Seth and I duck under our desks as erasers whiz around us like artillery fire. BING! BAM! POW! They strike the desk and the floor and the chair.
“Will you guys just knock it off?” Maggie complains from the front of the room, standing up.
Brian whips an eraser at Maggie, but it misses.
“Stop being so bossy!” Brian yells.
“I’m not bossy,” says Maggie, but softly, her voice cracking, and she sits down.
“Has anyone noticed the smell is almost gone?” asks Jasmine.
I peek back up from under the desk. Brian isn’t holding any more erasers. I stand up and sniff.
I was so used to the terrible odors from the vinegar volcano that I forgot about them. I guess you can get used to just about anything.
Even doing homework, maybe.
But Jasmine is right. The vinegar smell still lingers in the room, but faintly. I have to take a good long sniff to notice it at all.
“What’s going to keep other teachers away now?” asks Madelyn.
Principal Klein could walk in, and then what? He would open the door and get smashed on the forehead with an eraser.
We’d be hauled away to detention for a year.
“They can’t find out,” moans Maggie. “We can’t have a teacher yet!”
I thought Maggie wanted a teacher.
“We’ll probably be given twice as much homework,” groans Danny, although Maggie gave us plenty. Danny wears these tight dreadlocks, and he pulls them as he fidgets. Jasmine wears her hair the same way. She pulls hers, too. It must be a twin thing.
“They’ll probably give us the meanest teacher ever,” says Emmy. “Maybe we’ll get Ms. Bryce’s evil clone.”
“We are going to be in so much trouble,” Danny moans.
Adam spits on his desk and rubs it with his shirtsleeve. His desk is covered in doodles and tiny hearts, and his sleeve wipes only some of the marks off. It smudges others. I guess he’s trying to erase the evidence of his doodles before we’re discovered, so he can avoid detention.
Lizzie wipes her desk, too. It’s also covered in tiny hearts.
“We could always, um, post a lookout,” says Eric.
Adam and Lizzie stop rubbing.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Eric’s a small kid, and his voice is small. We have to be quiet to hear him. “Well, see, um, with a lookout we can take turns standing outside the door.” Eric looks down, as if embarrassed to talk. “When a teacher comes by, um, the lookout can knock two times on the door. One, two. Then we can quickly stop whatever we’re doing, right? And we can, uh, pretend to be working, maybe.”
“But won’t the teacher wonder why we’re standing in the hallway?” asks Lacey.
Eric nods. Still casting his eyes to the floor, he says, “We’ll just say our teacher is giving us a time-out. That’s the sort of thing Ms. Bryce would do, right?”
It is something she would do.
Yow. Yow. Yow. A lookout. That’s a fantastic idea.
Everyone nods their heads.
“We should take turns,” Paige suggests. “How about we do it alphabetically?”
That seems fair. My eyes go to the far wall, where our class list is taped. The first name, on the very top of the list, is Kyle Anderson.
Me.
“I’ll go out in a minute,” I say. Because I just noticed a whole bunch of erasers by my feet, left from where Brian threw them earlier.
I wink at Seth, who notices all the erasers on the floor, too. Brian is out of ammunition. And we’re not.
Let Eraser War revenge begin!
I’ve added nine more points to my total when there’s a knock on the door. Everyone in class stops whatever they are doing and freezes.
I was supposed to be the lookout, wasn’t I?
My arm is cocked and about to zip my final eraser, but I lower my hand. My eyes dart to the door. It swings open and Principal Klein walks in.
Gavin and Trevor stop playing tic-tac-toe on the whiteboard and quickly try to erase it. Maggie looks up from where she’s sitting on the teacher’s chair. Ryan stands on her desk, where I think she was spinning.
“What’s going on?” Principal Klein demands. “Where is your teacher?” He glares at us, his big hands tensed.
It’s so quiet you could hear a pencil drop. We all look at one another, afraid to move, and even more afraid to speak.
Trouble is about to fall on us like a terrible avalanche.
