Carl Hiaasen Collection: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  “We only do the Pledge of Allegiance in morning assembly,” Graham explained, “and we don’t sing it, Mr. Waxmo.”

  “For me, you do.”

  So they all got up and sang the Pledge of Allegiance to the tune of “America the Beautiful.” It sounded totally ridiculous.

  The class sat down, tittering.

  Wendell Waxmo announced that he’d be filling in for Mrs. Starch until her return. He also said that he wished to be addressed as Dr. Waxmo, as he’d received an advanced degree from Biddleburg State University. Nick had never heard of the school, although Dr. Waxmo described it as “the Harvard of the Dakotas.”

  Graham again started waving a hand.

  “What now?” Wendell Waxmo barked irritably.

  “North Dakota or South Dakota?”

  “Both. And western Minnesota as well,” Wendell Waxmo said. “Now open your textbooks to page 117. Today we’re going to conjugate the verb amar, which of course means ‘to love.’ ”

  Libby Marshall couldn’t contain herself. “But this isn’t Spanish class. It’s biology!” she blurted.

  Wendell Waxmo’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head. “You think I was born yesterday? You think I just fell off the turnip truck? What’s your name, young lady?”

  Marta passed a note to Nick: This is fantastic! He’s crazy as a bedbug! Nick smiled and stuffed the note into his pocket.

  Libby Marshall was quaking under Wendell Waxmo’s stare.

  “I said, what’s your name?” he persisted.

  Nick raised his left hand and, not waiting to be called on, said, “She’s right, Dr. Waxmo. This is a biology class. See, here’s our book.”

  Wendell Waxmo stalked up to Nick, snatched the text, thumbed through it grumpily, and shoved it back at him.

  “There’s one on Mrs. Starch’s desk for you to use,” Nick said.

  Wendell Waxmo turned to see. “So there is,” he muttered, and spun back to face Nick. “And your name, young man?”

  “Nick Waters.”

  “What’s the matter with your right arm, Mr. Waters?”

  “Nothing. It’s just an experiment,” Nick said.

  “I broke my right arm once. A dairy cow sat on it,” Wendell Waxmo said gravely. “Are you trying to be funny or something?”

  “No, sir. It’s a serious experiment.”

  Marta started to raise her hand, but Nick shot her a look. He didn’t want everybody in class talking about what had happened to his father.

  “Well, you’d better hope that a cloven five-hundred-pound beast never sits on you, Mr. Waters, because it’s not humorous.” Wendell Waxmo strode to the front of the room and hoisted Mrs. Starch’s book. “All right, everybody, let’s turn to page 117.”

  The students just sat there. They thought he was joking, but he wasn’t.

  “What are you people waiting for?” he snapped.

  “It’s not the Spanish book, Dr. Waxmo,” Libby Marshall said in a small but brave voice.

  Rachel spoke up. “We’re way past page 117.”

  “Is that right?” Something resembling a smile crossed Wendell Waxmo’s face. “Obviously none of you have ever had the experience of being in my classes. Otherwise you’d know that on Mondays I always teach page 117—and only page 117—regardless of the subject matter.”

  Nick had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

  “Earlier this morning, for example, at the Egmont Day School, I substituted in Miss MacKay’s advanced world history section,” Wendell Waxmo said. “By the time the bell rang, every one of those students had practically memorized page 117 of their history book. And that was a map of the Roman Empire!”

  Substitutes were often flaky, but Wendell Waxmo was in a special category. “Every teacher has a system that works best for them,” he prattled on. “Mrs. Starch has hers, and I have mine, which is: Pick a page, then focus, focus, focus.”

  He flipped open the biology text to page 117, skimmed a few paragraphs, looked up brightly, and asked, “So, who can tell me how proteins function in a plasma membrane?”

  For once Graham was too flustered to raise his hand. Libby Marshall answered the question in a dull tone: “Proteins release chemicals that allow certain cells to communicate with each other, and they also help move water and sugar through the membrane.”

  Dr. Wendell Waxmo was overjoyed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, folks! This little spitfire is cookin’ with gas! I hope everybody’s taking notes.”

