by Gary Paulsen
“Irene never screams. She took singing lessons once and she chanted for a while during her yoga phase, neither of which sounded very good, but no screaming. Oh, wait, she did a thing called primal screaming once, a kind of vocal thing to help meditation, but she had to stop because all the cats in the neighborhood kept coming to sing to her and kept the neighbors awake all night.”
“Say,” Irene called out to the entire population of the Trouble Bench, “when we're done speaking with Monsignor Murphy, let's all get together and do lunch.”
“Your grandma rocks,” Tommy told Molly as they watched Irene scowl at the handheld video game someone handed her. It was her turn to set the new world record for roasting aliens from the planet Zarduck.
“That went well,” Irene announced as she, Molly and the Marys arrived in the lunchroom, a band of Irene's new friends from the principal's office trailing behind them. “I must say, Monsignor Murphy is a very understanding man.”
“I don't think our meeting went well at all, Irene,” Molly said. “My name got added to the detention list because I cut class to help defend you. In a room full of future felons, petty thieves and maybe one potential serial killer, I'm the only one who's going to wind up actually being punished.”
“That's certainly an ironic twist, isn't it, cupcake?” Irene patted Molly's shoulder. “Maybe I should have a talk with that science teacher of yours. I seem to have a knack for this kind of thing. And besides, it's not fair that you should be punished.”
“No! I'll fix it myself. The last thing Our Lady of Mercy needs today is another debate about the nature of injustice from Irene Flynn.”
“You shouldn't be so quick to reject my help, baby. Didn't you see me impress the monsignor with my quick thinking?”
“Irene, he was so confused and frightened by your claims of abuse of power and authoritarian brutality that he'd have said anything to get you and all your new buddies out of his office.”
“Well, peaches, you know what they say: If you can't dazzle ‘em with your brilliance, then baffle ‘em with your bulls—”
“You'll probably drive the poor man to an early grave, Irene.”
Molly had been so busy squabbling with Irene that she hadn't noticed they were now sitting in the section of the lunchroom that boasted the highest crime rate in the school. Molly looked up just in time to see Irene deftly catch a carton of milk that had been hurled in their general direction.
Molly recognized most of the kids she and Irene had just met from the Trouble Bench, as well as a few who were so intimidating that they flew well under the radar of disciplinary detection at Our Lady of Mercy. They hung out after hours with the high school students from across the street and couldn't be bothered with middle school mischief. Taking over small countries would be more their style, Molly thought.
Molly and the Marys always sat on the other side of the cafeteria, where they studied, talked quietly and kept a wary eye on this side of the room.
Two of the Marys were now clutching their lunch boxes to their chests, looking around them in awe. Mary Bridget, whom Molly had always considered the boldest of the group, was tentatively offering to share a plastic Baggie of carrots with an eighth grader who was busily applying more black eyeliner. Judging from the way she would study Molly and then gaze into her small mirror while dabbing at her own eye with the makeup, Mary Bridget's lunch companion was trying to duplicate Molly's black-eyed look.
Molly sighed and had started to rise and head for the lunch line before she realized that her lunch tickets were in her lost notebook.
“Oh, Irene, I don't have lunch tickets for us.”
“Don't worry, pooky, lunch is on me. Now,” Irene said as she looked around the cafeteria expectantly, “just who do I speak to about payment? Give me my purse and let me get my credit card.”
“This is a school lunchroom. They don't take plastic.”
“Too bad. I wanted to try that interesting-looking tuna thing. Well, give me my purse anyway. I'm sure I have something to nibble on.”
A chorus of voices piped up with offers to share lunch, and a grubby-looking boy thrust an equally shabby roast beef sandwich at Irene.
“Here, Mrs. Flynn, you can have half of my lunch.”
“Thanks, hon, but I never eat anything I could possibly represent, and Sparky the cow is a particular favorite of mine. You're sweet to worry, but well make do with whatever I can find in my purse.”
She dug through her bag, setting various items on the table as she searched.
