I began to wonder how Mrs. Potts was going to last the day much less the year. But then I was in for another shock. Just before the closing bell, Mrs. Potts told us how much she had enjoyed having her second-grade class again, and how sorry she was that it was for only one day. Our regular teacher, however, who had been delayed in flight, would be there with us in the morning.
Mrs. Potts only there for a day! A teacher delayed in flight! Flight! The word rang in my ears. Who was there to say it had to be by airplane? Could it mean—could it mean—another form of air transport? I hardly allowed myself to think the word. No, I told myself, stop thinking this has anything to do with Miss Switch. There is no more reason for her to come back now than there had been. Forget it! Forget Miss Switch!
3
COMPUTOWITCH.COM
I finally got to my computer late that night. My parents had already gone to bed. So except for an occasional tiny splash from Caruso climbing off his rock into his pool, or Hector and Guinevere taking a spin on their respective wheels, the house was silent. Except for the small light over my desk, my room was also dark. There was just me, with Fred perched on my shoulder, where he always is when I’m in my room, sitting there in a small pool of light.
to: [email protected]
From : [email protected]
subject: a very weird day
Hi! Thanks for your Letter. I’m glad your parents decided not to buy a house after all. Maybe your father thinks he’s going to be sent back here. I told you I’d be looking for a crazy magic toadstool, toadstoolius spookus returnicum, but you and I both know I wouldn’t know one if I found one, or how to use it. I’d have to have Miss Switch here for that. And no, as you could probably guess, she wasn’t at school this morning. But it was a very weird day.
Our teacher was Mrs. Potts. Remember her from the second grade? Billy Swanson did his usual and sent off about twenty spitballs. He got sent to the principal, and so did a bunch of the girls, but they were trying to get sent. Which brings me to the real reason why the day was so weird.
Mrs. Grimble had an accident and broke a leg and an arm, so she’s gone for a while. We now have a substitute principal. It’s a man named Mr. Dorking, and he is the best-looking guy I have ever seen in my life. I’m not kidding you, spook. The girls were all swooning. Even Mrs. Potts swooned.
Anyway, at the end of the day, Mrs. Potts announced she was only there for that day, which was probably a good thing because I didn’t think she could make it through another one. She said she was filling in for our regular teacher, who had been “delayed in flight”—her exact words.
I know you’re thinking the same thing I did: flight! Miss Switch! But there are two problems with concluding anything from this, as I see it.
a. Good as she is at her particular means of air travel, I don’t see how she could be delayed by anything.
b. Nothing scary happened today that would bring her running, or in her case, flying, a principal who has all the girls swooning over him is pretty disgusting, but it isn’t exactly a dangerous situation.
Of course there’s always the possibility that Miss Switch needs help herself, like the first time she came seeking the help of my great scientific brain. I still find it hard to believe that Miss Switch was being ordered around by a crazy contraption that was nothing but a dinky, black, old-fashioned cooking stove. Someone had a lot of nerve giving it that scientific name: computowitch!
And that word turned out to be the last one in my letter. As soon as I had entered it, my computer screen instantly turned a sickly green, as if it were about to—well—throw up. Then it started to shiver. My first thought was that I’d hit the wrong key, although I’d never known of any key on the keyboard that produced these results before.
My second thought was that my computer might be about to crash and take the letter I’d spent all my valuable time writing right along with it! I wasn’t about to let that happen. Swiftly, I somehow managed to grab the mouse and shoot the arrow on the screen up to hit “send.” Gone! I’d saved the letter. It was on its way to Spook.
All except that one word—“computowitch.” It remained on the screen, quivering in the sea of pea-soup green. I practically stopped breathing. So that was it! I hadn’t hit the wrong key. There probably wasn’t even any wrong key to hit. It was the word “computowitch.” I continued to stare at the screen, hypnotized, wondering what was going to happen next. I didn’t have to wait long.
The screen turned a fiery, feverish red. Then it changed to orange, then purple, and then back to red again. Meanwhile, the computer began heaving in and out, looking as if it were ready to explode. It must have scared Fred, because he catapulted from my shoulder and flew over to huddle in his cage.
I suddenly realized my computer was behaving almost the same as that crazy computowitch had just before it died! Is that what my computer was about to do? Almost automatically my hand shot out and pulled the plug from the wall. The screen instantly went dark. But was the computer still working? Hesitantly I shoved the plug back in, and the screen turned the good old familiar cool blue. It was apparently back in business!
But how had all that wacky stuff happened? How could just the single word “computowitch” have caused it? Unless it had some connection with the original computowitch, the one that I, personally, had been responsible for wrecking. The last I knew, it was going back to be used as a plain old stove. There was certainly something very odd about all of it. Maybe even something sinister.
And then I thought of the letter I had just sent off to Spook. The word “computowitch” had apparently never gone off with the rest of it. But what if Spook used the word when she replied? Hadn’t I better warn her about it?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: ps to earlier message-IMPORTANT!
This has to do with the letter I just sent you. I mentioned a certain item at the end, but if you write back about it, please don’t use the “c” word for it. Maybe you’d better not mention it at all. something strange is happening. I don’t know what it is, but until I find out, ye have to play it safe. so please remember, spook, no “c” word!
