Kristy in Charge
Page 8
“Well done,” Mr. De Young commended us when the class ended. “I’d almost say you two have redeemed yourselves.”
For a fleeting moment, Cary and I grinned at each other. Then we turned away.
“I had a dangerous thought,” Ms. Walden said to us. “Would you two like to coach the kids for their big soccer game at the end of this unit? I’ll pick the teams.”
Cary and I looked at each other uncertainly. “It’s okay by me.” I spoke first. It would be a chance to prove — at least to myself — that I could be a responsible coach and not let Cary drive me nuts.
“Me too,” Cary agreed. He stuck out his hand to shake mine. At first I was too surprised to take it. But as he was about to pull it back, I took hold of it.
“It’s been an experience,” I said as we shook hands.
“Definitely,” he agreed.
* * *
I felt was so happy about the way class had gone that I hurried to English, sure that Mallory’s last teaching experience would also go well. When I got there, Mallory was passing out copies of the Robert Frost poem.
“Oh, puh-lease,” Cokie sneered. “This is about some old geezer standing in the woods with his horse. Why doesn’t he go home already?”
Mallory ignored her.
“Spaz Girl strikes again with another spaztastic poem,” Parker called out.
Mrs. Simon was right at his side. “Parker, if I hear from you again, you’ll be seeing Mr. Kingbridge,” she told him with a calm fierceness.
Mallory’s face reddened, but she kept going. Indirectly, she addressed Cokie’s comment. “There’s more to this poem than you might think. In Robert Frost’s poetry, the woods often stand for death.”
“Did he tell you that?” Shane asked.
“Shane!” Mrs. Simon warned.
“No, when I was researching the poem I discovered that many literary critics feel this is true. As with all poetry, it’s a matter of interpretation,” Mallory answered calmly.
Way to go! I cheered silently.
“All I’d like you to do while I’m reading this is to consider the possibility that the narrator is thinking about his own life — and his eventual death — when he thinks about the woods,” Mallory continued. “If you do, a deeper meaning of the poem might present itself.”
“Or it might not,” Cokie muttered.
A student from another class came to the door with a note for Mrs. Simon. “I’ll be right back,” she told the class, a hint of warning in her voice. “Continue, Mallory.”
“ ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,’ ” Mallory began to read as Mrs. Simon walked out the door.
A wadded-up piece of paper flew past her ear. She put down her paper and gazed out over the class, looking to see who’d thrown it.
“Grow up!” I yelled, although I didn’t know who the culprit was either.
“Oh, big mommy has to protect her little baby?” Cokie taunted me.
“That’s enough, class,” Mallory warned, trying to take charge.
“Are you going to tell on us, Spaz Girl?” a kid named Justin sneered.
Mallory tried again. “No, but class isn’t going to continue until I get some order.”
“Fine with us.” Parker put his legs up on his desk. After that the room became chaotic. Kids were talking and throwing things. Mallory stood in the front, helpless.
Mary Anne jumped to her feet. “Stop!” she shouted. Everyone froze. This was so unlike her that she’d stunned them into silence. “Please, show some respect,” she pleaded with the class.
The class remained silent another minute.
Then havoc broke out again.
Mary Anne slid back into her seat, shaking her head. Mallory sat behind Mrs. Simon’s desk and read over her notes while spitballs, papers, and all sorts of odds and ends flew past her.
This was the scene Mrs. Simon returned to. Her presence — combined with the outraged expression on her face — snapped everyone back to attention. “You will all be writing an additional report on the poetry of Robert Frost,” she said icily. She turned to Mallory. “Do you feel up to continuing?”
Mallory nodded. She came out from behind the desk and began her reading again.
She interpreted it dramatically, with a lot of feeling. I’d read the poem before, but it had never seemed so meaningful to me. When she was finished, I saw that Mary Anne had tears in her eyes. A few other kids did too.
Pete Black raised his hand. “So do you think the narrator really means he has promises to keep before he dies?” he asked.
“You could look at it that way,” Mallory agreed.
Some other kids made intelligent comments too. When the class ended, some kids actually clapped.
Mary Anne and I rushed to Mallory. “You did it,” Mary Anne said to her. “You were great.”
Mallory didn’t look happy, though. More than anything, she seemed exhausted. “At least it’s over,” she said.
“But don’t you feel great about how it ended?” I asked. “You really got their attention.”
Mallory shrugged. “What? For ten minutes?”
A boy named Alex walked past the desk. “Nice job, Spaz Girl,” he said as he went by.
Mallory grinned bitterly. “That’s my new name.”
“They’ll forget all about it by next week,” Mary Anne said.
I could have advised Mallory to laugh it off, but I knew that wouldn’t be easy.
I thought of all the insulting names I’d heard kids call teachers. I suddenly wondered if that hurt their feelings too.
TOT had been a much more intense experience than I’d expected. Mallory and I would never be the same again. We’d learned things about ourselves and about our classmates that weren’t simple to understand.
But one thing was for sure — I’d never again think teaching was an easy job.
* * *
Dear Reader,
In Kristy in Charge, Kristy discovers that being a good teacher is more difficult than she had expected. Over the years, I’ve had many wonderful teachers. My first favorite teacher was Mr. Mackey, who was my art teacher for first grade through fifth grade. (I named Karen Brewer’s art teacher after him.) Mr. Mackey knew how to make art creative, fun, and interesting. (When he arrived at our class, he always raised his arms and swung himself through the doorway!) My next favorite teacher was Miss Kushel, who taught me in third grade. She helped give me a love of reading, and I adored her because she thought I could do anything. In seventh and eighth grade my wonderful creative writing teacher was Mr. Dougherty (whom Mallory’s creative writing teacher is named for). He sparked our imaginations and told us we could all be great writers. There have been many other great teachers since, but Mr. Mackey, Miss Kushel, and Mr. Dougherty stand out. They gave me wonderful gifts and showed me what a great teacher can do.
Happy reading,
* * *
The author gratefully acknowledges
Suzanne Weyn
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.) In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1998 by Ann M. Martin
Cover art by Hodges Soileau
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated log
os are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, September 1998
e-ISBN 978-0-545-87456-4