by N. Griffin
“Let’s partner for this one,” said Dr. Marquise. “I think it’d be nice to have the kids in pairs. Smashie, watch what I do.”
“Dontel, watch me,” ordered Grammy.
And, with Smashie and Dontel following their assigned grown-ups, the impromptu dancing continued.
It was terrible. And there was no stopping Ms. Early, either. The two classes met again during morning meeting the next day. “I happen to have found out about another talent we have in our third grade,” Ms. Early said to everybody, out loud. “A wonderful talent that brings a smile to the face of everyone who watches Dontel and Smashie perform.”
“It’s not a talent,” said Smashie, sinking down until she was practically sitting on her neck against the bookcase. “It’s just a thing the two of them make us do.”
“Yes,” said Dontel. “They force us because they’re the ones who love it.”
“Who?” asked Carlos.
“My grammy,” said Smashie.
“And my dad,” said Dontel.
“What do they make you do?”
Ms. Early explained as Smashie and Dontel slunk lower and lower in their spots. “And just as Smashie and Dontel say,” she continued, “we’re lucky enough to have in our parent — and grandparent — body two fine dancers who have agreed to prepare Smashie and Dontel to teach you children sixties go-go dances to perform between our other numbers!”
It was clear as she beamed at Smashie that Ms. Early felt this made up for the singing.
It did not.
Humiliated, Smashie bent her head sadly as more of the children told their teachers what acts they wanted to perform and were granted permission to do as they wished. Their families had not gotten phone calls about how terrible they were. Apparently, that was just Smashie.
Smashie’s mother had understood. “I know you want to sing,” she had said last night after Dontel and Dr. Marquise left and Smashie explained about the day and the music note on the top of her head. “But we can’t always get what we want. I’m so sorry about it this time. And you know those heavy metal songs by heart.”
“I do,” said Smashie, her tears breaking through at last. Her mother put her arms around her.
“What about a suit?” she asked. For Smashie was well known for the suits she created to help herself get in the right frame of mind to solve difficult problems. She had made an Investigator Suit, for example, to solve the mystery of Patches’s disappearance (one of her grammy’s old hot-suits with a sash full of pouches for clues). And just last week it had been necessary to create a Find Where I Put the Mail I Brought from the Mailbox Suit. (This suit consisted of a hastily made blue-crayoned cardboard carton with eyeholes, to help Smashie feel like a mailbox. The Band-Aid on her forefinger right now was a result of cutting out those eyeholes.) A Choreographer Suit with some kind of in-charge-looking shirt and a go-go boot of hair might be just the things to take some of the sting out of her disappointment at not getting to sing in the musicale.
“I’ll help you,” said Mrs. McPerter. “Let’s get started right now. We’ll make the best Choreographer Suit you can imagine!”
And they had gotten out their hot-glue gun and got to work. It helped. Not so much the suit, this time, but just knowing that her mother was on her side.
Now, in the meeting area, Smashie gently touched her fraying hair musical note as she tried to cheer herself with thoughts of her still-under-construction Choreographer Suit while the other children talked about their numbers for the Hair Extravaganza and Musicale.
“At least Charlene is happy,” she whispered to Dontel. He nodded. For Charlene was transformed since yesterday, her cheeks pink with ideas and happiness.
“There’s still time to add numbers,” said Ms. Early. “So if any of you think of something you want to do for the musicale, don’t hesitate to tell me or write me a note.”
Smashie popped up her head. If they still needed acts, should she ask again if she could sing? She pictured herself, in a wonderful costume that was even better than a Choreographer Suit, singing a foot-stomping version of “Smacked in the Heart” in front of her friends and their families. But she knew Ms. Early would not say yes.
Billy said, “I still want to do ‘Machine Gun Jailbreak.’”
Ms. Early quelled him with a look.
John said, “I still want to sit at home and forget this whole thing.”
“Why do you hate the idea of performing so much?” asked Dontel.
“Because I don’t like looking stupid! Up there in front of everybody with my neck looking weird, singing some dumb song and all the grown-ups laughing!”