After what feels like forever, that quiet kid Eric clears his throat and speaks up again. “Ms. Bryce is in the bathroom.”
Principal Klein frowns. He looks at Ryan, still standing on a desk. “And what do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
“Um,” she mutters.
Eric clears this throat again. “We’re doing an, um, experiment with heat. Heat rises, right? So we’re, uh, measuring the temperature at different heights in the room. Maggie is getting thermometers. And Gavin and Trevor are recording our findings.”
Good one. Maybe I should notice Eric more. It’s easy to forget he’s here.
I look at Eric and then at our principal, who is gazing around the room. No one breathes. But then Principal Klein nods. “Okay then. Good work. Carry on. But keep it down. Some of the other classes say you’re being loud.”
And he leaves. Just like that.
All of us, everyone in class, lets loose a unified deep breath of relief. That was way close.
A bunch of my classmates now stare at me. Some of them frown.
“I thought you were supposed to be the lookout,” says Maggie.
“Yeah, but—” I start to say.
“We should have known you’d mess up,” says Lacey. “You’re not good for anything.”
I cringe at those words. I stomp my foot. I think about my mom and her promotion and the new Kyle I’m going to be. The new Kyle who I’m supposed to be.
“I’m going. Are you happy?” I bark.
As I cross the room, stares follow me. I glare right back. I knock off Trevor’s baseball cap, just because. I’m relieved when I step out into the hallway and away from the glares. I loudly bang the door behind me.
It pops back open, so I kick it closed again.
BANG!
But … now what?
I shift to my right foot, and then to my left. I hop. I stare at the door.
I’m bored.
I sit on the floor. It’s boring on the floor, too.
I hear kids laughing from inside our classroom. This isn’t fair. I stand up and grab the doorknob to go back inside.
But I stop myself.
I am the lookout. This is my job.
I am good for something.
As I stand here, I scan the art that’s taped on the walls next to our door. Ms. Bryce always put the best art from class on the wall, but none of it is mine. There are bird pictures from Eric, Paige, Madelyn, Giovanna, Adam, Lizzie, and others.
I don’t think I ever finished my picture. I was too busy goofing off.
A couple of kids drew pictures of woodpeckers. Woodpeckers are pretty interesting unless you have a wooden leg or wooden teeth or you’re a wooden puppet like Pinocchio. Then, woodpeckers can be scary.
I walk down the hallway, looking at artwork from other classes. Mr. Paul’s class drew self-portraits. Some are really good, and some are not. One kid has three ears, and I wonder if that was on purpose or by accident.
Mrs. Emery’s class has poems outside her door. The poems are all about family, like, “I love my mother. And also my brother.”
I could write a better poem about my family.
At home it’s a ruckus, the place such a mess—
Why, things are calmer at school during recess.
With the five of us kids there’s always commotion,
But I’ll change—just watch! And Mom will get her promotion.
I’m still on the other end of the hallway when I see Mrs. Duncan. She’s our librarian. Her heels clop on the floor, echoing.
She stops walking right in front of our classroom.
I’m supposed to be the lookout. I’ve messed up again.
I really am good for nothing.
“Hi, Mrs. Duncan,” I call, waving and rushing over. “I was just, um, in the bathroom.”
She looks at me, wagging her finger. “There’s no running in the hallways, Kyle,” she says. I slow down. “Is everything all right?” she asks. “I haven’t seen Ms. Bryce since Monday.”
“Everything is great!” I say, smiling.
“Your class is being very loud.”
“Sorry about that. We’re working on a science experiment with vinegar and temperature and things,” I babble, hoping it’ll drive her away. “It really smells in there.”
Thankfully, my excuse works, and Mrs. Duncan nods and turns from the door. With a clop, clop, she disappears around the corner.
As my heart pounds in my chest at a trillion beats a second, I slink down to the floor, right below the woodpecker pictures.
I’m starting to think that it’s a lot harder not having a teacher than having one.
