by Bill Harley
The orange chair is where you sit when you’ve done something bad and you’re waiting to see Mrs. Rotelli.
Mom glared at me. I looked up at the ceiling.
“Where’d you get all that toilet paper?” Carla asked.
I glanced over at the Squid.
“I didn’t say!” she shouted. “I didn’t say!”
“Didn’t say what?” Mom asked.
“I didn’t say about Charlie spreading toilet paper all over the playground. And I didn’t say about everybody laughing. And I didn’t say about Mrs. Burke being really mad.”
“Mabel!” I yelled.
“She asked!” the Squid squealed. “She asked, and you told me if she asked I could tell, so I didn’t break my promise.”
Mom didn’t ask me what had happened, but I knew I might as well get it over with.
I told her the main parts of the story, and when I finished she just shook her head and went back to her dinner preparations. She was slamming things around, so I knew she was mad.
I went up to my bedroom and tried to read a book, but I kept reading the same sentence over and over again. A little while later, Matt came home.
“What’s with Mom?” he asked, sticking his head into my room.
“She’s mad at me.” I put the book over my face.
“How come?”
“Because of the toilet paper,” I said.
“What toilet paper?”
I told him.
He started to laugh.
“Ha ha ha. It’s not funny!” I said.
“Oh yes it is,” he said. “It’s hilarious. I wish I could have seen it. Mrs. Burke must have killed you.”
“Yeah, she did,” I said. “Right now you’re talking to the ghost of Charlie Bumpers. I might as well be dead.”
That’s when Dad came in the room. I could tell he was tired. He was probably tired of Mr. Grimaldi. Like I was tired of Mrs. Burke.
“Matt, why don’t you head to your room?” Dad said.
“Can’t I stay?” he said.
“No,” Dad said, rubbing his eyes, which he always does when he’s trying to think what to do. He looked over at me. “I don’t know if I want to hear the whole story.”
“I do,” said Matt.
“Out, Matt,” Dad said.
“But—”
Dad just pointed a finger toward the door. My brother walked out into the hall, but I figured he was probably standing right outside the door listening.
“It was just some dumb toilet paper, Dad.” I tried to explain in a way that would make it seem better than it was.
Dad sat on the bed right beside me, his arms resting on his knees and his head propped in his hands. Then he turned his face to me.
“Charlie, I don’t want to hear about anything else happening at school with you and Mrs. Burke. I don’t care if it was an accident. I don’t care if it was your fault or someone else’s. You have got to straighten up. If I were Mrs. Burke, I’d be mad, too.”
“I know, Dad, but I didn’t mean for all that to happen.”
“It doesn’t matter, Charlie. You haven’t been thinking.”
I hate it when my dad gets really serious like that.
“You’ve got to use better judgment,” he went on. “No one is getting you into trouble. You’re doing it to yourself. You promised me you’d try to get along with Mrs. Burke, and using your head is part of getting along and staying out of trouble.”
While he was talking, I looked down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. My dad would never have spread toilet paper around his office and gotten Mr. Grimaldi all upset. I didn’t know what to say. I always have these great ideas I think will make things better, but things keep going wrong.
“I don’t want to have to talk to you about this again. Do you understand me?”
I nodded but kept my head down. I felt rotten.
“Look at me,” he said. “You’ve got to straighten up. Pay attention to what you’re doing, and don’t do any more dumb things. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
He didn’t say it, but I was pretty sure he thought his youngest son was a bozo.
15
Teacher of the Year
When we came back to our classroom from lunch the next day, I saw my desk.
What I mean is, I noticed that it was messy again. Pencils and markers were scattered over the top. Some papers were hanging out and a few sheets had fallen on the floor.
I don’t know how it happens. Maybe there are little guys who live inside my desk. They wait until I’m gone, and then they throw everything around and make a huge mess.
Anyway, I remembered what Dad said about trying. And I didn’t want to fight with Mrs. Burke anymore. So I decided to stay in from recess for a couple of minutes to clean up my mess.
When everybody else lined up at the door, I stayed put. I must be insane, I thought, missing recess to clean up my desk.
“Hey, Charlie,” Hector said. “Aren’t you going outside?”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I have to do something first.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said.
“Go ahead and start the soccer game,” I said. “I’ll be right out.”
Mrs. Burke came back in the classroom. I guessed she didn’t have playground duty that day.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. Of course she could see I was doing something—I was cleaning out my desk. But I just didn’t want to say it. It would sound like I was trying to be perfect like Samantha Grunsky or something.
Mrs. Burke nodded and didn’t say anything. She sat at her desk and watched while I emptied mine and started to put things back. Then she started grading papers.
Just me and Mrs. Burke.
Missing recess.
I could see the playground out the window. Tommy and my other friends were playing soccer. Some first graders were throwing a ball up in the air and catching it right outside of our classroom window.
Hector was standing by himself. I wondered why he wasn’t playing soccer.
I got everything back in my desk. It was neater.