“What do you mean about your neck?” asked Smashie, puzzled.
“It just feels that way,” said John, fingering his collar at the thought. “When I sing.”
“That’s not how it will be, I don’t think,” said Dontel. “I think our families are on our side. They’ll probably just clap.”
“Sure,” said John miserably. “And take a million pictures, and before you know it, they’re passing them around at Thanksgiving and everyone is laughing at your neck. No, thank you. I am not down with this musicale.”
“John, you and I can talk about this later,” said Ms. Early. “It is almost time for language arts.”
“What about the goop?” asked Tatiana. “Did you find it after we left yesterday, Ms. Early?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Ms. Early, her face concerned. “But let’s not worry yet. Things have a way of turning up.”
“Do you think maybe it was swiped?” asked Joyce.
“Certainly not,” said Ms. Early. “Just because of Patches, you children think everything —”
“I sure hope it wasn’t,” Charlene said worriedly. “Still, my mom made our next jar of Herr Goop last night, and I brought it in.”
“Yay!” cried Room 11, minus John.
“Will you test it on me?” asked Joyce.
“We don’t want to waste it, do we?” asked Ms. Early.
“It’s okay,” said Charlene. “I’ll just use a tiny dab on Joyce.”
And after a few minutes and some smears of the beautifully scented product, a plump heart made of Joyce’s hair rose proudly from the top of her head.
“Because you said on the bus you wanted to back up Alonso and Lilia in ‘Endless Amour,’” said Charlene. “And ‘amour’ is French for love. This will look great, right?”
Cyrus handed Joyce one of the little mirrors.
Joyce beamed.
“I look super!” she cried.
“You do!” cried Alonso. “We’d love to have you back up our song!”
“It looks wonderful!”
“You got a gift, Charlene.”
“Our musicale is going to be the best ever with this cool hair!”
Room 11, minus John, was thrilled. Joyce’s heart hair looked as good as Smashie’s music note had — at least yesterday, when it was fresh. And so the class continued somewhat more happily until recess.
Everybody was outside. Smashie was not at her best with athletic things, so she and Dontel often separated at recess. Right now, he and a lot of the other children were playing a vigorous game of tag on the grass beyond the blacktop while Smashie reluctantly agreed to play catch with Joyce, Tatiana, and Cyrus.
Jacinda and Charlene were over by the play-equipment bag, whispering furiously.
“I think Charlene likes Carlos,” Joyce confided to the other children as they headed over to get a ball.
“I think Carlos likes Charlene,” said Tatiana.
“Why shouldn’t they like each other?” asked Smashie. “Most all of us do.”
“We mean, like, like-like, Smashie,” said Tatiana.
“Like-like? We are only in the third grade!”
“Well, we had that awful thing where Mr. Carper, the sub, like-liked our teacher,” Cyrus reminded her.
“I don’t think he did,” said Smashie. “And he wasn’t a third-grader. Besides, Charlene and Jaci
nda look too thoughtful to be talking about like-liking anyone.”
“They’re probably talking about ways to help Charlene’s mom build her business,” said Joyce. But Smashie noticed that the girls kept sneaking peeks over to the tag game. Normally, Charlene and Jacinda would be playing tag, too — they were both excellent runners. And their gaze certainly was focused on Carlos. There might be something to this like-like theory after all.
Carlos was a beautiful runner as well.
“Hey, you two,” said Joyce to the girls as they reached the play-equipment bag. “We’re going to play catch. Want to join us?”
“Sure,” said Jacinda.
Charlene nudged Jacinda’s arm.
“What?”
“I thought we were planning about looking for my Herr Goop jar!”
“We will,” said Jacinda. “Don’t worry.”
“I am worried,” Charlene confessed. “I’m worried someone took it!”
“Who’d do that? You already offered it to the whole grade for the musicale, for Pete’s sake,” said Cyrus, tossing the ball to Joyce, who caught it. “Plus, no one else knows how to sculpt hair.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Charlene, catching the ball from Joyce. “It’s just that my mom is mad at me for losing a whole jar of goop. And we won’t have enough for the musicale if I can’t find it.” She tossed the ball to Smashie, who promptly dropped it.