Broomstick
I sent the letter off at once but went right on sitting there staring at the blank screen. “I don’t know what it is, but until I find out …” I had written. Find out what? But more to the point, how? Where did it all begin? I didn’t really think science was going to come to my rescue. I mean, what could I do with a test tube, beaker, or a Bunsen burner in a case like this?
The only thing I could think of to do was too dangerous. After all, I’d warned Spook about it. And yet, even as I was thinking this, I knew I was going to do it. I took a deep breath, clenched my jaw, and entered the word “computowitch.” I knew I was taking a terrible risk, but only hoped that if I blew up my room, and possibly myself along with it, my parents would understand.
Holding my breath, I watched the exact same thing happen as before! The screen turned pea-soup green and started to shiver. It then turned the same fierce red again. In the meantime, the computer was repeating its act of heaving ferociously in and out. I was scared, and getting more scared every second. At last I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I gave myself a command decision to reach for the plug. But before my fingers had arrived at their destination, my computer gave one final shuddering heave and stopped cold.
I wasn’t convinced it was finished, however, so I kept my hand near the plug just in case. After all, the screen was still shivering. But then the colors instantly began to reverse themselves. The red turned back to purple, then orange, then red again, and finally back to pea soup green. Then the screen stopped shivering, and all that remained of this whole act was the word “computowitch” sitting there.
I have to admit, this was a big letdown. It was not that I liked the idea of my parents having to come in and gather up some pieces of me and my room if something disastrous had happened. But I had let myself get scared out of m
y wits, and practically stopped a kind of experiment where I might have been on the brink of making some huge discovery. And now it had all ended up with just me just sitting and staring at the screen with the word “computowitch” on it doing absolutely nothing.
Somehow, I couldn’t tear myself away. I just sat there. Then something curious happened. I felt a strange tingling feeling in my fingers. Then they began to twitch. A moment later, I watched them float up off my lap and settle on the keyboard. It was as if I were watching someone else put their fingers on the keys. Then, right next to “computowitch,” these fingers typed in “.com.” Instantly, on the lower left side of the screen appeared a box that read, “Enter password.” I’d bumped right into a very interesting Web site—computowitch.com! My heart began to race.
Still, what use was a Web site if I didn’t know the password? But then my great scientific reasoning powers went to work. What one word could I connect with the old computowitch that would make a good password? How about the name of a person who had suggested the grand idea of having a piece of junk issuing orders to everyone in the first place? I might be wrong. I might even be dangerously wrong typing it in. But I’d come this far, and I wasn’t going to back off now. “Here goes!” I told myself, and looking around my familiar room for maybe the last time, I typed “SATURNA.”
Wham!
Bang!
I’d got it! And I was still sitting there all in one piece as the message appeared on the screen. Around the border of the page was a mysterious design of curled and pointed lines laced with stars and moons. But what I immediately zeroed in on was the message in the middle of the screen:
“Oh, burning sun
It has begun,
Oh, icy moon
It’s none too soon,
We must not fail
To end their tale.”
What has begun? I felt prickles running down my back. This was ominous. I was now convinced that something very scary was going on. I waited for something else to appear on the screen. At last I realized that nothing more was going to be revealed, so I shut down the computer and dragged myself off to bed, my mind still spinning.
Could all this possibly have anything to do with Miss Switch? Could it be that I’d walk into the sixth-grade classroom in the morning and find her sitting there at the teacher’s desk?
Of course, if Miss Switch were back, it would have to be because she was in terrible trouble. Or someone else was. And I had the unpleasant feeling that it was I, Rupert E Brown III, who had been selected for that privilege!
4
Miss Blossom
It was all I could do the next morning not to go racing up to the monkey bars on the Pepperdine playground and report to Peatmouse, Creampuff, and Banana my conclusions that our new teacher might actually end up being Miss Switch. But I’d have to give them my reasons. They’d naturally think I’d gone sailing right off the deep end. I would have to contain my excitement.
When we all strolled into Room Twelve, the new teacher was at her desk. A few other sixth graders had arrived ahead of us and were all at their desks staring at her with their eyes popping, as if somebody had come up from behind them and yelled, “Boo!” The teacher turned and gave us a big toothy smile as we came in. All four of our jaws dropped.
The teacher was not Miss Switch. She was not Mrs. Fitzgerald, either. She was not even very old Mrs. Potts. She was definitely not anyone I had ever seen before, and definitely not even like anyone I had ever seen before, especially at Pepperdine Elementary School.
She had this huge mountain of seriously yellow hair piled on top of her head in a circle as big as a sausage, and mile-long eyelashes that looked like they had been borrowed from a pair of centipedes. As for her mouth, it was so big and red my first thought was that she must have been stung by a bunch of bees. Not only that, you could hardly see her dress for all the frills and the lace and bows all over it. It was pink, and to be honest looked like somebody’s really old party dress they’d put out for a yard sale. And to top it all off, this teacher’s name, written in curly letters on the blackboard, was—Miss Blossom. Miss Blossom? Help! Peatmouse, Banana, Creampuff, and yours truly all smiled weakly at Miss Blossom, staggered over to our desks, and collapsed into them.