“All done?” Mrs. Burke asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Charlie,” she said, “we seemed to have gotten off on the wrong foot. But we’re not very far into the year and we still have time to get off to a good start. I hope you’ll pay closer attention to what you’re doing and try harder to think about the consequences.”
She stopped for a minute like she was thinking about something else to say. Then she looked outside. Hector was still standing by himself. She looked back at me. “Do you understand me?” she said.
I nodded.
“Now, hurry outside, or you’ll miss all of recess. Use your head, all right?”
“Okay,” I said.
“I know you can do better.”
I nodded again and ran out the door of the classroom to the hallway. I was hoping I could still get in on the soccer game.
“No running!” she called.
I opened the big door and ran out onto the playground.
“Hey, Charlie!” someone called. “Help us!”
It was Brady, the crazy first grader.
“What is it, Brady?” I asked.
“Our ball,” he said. He pointed up on the roof. One of General Shuler’s new blue and white soccer balls was balanced on the edge, stuck in the gutter.
“Where’d you get that?” I said.
“I found it,” Brady said. “Then I kicked it up on the roof by mistake. Can you get it down?”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In the gym,” Brady said. “Can you get it down for us?”
I looked around. The Intergalactic Supreme Commander was talking with a second-grade teacher over by the gym.
If he saw Brady with the ball, the first grader was doomed.
“Can’t you ask your teacher for help?” I asked.
“I did. She sa
id she’ll ask Mr. Turchin to get it down later.”
The first-grade teachers obviously didn’t know about Mr. Shuler, Intergalactic Supreme Commander of Soccer Balls. Neither did Brady. He didn’t have any idea that his life was in danger.
“Can you please get it down, Charlie?”
Brady needed help. And fast.
I looked up at the ball. I figured if I hit it with a rock, it might fall down.
I thought again.
Rocks are hard. And what if I missed and hit a classroom window?
I needed something softer to throw.
I glanced across the playground. Mr. Shuler hadn’t seen us yet. Or the soccer ball.
The ball had to come down.
Somehow. Someway.
Time was running out. What if Mr. Shuler came this way?
I looked around for something else to throw. Then an idea hit me. My shoe was just the right size for throwing, and it wasn’t heavy enough to break a window.
A bunch of the first graders gathered around me, watching me take off my shoe. Some of them giggled. They thought it was funny. They didn’t know about Mr. Shuler.
I threw my sneaker at the ball. But my shoe hit the gutter and fell to the ground. I hopped over to where it was and picked it up.
Now the first graders were laughing and shrieking. I threw my shoe again. This time it hit the ball and knocked it out of the gutter. All the kids squealed and ran for it.
“Thanks, Charlie!” Brady yelled. He grabbed the ball and ran off with it.
I was a hero.
There was just one problem.
My shoe didn’t come down.
When I backed away from the building, I could see it sticking up out of the gutter.
A kid screamed, “Charlie’s shoe is on the roof!”
For some reason, everyone thought it was the most hilarious thing that had ever happened.
Funnier than a person covered in wads of toilet paper.
Funnier than a person hanging from the classroom door.
Maybe even funnier than hitting Mrs. Burke with my sneaker.
Ha ha ha.
Then I remembered exactly what she’d said to me last year in the hallway:
IF YOU EVER THROW A SHOE IN SCHOOL AGAIN, YOU’LL STAY IN FROM RECESS FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!
Soon everyone on the playground was whooping and shrieking and pointing at my shoe on the roof. While I was standing there wearing only one shoe.
I felt like a bozo.
I was a bozo.
All the noise had attracted the attention of the teachers on the playground. And the attention of Mr. Shuler. He was marching toward us. Brady and another kid were kicking his new blue and white soccer ball back and forth.
“May I have the ball?” he said. They gave it to him.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
They pointed at me. “Charlie got it for us!”
Me? Oh no!
Boogers.
General Shuler glared at me. “Haven’t I talked to you before about gym equipment?” he asked.
“I was just … I mean, I didn’t—”
The General didn’t let me finish. “I don’t want your excuses.”
Then he looked down at my feet. “Where’s your other shoe?”
I pointed to the roof.
I could see his neck was getting red. He had a big neck. A big neck connected to his big head and big shoulders.
Just then the fourth graders came up the walk, heading back to class.
Samantha Grunsky walked by. “Oh, wow,” she said, “Mrs. Burke will just loooooove this.”
When Tommy saw me with Mr. Shuler, his eyes got big. He tried to save me. “Charlie,” he said, “I think Mrs. Burke wants you right now!”
“Not yet,” Mr. Shuler said.
Tommy looked at me and shook his head.
“Go on inside,” Mr. Shuler said to Tommy.
The last one in line was Hector. “Mr. Shuler,” he began, “Charlie didn’t—”
“Head on back to class, son,” the General said.
“But—”
“No buts,” the General said.
Hector gave me a sad look, then went inside.