PHWEET!
It was the yard lady’s whistle. “You go get that ball before someone breaks a leg!” she shouted. Smashie ran and got the ball.
“We have to have enough goop!” cried Joyce as Smashie returned. “Otherwise our Hair Extravaganza and Musicale will be like just any other old show!”
The children were worried. A distraction was needed.
“Why don’t I show you all some sixties go-go dancing?” said Smashie.
“Yes!” said Cyrus. “I need to see what it looks like for real. I hope it’s easy to learn.”
“Oh, it is,” said Smashie. “We can do a funny one. It’s called the Jerk!”
“The Jerk?” said Cyrus.
“Yep,” said Smashie.
“Show us,” Jacinda demanded, and the whole group of children fell in behind Smashie.
“It’s a lot with your arms. Like this.” Smashie shimmied down the blacktop, her arms flinging themselves one at a time over her head. “Bomp! Bomp, bomp! Bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp!” sang Smashie as she flung. The others followed in her wake.
PHWEET! The yard lady again. “Smashie McPerter! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
“It’s the Jerk, Miss Martone!”
“WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?”
“I —”
“Off the blacktop!”
“But I wasn’t saying you were a —”
“OFF!”
Smashie sighed and made her way to the edge of the blacktop where children stood to be punished. The other kids waved sadly to her. “Sorry, Smash!” called Joyce. The others looked sympathetic. But they daren’t practice the dance now. Only Charlene looked preoccupied, watching the tag game out of the corner of her eye.
“Can I smell the goop again?” asked Smashie as they came in from recess at last and got ready for math class.
“Sure,” said Charlene, and tossed the new jar she had brought in that morning gently in Smashie’s direction.
“Don’t throw things!” cried Ms. Early.
“Especially to Smashie!” Cyrus implored even as Dontel reached up and caught the jar before it hit the table. Smashie opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it again. Cyrus was right. She was terrible at catching things.
“Phew,” went the class.
Dontel inspected the label on the jar and said, “Herr Goop. I really like that name,” before he passed the jar over to Smashie, who looked at it closely herself before she opened it to inhale its lovely, light scent. Today there was a serial number on the jar under the picture of the little German. I bet Charlene’s mom decided to put numbers on there to keep track of it after the first one got lost, thought Smashie.
“Let’s get to our math,” said Ms. Early. “I’m thinking about the number 67. How many tens in that number?”
“Six!” the children called out.
“And how many ones left over?”
“Seven!”
“How could you prove it to me?”
“I wonder how Charlene will do our hair for the dances,” Dontel said as he broke the numbers Ms. Early was listing on the whiteboard into tens and ones.
“Well,” said Smashie, looking at the blank spaces on Ms. Early’s musicale chart, “I know one dance we won’t do.”
And, as if on cue, the door to Room 11 slammed open, and in its frame stood Mrs. Armstrong, principal of the Rebecca Lee Crumpler Elementary School.
“ROOM 11! I am JUST SICK! What is all this I hear about Smashie McPerter calling our yard lady a jerk?”
“Oh, dear!” said Ms. Early. “Smashie, what do you have to say for yourself? You know we do not call people names in Room 11!”
“I wasn’t calling her a name!” said Smashie desperately. “It’s the name of a sixties dance! I was showing the kids!”
“Tchah!” said Mrs. Armstrong.
“It’s true,” said Cyrus earnestly, backing her up. “We wanted Smashie to demonstrate, and that was the name of the dance.”
Ms. Early looked relieved. “I’m afraid this is my fault, Mrs. Armstrong,” she said. “Smashie and Dontel are teaching the children sixties go-go dances for our musicale, and I did ask them to help the other children learn them. I think Miss Martone misunderstood. I’ll speak to her myself.”
“I will, too,” said Smashie earnestly.
“Hmph,” said Mrs. Armstrong.
“But we certainly won’t be performing . . . that particular dance, will we, Smashie and Dontel? Just in case we insult someone?” said Ms. Early.