Now, no one has to tell me looks aren’t everything. Take Miss Switch, for example. So I felt we were going to have to give Miss Blossom a chance. I had to hand it to her. She must have been studying the seating chart, because she knew our names right away. But the first thing she did wasn’t too promising.
“Billy,” she said, addressing Billy Swanson in what I can only describe as a high, chirpy voice. “Your desk is entirely too small for you. I think you should move to the large one that no one seems to be occupying. I think you’ll be much more comfortable in that one, dear.”
Billy, of course, had carefully chosen for himself the desk most strategically placed for his spitball-shooting operation. We all knew he wouldn’t want to move. On the other hand, nobody had ever worried about if he was comfortable or not in his desk, and no one had ever called him “dear” as far back as any of us could remember. This had its effect. His face pinker than Miss Blossom’s dress, he hoisted himself up and shuffled over to the appointed desk.
So far, so good. Except that Melvin Bothwick’s hand instantly shot up into the air. “Billy is big as he is because he failed kindergarten,” announced Melvin with the usual smug look on his face.
“Now, now, Melvin,” said Miss Blossom. “If we have something really important to say about others, we must come up and tell me privately. But it isn’t nice to tattletale. I’m certain you have not made Billy happy by what you just said.”
No, indeed, Melvin had not made Billy happy. And Billy displayed his unhappiness by blowing several fresh, well-chewed spitballs in Melvin’s direction
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Miss Blossom, Billy is blowing spitballs at me,” Melvin whined.
Miss Blossom shook her head at him. “Melvin, didn’t we agree that it isn’t nice to tattletale?”
Melvin sat there glowering, because he hadn’t agreed to any such thing.
But Miss Blossom rolled on. “I’m sure Billy didn’t mean to blow spitballs at you, and won’t do it again, will you, Billy?”
“Oh, no!” Billy said with the kind of grin on his face that the class was all too familiar with. We knew more spitballs would be flying before you could say the word “spit.”
I couldn’t help thinking how Miss Switch had handled Melvin when he had taken pleasure in revealing to the whole class that my middle name was Peevely She had made him write “My name is Melvin Tattletale Bothwick” one hundred times in front of everyone.
As the day progressed, it was clear that keeping the class in line was not Miss Blossom’s strong point. The spitballs were whizzing around the room. Some of the other boys started blowing spitballs as well. I have to admit I shot off one or two myself. I mean, in self-defense. A couple of the girls joined in, but mostly they were busy snickering, whispering, and passing notes. I had no doubt they were hoping to get sent back to see Adorable Dorry.
But that never happened. Nobody got sent. All Miss Blossom did was bat her centipede-leg eyelashes and smile sweetly at us. At that moment, I was ready to welcome Mrs. Potts back with open arms.
“What a mess!” Peatmouse observed as we were leaving that afternoon.
“Yeah!” we all agreed.
“Are you sure Miss Switch isn’t coming back, Broomstick?” Banana asked. For some reason I was always considered the Miss Switch expert. Actually I was more of an expert than any of them knew, but as I’ve said, I could never reveal why.
“I’m sure,” I said. And I was getting surer all the time. After all, as I wrote Spook, the girls swooning over Mr. Dorking could hardly be considered a dangerous situation, and I didn’t think Miss Blossom—hair, eyelashes, mouth, and all—could be, either. As for what had happened with my computer, that message on computowitch.com could have been meant for anyone. I
just happened to be the one to bump into it.
“Well, it’s going to be a mess, anyway,” said Peatmouse.
“Yeah!” we all agreed.
5
Fred
“That’s not where the decimal point goes!”
“Sure it is,” I said.
I was sitting at my desk doing my math homework. How Miss Blossom had managed to give us homework, or teach us anything at all, was a surprise to me, things being as they were. But it had been such a loony day, I was ending up actually talking to myself. And, I might add, answering myself as well.
“No, it isn’t!” I heard myself insist. “Try moving it over two places and see what happens. You’re going to come out with a ridiculous answer if you don’t. Go ahead, why not try it?”
“Oh, all right,” I said, and grudgingly moved the decimal point as I’d been advising myself to do. “There, how’s that? Satisfied?”
Of course, I could see that the decimal point was now in the right place, but as it was my own idea, what was I going to do, give myself a medal for discovering that?
“You don’t have to be so snarky about it. I was only trying to be helpful. I know quite a bit about numbers, for your information. I’m glad you finally came around, matey.”
“Of course I came around,” I grumped. “Besides …”
I never finished what I was going to say, because at that moment, if I’d been a comic strip character, you would have seen a big bulb light up right over my head. I wasn’t talking to myself at all. I was actually having a conversation with someone else. But, who? Who was there besides Fred, sitting on my shoulder, Caruso in his turtle bowl, and Hector and Guinevere in their respective guinea pig cages? And then another light bulb came on. The other voice had been coming from very close to my right ear.
Miss Switch Online Page 2