Mr. Shuler looked at his watch and shook his head. “I have a class now,” he told me, “but I’m going to talk with your teacher about your behavior. What do you think about that?”
Trick question! No good answer! I really wanted to explain but I didn’t say anything.
“Get back to your classroom,” he said. Then he turned and left.
But I didn’t go back.
I didn’t want to go back.
I wanted to disappear.
I sat on the step at the back entrance of the school and tried to remember a time when I had been in more trouble than I was about to be in.
I thought about the time I broke a glass door in my grandparents’ living room when I was swinging a baseball bat in the house.
And the time I flushed Matt’s cap down the toilet and water flooded all over the bathroom.
And the time I let the air out of one of the tires on my dad’s car. By accident. With Tommy.
But this was worse. It was like everything I had ever done wrong had all been adding up.
Hitting Mrs. Burke in the head with the sneaker. The messy desk. The swinging on the door. The toilet paper. And now this—the shoe on the roof. After my dad had told me not to do any more dumb things. After Mrs. Burke had reminded me to use my head.
I was doomed.
The General was going to lock me in a smelly gym locker.
Mrs. Burke was going to keep me in from recess until forever.
My parents would never speak to me again.
I don’t know how long I sat there—a pretty long time. I knew I should go back to class, but I couldn’t do it. I was tossing pebbles into a crack in the sidewalk when I heard the door open behind me. I didn’t look. I felt somebody sit down beside me.
It was Mrs. Burke.
Boogers.
She sat there for a minute without saying anything. Then she said, “You’re missing a shoe.”
“It’s on the roof,” I said.
“I heard,” she said. “I asked Mr. Turchin to come out and get it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You seem to have a problem with your shoes,” she said. Her face was very serious.
“I guess I do,” I said.
Just then, Mr. Turchin came out the door carrying a ladder.
“Hello, Mr. Turchin,” Mrs. Burke said. “One of my students seems to have misplaced his shoe.”
“So I heard,” Mr. Turchin said. He acted like it was a very normal thing for a shoe to be on the roof. I wondered if he’d had to rescue any other kids’ shoes from on top of the school.
“Where is it?” he asked.
I got up and pointed out where it was.
He put the ladder against the roof and climbed up. “Here it is,” he said. “Why’d you color it black? Were you going to a funeral?” He chuckled and tossed it down to me.
I put it on and tied it tight.
“You’d better put a double knot in it,” Mr. Turchin said as he took down the ladder. “You don’t want it to get away from you again.” He laughed his rumbly laugh as he carried the ladder away.
Mrs. Burke and I didn’t say anything. I felt all confused inside. Mad at myself, mad at Mr. Shuler, mad at the whole world. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears.
Finally I said, “I keep messing everything up.”
A big tear snuck out of my eye, ran down my cheek, and hung on the end of my nose.
“I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Shuler,” Mrs. Burke said. “He’s going to have to learn how to share the soccer balls. They don’t belong to him, you know.”
That was a funny thing for a teacher to say. I wiped the snot off my face with my shirtsleeve.
“Hector told me you were trying to help the younger children get their ball back.”
I n
odded.
“Throwing your shoe wasn’t a very good choice,” she said. “But it was very kind of you to help them.”
I looked up at her in surprise.
“I know all about you, Charlie Bumpers,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You keep saying that.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she asked, “Do you know why I put you next to Hector in class?”
“So I would have a neat desk and be good all the time like he is?”
“No,” she said.
“Then why?”
“Because I knew Hector would have a hard time when he started here. He comes from a long way away, and this is a big change for him. He needs people to be friendly to him. And when I asked the third-grade teachers who the friendliest boy was, Mr. Romano said it was you. The others agreed.”
I think my face got red. Something inside me turned over. I sure hadn’t expected her to say something nice like that. I smiled a little.
“Mr. Romano was right. You are friendly to everyone. And I needed someone to be friendly to Hector.”
“That was easy,” I said. “He’s nice.”
“Yes, he is,” she said. “But if it hadn’t been for you, Hector wouldn’t have been included so quickly. He wouldn’t have had the chance to do something he’s good at and win the race. And other kids wouldn’t even know his name.”
I just nodded.
“It’s a funny thing,” Mrs. Burke said, “how sometimes doing something kind can get you into trouble.”
I nodded again. That was a pretty interesting idea. And then I thought of something else. “Do I have to be friendly to Samantha Grunsky?”
Her face twisted a little, like she was trying not to smile. Then she said, “As friendly as you can be. Being mean doesn’t really help anything.”
“Okay,” I said. I figured I could be a little nice to Samantha Grunsky if I had to.
“Now, Charlie,” she said, “the things I said about helping Hector and being friendly are our little secret.”
“Okay,” I said. I was feeling better and better. I doubted that Mrs. Burke shared very many secrets with her students.
“Any questions?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“What?”
“Mrs. Burke, are you going to keep me in from recess for the rest of my life?”
She looked confused. “Why would I do that?”