She pulled out a small squeaky toy in the shape of a pork chop. “We were trying to get Fluffy the rottweiler to look at the camera for his head shot— he's going to be the face on all the billboards for Billy Ray's Security World,” she explained proudly.
She then yanked a trailing piece of white tulle from her bag. “Now, why would I have a bridal veil in my bag? You don't suppose,” she joked, elbowing Mary Margaret in the ribs, “that I was going to elope this weekend, do you? Ah, well…” She shrugged happily.
A wrinkled but unused airsickness bag was the next item she set on the table. “Some of my clients get an attack of nerves before their close-ups. Although,” she said, pondering, “I've never actually gotten a cat to yack in a barf bag—yet. But we dwell in possibility.”
Irene hummed softly as she continued to sort through her purse. Everyone at the table was now leaning toward her, waiting to see what she would pull from the bag next. Molly rubbed her shoulder, wondering how much damage carrying the bulky purse had done to her muscles, joints and tendons. She felt … what? Old. She felt old. And Irene looked younger all the time. It's the bag that does it, Molly thought. Carrying the bag is aging me before my time. She shook her head. I'm getting old and I'm going insane.
“Oh, good!” Irene exclaimed. “The sonnets of Shakespeare. I've been meaning to memorize these for ages, and I'm always afraid I'll get stuck on a bus with nothing to read.
“Look, jewel! I found the remote control to the television set. I remember now—I tucked it in my handbag to remind me to watch that special on Komodo dragons. Did you know they'll bite a goat and then track it for days, waiting for it to die from the infection so they can eat it? There's something to be said for that kind of patience.” Irene tossed the remote back into the bag and continued her search for something edible.
“You should go on that television game show where you win prizes for having the most unusual things—I bet you'd win a bundle, Mrs. Flynn,” Mary Margaret said.
“I think you're right, Mary Bridget.”
“Mary Margaret.”
“Whatever.” From the depths of the purse, Irene finally pulled a crumpled brown paper bag. “Here we go, my very favorite food group: chocolate-covered coffee beans!”
She plunged her hand into the paper bag and popped a few beans into her mouth, munching happily as Brenda/Benet, who had been hovering nearby since the beginning of the lunch period, began to braid her hair.
“Lovey, don't you want to get the other side of your hair braided?” Irene asked Molly.
“No,” Molly said as she reached for a handful of coffee beans. “I can't wait to get this side unbraided. I'm not about to have my entire head done.”
“Well, there's a pleasing symmetry to having a black eye on the right and cornrows on the left.”
“We have to have broccoli for dinner tonight, Irene, for the antioxidants to cleanse all this chocolate and caffeine from our systems. This is not a good lunch— we're not getting our daily recommended amount of anything.”
“I know,” Irene said, tossing a few more beans into her mouth. “Isn't it almost too good to be true?”
Molly shook her head sadly and looked over at the Marys, who were peering at a boy who had lifted his shirt up to give them a detailed explanation of the homemade tattoo on his stomach. Mary Bridget reached out to trace the pattern with her finger.
“It's not really a tattoo,” the boy said. “Not yet, I mean. I just used a ballpoint
pen and a pocketknife for some of it. BoBo from Tattoo Heaven won't touch you if you're under eighteen. Something to do with his parole agreement. But as soon as I'm old enough, I'm gonna get one.”
Molly had been absentmindedly eating chocolate-covered coffee beans as she observed the scene around her. She didn't realize that the caffeine was starting to make her jittery until Tommy Adams pulled out the chair next to her and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her sudden gesture startled Tommy, and his cafeteria tray tipped. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The whole plate of spaghetti slid off his tray and hit Molly square in the chest.
“Dear heart,” Irene called to Molly, ignoring the fact that Molly was now covered in pasta and tomato sauce. “Kyle here is coming to work for us. He's going to help out with Mick.”
The Marys rushed over to Molly with paper napkins and tried to wipe Tommy's lunch off her. Molly glared at them and snatched the napkins away, swiping furiously at her blouse and then turning to Irene, who was deep in conversation with the boy who'd tried to share his sandwich with her earlier.
