?
I just did. Since we’ve been talking, I’ve used almost fifty different English words.
Here, take the noodles and go. I never want to see another child again.
I’ve just been to see another child—my buddy. He gave me a present.
What was it wrapped in?
A purple folder.
A purple folder?
Yep.
How odd.
Not as odd as one, three, five, and seven.
Huh?
It was a math joke.
Get out of here!
I think you mean, “Get out of here, please!”
Buddy Trouble
Albert Smithers’s Story
According to the dictionary—my favorite book aside from 101 Physics Facts That Will Expand Your Knowledge of the Known Universe—“trouble” means inconvenience and pain, annoyance and agitation, difficulty and distress, and a sense of worry.
This description fits my kindergarten buddy perfectly. Who am I kidding? He’s so much worse than that.
My buddy’s name is Buster. By my calculations, he’s approximately 44.1 inches tall, weighs approximately 47.8 pounds, and causes approximately 309 problems every day. Sometimes that figure is much higher if he hasn’t had breakfast, which research suggests is the most important meal of the day. Though this is yet to be formally proven.
I have formally proven that Buster is trouble. I proved it the first day I met him.
Miss Schlump—our class teacher before Mr. Bambuckle—took us down to the kindergarten classrooms to introduce us to our buddies. The new students were sitting on a mat, waiting for their names to be called.
All of them apart from Buster, that is. He was swinging from a curtain like a smaller, wilder version of Tarzan, throwing pencils at his teacher, Ms. Goss. Some of the kindergarten kids think Ms. Goss is a witch because she wears a cape and has a crooked nose.
Buster leapt from the curtain and landed on a desk. His scruffy brown hair was the same color as the dirt stains on his untucked shirt.
“Get down from there, Buster,” demanded Ms. Goss.
“Get down and boogie!” said Buster. Then he started to dance on the desk.
I wondered why Ms. Goss didn’t cast a spell on him and turn him into a frog. Maybe she had already cast a spell on him and turned him into a devil. But spells are yet to be scientifically proven.
Ms. Goss called out my name and pointed to Buster. “Try to be patient with him, Albert.”
“I’ll try,” I said, though I could feel my heart rate increase by almost thirty percent. Buster scared me. Being patient scared me. The only time I’d ever had to be patient before was explaining negative binomial regression to Miss Schlump.
But my fate had been sealed. Buster was my assigned buddy, and I had an entire year to look forward to spending time with him.
The first thing we had to do with our buddies was show them the outdoor building where the toilets were. “This is the bathroom,” I explained.
Buster yawned and scratched his bottom.
I tried to start a conversation with him. “Do you like books?”
“No! Words are for silly Billies.”
“Words can help you learn.”
“I only like pictures.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Anyway, as I was saying, this is the building where the toilets are.”
“You’re a poo-poo,” Buster said.
“Yes, that’s what you’ll be expected to do in the toilet,” I said.
“You’re a bum-bum.”
“Yes, that’s the part of your body that will emit the poo-poo.”
“You’re a pee-pee.”
“Yes, that’s also what you’ll do in the toilet.”
“You’re a—”
“I think you should stop now.”
Buster pulled down his pants and peed against the wall outside the toilet.
“Couldn’t you wait?” I said. “The toilet is literally 8.5 feet away!”
Buster ignored me and continued peeing.
He used it to paint a rude picture on the wall.
“What’s th
at?” I said, knowing full well he had drawn a bottom.
“Your face.”
I sighed.
“I like drawing!” he howled, pointing to his masterpiece. Or, should I say, master-pee.
Yes, that was quite enough to formally prove Buster was trouble. I simply failed to estimate just how much trouble he was going to be.
• • •
The buddy system was designed by teachers to help ease kindergarten students into school life. No care or consideration was given to the health and safety of the older students.
Buster had been my buddy for about a month, and all he had done was cause trouble.
He had stolen two pairs of my glasses, set fire to a school garbage can, pee-graffitied the toilet wall countless times, destroyed one of my favorite shirts—the one with the picture of Albert Einstein—and swapped one of Slugger’s homemade gourmet sauces with radiator fluid. (Slugger was furious and said it tasted disgusting, though later, he admitted his body felt refreshingly cool.)
I tried to take comfort from our science lessons with Mr. Vincent, but all he wanted to do was tell us about the properties of caramel donuts. I was resigned to the fact that my buddy was making life miserable.
“You need to be a better influence,” said Miss Schlump. “He’s looking to you for guidance.”
I wanted to say, “He’s looking to me for a punching bag.” But I felt nervous, and it came out wrong: “He’s punching you like a bloomin’ hag.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Schlump.
“Sorry, my pituitary gland is sending strong messages to my adrenal gland.”
I could tell by Miss Schlump’s face that she had no idea what I was talking about.
“He makes me nervous,” I said. “I’m even nervous now just talking about him.”
“Try harder to control him, Albert.”
Miss Schlump was not a very sympathetic lady.
• • •
A few weeks later, Buster sent the signals between my pituitary and adrenal glands into overdrive.