Giovanna wears a new cream T-shirt, but it’s so not her color. With her milky-white skin, she should be wearing deep reds, icy pastels, and dark blues. I hand her a magazine. “Page eighty-two,” I say, pointing to the headline highlighted on the cover. “The article on skin tone and colors.” Giovanna nods gratefully.
That girl is lucky I’m here to help her.
As she opens the magazine, Giovanna knocks a card off her desk. She quickly bends over, picks it up, and stuffs it inside her notebook. I saw Jade and Jasmine with the same cards, too. They are from Emmy. I think she’s having a birthday party. I might be the only girl in class who is not invited.
Not that I want to go to her party, anyway. I have nothing in common with most of those girls.
Still. You’d think she’d invite me. I’m always going out of my way to help everyone. Just the other week I suggested Emmy should wear skinnier jeans.
She frowned and turned away without even thanking me. But I was just trying to help. Like this morning, when I complained to Aunt Karen that she needed to make her freshly squeezed orange juice more carefully. There was too much pulp swimming inside the glass, so I couldn’t drink it. Aunt Karen told me I was too picky.
Maybe some advice is best left unshared.
I’ll need to think about that.
Like, my fashion magazines always make fun of out-of-style celebrity fashion. But maybe what’s funny in magazines is sort of mean face-to-face.
I look away from Giovanna. Kyle is back from his outside-the-room lookout post and Trevor has taken his place. Kyle opens Soda’s cage, lifts up the rodent, and tosses it at Jasmine.
Ugh! I can’t imagine anything worse than a rodent in my hair.
Kyle laughs. He still has Soda—he was only pretending to throw it. That’s a good thing for Jasmine.
And I suppose it’s a good thing for the rodent, too.
I turn my attention back to Giovanna. She stands up to adjust her shirt, which is tucked into her jeans. It really should be untucked. I open my mouth to tell her, but then bite my lip and instead say, “I really like your shirt. Is it new?”
Giovanna smiles brightly. “It is. Thanks!”
Her smile makes me smile, too. Then I notice the invitation to Emmy’s party sticking out of her notebook, just slightly. I avert my eyes, but my smile vanishes.
My notebook is stuffed with new assignments from Maggie. There are way too many. Last night I needed Aunt Karen’s help in finishing them. Mom and Dad were too busy, as usual. I finished so late I didn’t have a chance to check out my favorite fashion blogs online, and I always have time for that.
“I keep thinking we’re missing something big,” says Giovanna to me.
“Like nail polish? We can talk that if you want,” I say, hopeful.
Giovanna frowns. “No, I mean we’re missing something big in class. There’s something happening soon. But I can’t remember what.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” I say. “Maggie’s got everything under control.”
An eraser lands on my desk, only inches from my arm. Seth grabs it. “Sorry,” he blurts out. He smirks and then whips the eraser at Kyle, who bumps into Danny’s desk as he tries to duck. Danny looks up, annoyed.
I think Maggie has everything under control, anyway.
“Well, let me know if you want to talk about nails. Or jewelry,” I say to Giovanna, looking at her small golden stud earrings that cry out, Starter earrings. “I have some suggestions,” I say, but then catch myself and force a smile. “Not that you need any,” I quickly add.
Being a teacher is exhausting and tiring, an effort of near Herculean proportions. Hercules was this mythological strong man who performed twelve heroic labors, but I bet none were as tough as grading homework. I stayed up past midnight last night, and I’ll probably have to work all weekend. I thought being a teacher would be a breeze and a half. I was wrong, and that’s not something that happens often, if ever.
My classmates make so many mistakes and their handwriting is messy. In math, we are supposed to show our work, but it’s nearly impossible to figure out what half the class is doing and how they get their answers.
Emmy got question number five right on math work sheet seven, but purely by accident, using multiplication and subtraction, when you were supposed to divide. Do I give her credit for the question or not? And what about Eli, who used the right formula but then wrote a three instead of a five for the final answer because his handwriting is so messy he probably couldn’t read it correctly? Does he get partial credit? Full credit?