“Mickey the monkey who eats his own—”
“Yup, that's the one,” Irene interrupted, and shot Molly a fierce look before turning back to Kyle with a too-bright smile. “I bet that when you woke up this morning, you had no idea you'd be a monkey wrangler by lunchtime, did you?”
Kyle flushed with pride. He said to the rest of the lunch table, “Mickey is famous, you know, a real celebrity. He's the mascot on the Big Jack's House of Used Cars commercials, and I'm going to look after him on the days he's working.”
“You know”—Irene looked thoughtful—“now that I think about it, there are any number of jobs around my agency. Anyone else looking for a little pocket money?”
The entire table erupted, grabbing for the business cards Irene was handing out.
“Oh, great,” Molly said to the Marys. “Now all these freakazoids are going to be hanging around. It was bad enough when Cricket the magic-trick cat went into labor and Irene was afraid to leave her on her own. You remember. She not only brought the cat home, but she also invited Grant the magician, his assistant Miss Dixie, the breeder, Dr. Emma and her two veterinary students, Mary Margaret's great-uncle Charlie and the guy who reroofed our house, to watch. They stayed with us for days waiting for that cat to have kittens.”
“We were kitty midwives, Molly, and, don't forget, that was a high-risk pregnancy,” Mary Pat said. “We witnessed the miracle of birth on your bed.”
“No, Mary Pat, what we witnessed was the creation of a stain that I can't get out of my pillow.” Molly looked around glumly. “But at least that was a one-time deal. You just know Irene's going to encourage everyone to drag all those ugly beasts back to our house so she can teach them about the business.”
“Oh, Molly …” The voices of three horrified Marys chimed in. “You don't mean that. Not ‘ugly beasts.’”
“Okay,” Molly said grumpily. “The animals aren't all hideous, and I really like Claude the chameleon. But Irene will probably try to adopt a few of her new employees.”
“That's not an altogether bad thing, Mol. Look.” Mary Pat nudged her.
Molly looked across the table and felt her heart pound suddenly. There sat Jake Dempsey with one of Irene's business cards in his hand.
“Oh, well, then,” Molly said. “Maybe it won't be so horrible if Irene hires some people from school to work for her.”
“Molly, great news! We have a sub in English today,” Mary Bridget said, greeting her when she arrived in class with Irene. “And that's not the best part.”
“Mrs. Meyers?” Molly guessed.
“Yeah. How great is that? I bet you five dollars she doesn't even notice that Mrs. Flynn is old. No offense, Mrs. Flynn.”
“None taken, Mary Margaret.”
“Mary Bridget.”
“Whatever.”
Molly pushed Irene toward an empty seat in her row. Irene looked at Mrs. Meyers with a calculating eye.
“So,” she said to Molly, “tell me about this substitute teacher.”
“She's a ditz,” Mary Bridget said. “Whenever she fills in for any of our classes we have sustained silent reading time because by the time she figures out the lesson plan, the class period is over.”
“That's a huge waste of your valuable time,” Irene said. “Not the reading part, of course, which is always worthwhile, nor do I object to the fact that she deviates from the expected. But part of the reason you go to school is to share ideas with each other.”
“I thought you said that part of the reason we went to school is to fulfill the deal we have with society,” Mary Bridget said to Irene. “You know, the deal you were telling us about in which we work hard to grow up and cease to be pesky little kids anymore and if we're lucky we later get to pay income tax for that privilege.”
“That, too,” Irene answered, then began ticking reasons off on her fingers. “One, you go to school to make friends—IVe said that many times. Two, you go to learn how to become not pesky—once you're educated, it's called inquisitive. And three, you go to share ideas—which may well be the most important aspect of all. To ignore a perfectly good opportunity for discussion and debate is nothing short of criminal.” By the time she'd finished speaking, Irene's eyes were shining.
“Everyone likes quiet reading time,” Molly said hopefully. Uh-oh. Irene was sizing up the room.
Irene jumped to her feet and marched to the front of the class with a determined air.
She greeted Mrs. Meyers breezily. “Hello. I'm Irene Flynn, and with your permission, I'd like to teach this class today. Just until you straighten out the lesson plan, of course.”