“No, Ms. Early,” said Smashie and Dontel in unison.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “Why, I’D BE SICK IN BED WITH A CONTAINER OF MEDICINE BESIDE ME if you were to dance, or even discuss, that number!”
“Actually,” said Smashie, seizing the moment, “if you’d rather I sang —”
“Excuse me, boss.” Mr. Bloom, the head custodian, appeared in the doorway and nodded at Mrs. Armstrong. “Got the empty recycling containers for you, Ms. E.” He glanced at the chart at the front of the room. “That’s a good-lookin’ list of acts for your musicale. Looking forward to the sixties dances myself. You know what one was my favorite? Called the Jerk. I remember I was pretty good at that one.” And he set down the recycling containers and left the room, flinging his arms over his head one by one and humming “The Jerk,” a song made popular by the Larks long ago.
Mrs. Armstrong wilted in the doorway.
“Hey!” Charlene shouted, before the conversation could continue. “What happened to my new jar of goop? It’s gone!”
“Another one? Gone?” Cyrus’s voice was incredulous.
“We’ll never be able to do our Hair Extravaganza and Musicale now!” cried Joyce. “Not with just dumb regular ungooped hair!”
And the class rang with shouts of agreement and despair.
“It can’t be!” cried Joyce. “How could both jars just disappear?”
“Magic,” breathed Smashie.
“Sure,” said John sarcastically. “There’s a wizard going around wanting to sculpt himself a heck of a hairdo. High and tight, maybe. Or a bowl cut.”
But Smashie’s mind was off to the races. A wizard’s hairdo! Gray hair poking out all scraggy-like, frizzy, and full of secrets!
“Smashie,” said Dontel.
With a great effort, Smashie pulled herself away from her wizardly imaginings. Because she knew what Dontel meant. One jar of Herr Goop could roll away. But two . . . ?
“Too much of a coincidence,” Dontel whispered to Smashie. “Something is up.”
He and Smashie locked eyes and nodded.
“
We are going to have to investigate,” said Smashie.
The scent of lavender and lilacs filled the room.
Even though Joyce and her hair heart had left after lunch for an orthodontist appointment, the hair goop scent filled the hallway as the children lined up to go home at the end of the day. Apparently Herr Goop was potent-smelling stuff.
“Don’t forget to practice your acts, those of you who’ve signed up,” Ms. Early called as they filed to the buses. “Just six school days until our musicale!”
“I’m afraid we won’t be ready,” Tatiana fretted.
“I’m afraid Ms. Early’s going to force me to do it, period,” said John. “It’s unfair! Isn’t this a free country? Do I really have to perform when I don’t want to?”
“But those cool hair sculptures,” said Tatiana. “Don’t you want one, too?”
John hesitated. Then he shook his head. “I have got to remain strong about this. I never thought the day would come when I’d be mad at Ms. Early, but here it is.”
Smashie’s heart sank. When would not being allowed to sing in the musicale stop making her feel so terrible? And worse yet, if she was honest with herself, she and John were as one. Smashie was mad at Ms. Early, too.
Mad at Ms. Early? Her most favorite teacher that she and Dontel had so far? What if Smashie stopped liking her for the whole rest of the year?
“Dontel,” whispered Smashie, “what if I never forgive Ms. Early?”
“First things first,” Dontel said firmly to Smashie. “You know what we’re doing when we get home, right?”
“Investigating the missing Herr Goop,” said Smashie. She couldn’t be the one to bring Room 11 down even more, despite her feeling so sad. She had to help find that goop. “I still have our notebooks from last time. And my Investigator Suit.”
“Yes,” said Dontel. “But what we have first is our rehearsal. With your grammy.”
“And your dad.”
“Yeech.”
“Yes,” said Smashie. “Yeech.”
“Finally,” said Smashie. “We can do some investigator thinking.” At last they’d been released from dance practice by the adults. The slate of dances had been agreed upon, and Smashie and Dontel had promised to continue to practice on their own. “We have one heck of a hard problem. If we don’t find that hair goop, all the kids who are only doing the musicale because they’re going to get a cool hairstyle will drop out again!”