But grading the work is only part of my responsibilities. I need to create lesson plans and homework every day, too. We can’t go a day without learning.
I, Maggie Cranberry, will not waste a day of learning.
I admit it—Ms. Bryce’s job was not as easy as I thought. No wonder she was always in a bad mood. Harvard University better appreciate the work I’m doing, that’s all I can say.
But I’ll muddle through, somehow. I simply have to. Everyone’s depending on me, whether they know it or not. Mom and Dad will be so proud. I’ll probably skip high school and go right to Harvard, where they’ll name a building after me. I can see it now—cheerleaders jumping outside as I walk to the brand-new Maggie Cranberry Hall, news cameras flashing and a thousand people cheering my name: Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! Kyle is there, and he’s cheering, too. I couldn’t miss his bright red hair even if I wanted to. He walks up to me, and he looks into my eyes, and I look back at his—
I jerk my eyes open. Did I fall asleep for a moment? No wonder adults drink coffee to stay awake in the morning after working late at night, even though the stuff smells like motor oil.
Kyle is standing at my desk. I shake the lingering images of my dream from my mind. “Yes?” I ask after clearing my throat.
Kyle holds one of my assignment sheets. It’s the one on invertebrates I handed out. Those are animals without spines, like insects, worms, clams, and snails.
“You gave me a C,” he says, pointing at the page. He jabs at it. He looks angry.
“I have to grade the papers,” I explain. “If I don’t, our parents will think something is wrong.”
“But I got all the questions right.”
I slide on my glasses, which I had removed to rub my eyes right before I fell asleep, if I fell asleep. I’m not entirely admitting that I fell asleep, only that the possibility exists. Kyle glares at me with his bright green orbs. I look away from him, embarrassed by my dream, and scan his sheet. “Right. You did. But your parents might be curious about why you are suddenly getting good grades,” I explain. “We have to maintain appearances.”
“I spent a lot of time on this homework,” Kyle protests.
“This isn’t about you. One false move and Harvard won’t name a building after me!” Kyle squints and narrows his eyes. Did I just say that? I’m more tired than I t
hought. I clear my throat. “I mean, our teacher-free holiday will be over. That’s what’s important, of course. We all have to make sacrifices.”
Kyle snatches his paper from my grasp and clomps back to his seat. When he gets there, he throws an eraser at one of his goony friends.
I think of my dream and shudder. If I’m dreaming of Kyle Anderson, I’m really losing my mind.
I yawn and push open the skin around my eyes, trying to wake myself up. Then I scan the pile of paper I removed from Ms. Bryce’s files this morning. According to her plans, we’re supposed to learn about the American Revolution; fractions, division, and geometry; photosynthesis and living organisms; and a lot more. Some of these things I haven’t learned yet. How am I supposed to teach things I haven’t learned?
I’ll need to stay up all weekend and study. Class 507 is depending on me.
Besides, winter break will be here soon. I’ll sleep then, after my family visits Harvard.
I’m looking through the paper stack when I notice a blue piece of paper, stuck to another blue page so I didn’t see it before. The wording at the top looks vaguely familiar. It reads: A Reminder about Fifth Grade Presents Night.
Fifth Grade Presents Night. My muddled, sleep-deprived brain tosses those words back and forth. Where have I heard them before?
Oh no! I remember now. I brought home a flyer from school the other week for my parents. I didn’t think much about it. That was the same day we got my big book on the history of Harvard.
A wad of worry-filled saliva fills my throat, and a horrible twisting feeling settles in my stomach. How could I forget about this?
This is enormous, mountainous, mega-gigantic elephantine times infinity huge.
In other words, this is big.
The more I read, the tighter my stomach twists.
Fifth Grade Presents … The American Revolution!
The after-school activity night is next Friday.
The paper—a personal note from Principal Klein—reminds each and every teacher his or her class is responsible for a specific activity during the event.
Mrs. Greeley’s class is in charge of selling concessions (American-themed!).
Mr. Foley’s class will sing an authentic American Revolution song, with drums.
Class Dismissed Page 7