“That would be very helpful.” Mrs. Meyers smiled up at her dimly. As Mary Bridget had predicted, Mrs. Meyers gave no indication that she found Irene's age or her request at all out of the ordinary. “I'll just try to figure out what we're supposed to be doing this afternoon. I never can read the notes they leave me.”
“All right, then.” Irene rubbed her hands together as she faced the classroom. “What should we talk about today? What class is this, anyway? Not that it matters—we can chat about anything.”
“This is English class,” Molly called out, “and we're reading—”
“Well have a poetry slam,” Irene interrupted. “They're all the rage.
“We take turns standing up for thirty seconds at a time to recite original poetry,” she explained to the sea of blank faces. “Obviously, since no one knew this was going to happen and we are not, therefore, prepared, we'll be spontaneous. Just create a poem about anything that comes to mind.”
No one moved. There was a kind of stunned silence. Right, Molly thought, they'll do poetry. Right. Out of nowhere they'll do poetry. She propped her elbow on her desk and rested her head on her hand, waiting.
“You have to think of poetry,” Irene continued after a moment, “as a form of jazz or the blues— a kind of performance art. You improvise and you express yourself. You don't have to worry about being good. They don't have to rhyme. Just be honest. You can talk about anything that interests you, just as long as there is the free exchange of ideas amongst peers.”
Kyle from lunch stood up. “I have an honest poem that expresses my own self.”
“Excellent. Let's hear what you have to say,” Irene said.
Kyle walked to the front of the room and cleared his throat. “Ahem.” He stood tall and rolled his head a few times to work the kinks out of his neck. He clasped his hands behind his back, carefully aligned his toes on a crack in the floor and took a deep breath.
“My own dog. Pizza for breakfast. A cherry fifty-seven Chevy when I turn sixteen. This is all I want in life. A poem by Kyle Bendecker.”
He bowed as the class applauded. Irene patted him on the back as he made his way to his seat. Mary Bridget immediately jumped to her feet and headed for the front of the room.
“The hours of practice, full of mistakes, wet with tears. Endless scales and impo
ssible phrases. All worth it for the one time I play Beethoven as he meant it. So what if I'm the only one who ever hears it. A poem by Maxy Bridget Sheehan.” Maiy Bridget blushed and curtsied, then hurried back to her seat. The class whooped and cheered as she threw an arm around the cello case that was propped against her desk.
Mrs. Meyers surprised everyone by suddenly standing.
“Blue ribbons. Red, ripe tomatoes. Glittering trophies. Golden apple pies. Medals to hang from my neck. Marge Sinclair pea green with envy. The perfect county fair. A poem by Lucy Meyers.”
She nodded happily and sat down again. Irene flashed her a thumbs-up.
The ringing of a phone interrupted the slam. Irene undipped the cell phone from her belt. “Buon giorno, Val, what's going on?”
“Valerie is her executive assistant,” Mary Bridget explained to the class. “Mrs. Flynn says she sets the standard for excellence in the field of quality office management.”
“She did what? How large is the crowd now? Talk to me, Val. I can't help you if you don't stop crying…. Uh-huh…. Stay with me, now—is anyone actually dead? What happened then? Well, that's not so bad. … Is she still missing? … I'm sure that's covered by insurance…. Not if the snake hadn't been fed recently, you say. Hmmm, remind me to upgrade that policy.”
“Do you think she's talking about Rhonda the anaconda, Mol?” Mary Bridget looked worried.
Molly held her head in her hands and answered wearily, “I think so, but I'd probably know for sure, Bridge, if I had my notebook. I always keep a copy of Irene's clients’ schedules in case I need to get in touch with her when she's on location.” Under her breath, she added, “And I know I had a copy of that insurance rider she's talking about.”
“Well, there's nothing much to do right now except to cancel my scuba lesson and set up a meeting with Vinnie first thing Monday morning…. Vinnie my lawyer, not Vinnie my dance instructor. … No, they're not the same person…. Yes, I'm sure…. Because I've had dinner with both of them and my lawyer doesn't cha-cha very well.”