  Marta cackled under her breath. “What for? Mrs. Starch tested us on this stuff three weeks ago.”

  “Don’t tell him,” whispered Nick.

  Whenever Wendell Waxmo spoke, his bony Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, causing the yellow bow tie to jiggle.

  “Quick now—what’s a phospholipid molecule? You there!” He pointed at Graham. “Definition, please.”

  Graham looked helpless and lost. “I forget,” he said.

  Wendell Waxmo frowned. “Stand, young man.”

  Graham rose unsteadily. “Yessir?”

  “Lullaby, please.”

  “But I don’t know any lullabies,” Graham said, on the verge of blubbering.

  Wendell Waxmo sighed. “A day without music is a day without sunshine. Sing after me, please:

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,

  Momma’s gonna buy you a mynah bird.

  And if that mynah bird don’t talk,

  Momma’s gonna buy you a cuckoo clock …”

  Marta leaned close to Nick and said, “That’s not how it goes.”

  “No kidding.”

  Wendell Waxmo wasn’t exactly a born singer. After he finished warbling, the students sat in stunned relief that he mistook for appreciation.

  “Your turn, young fellow,” he said to Graham.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I just can’t,” Graham said again.

  Wendell Waxmo folded his arms. “I’m in charge of this battleship.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And you will do as I say, or face the consequences.”

  Graham was plainly frightened by the threat, even though substitute teachers had very little authority. “I think I remember what a phospholipid molecule is,” he offered gamely.

  “Who cares? Now sing,” Wendell Waxmo said.

  “Hush, little baby,” Graham began with a pained grimace, “don’t you cry—”

  Suddenly the door banged open and a boy stepped into the classroom. Nick didn’t recognize him at first.

  The boy’s blazer was pressed and spotless, his khaki trousers were laundered and creased, and his necktie was perfectly knotted. His cheeks looked shiny and scrubbed, his hair was parted and neatly trimmed, and not a speck of grease or grime was visible on his hands.

  “And who would you be?” Dr. Wendell Waxmo demanded.

  “I would be Duane Scrod Jr.,” the boy replied.

  NINE

  Marta jotted another note to Nick: He’s scarier now than he was before.

  Like Marta and the rest of the class, Nick couldn’t stop staring at Smoke. The transformation was incredible.

  Wendell Waxmo said, “You’re tardy, Mr. Scrod.”

  “Sorry. My bike threw a rod.” Smoke set down his backpack and removed a thin plastic binder, which he presented to the substitute.

  “Here’s my essay,” he said. “Five hundred words, just like Mrs. Starch asked for. Actually, it’s five hundred and eight.”

  A ripple of high amusement passed through the room.

  Wendell Waxmo opened the binder to the front page, upon which the title of the essay had been centered:

  The Curse of the Persistent Pimple

  By Duane Scrod Jr.

  Wendell Waxmo made the foolish mistake of saying the title aloud, which caused an avalanche of laughter.

  “She told me to make it funny,” Smoke said defensively.

  He seemed uncomfortable being so sharply dressed, and the center of at
tention.

  “What kind of nonsense is this?” Wendell Waxmo rolled up the binder and shook it in the air. The tuxedo made him look like an orchestra conductor. “Are you telling me that Mrs. Starch assigned you to write a research paper about pimples? Get serious.”

  Despite the teacher’s hostile attitude, Smoke remained surprisingly calm. “You want me to read it or not?”

  “Out loud, you mean?” Wendell Waxmo scowled. “I don’t think so, Mr. Scrod. Take your seat.”

  With a sniff of distaste, Wendell Waxmo deposited the acne essay in his scuffed briefcase.

  Smoke sat down and, to the astonishment of his classmates, produced a pen and a notebook. In all the time that Nick had known the kid, he couldn’t remember ever seeing him take notes.

  “It’s not really him,” Marta whispered. “It’s gotta be an imposter.”

  “Or a secret twin brother,” Nick said.

  Dr. Wendell Waxmo seemed miffed that his limelight had been stolen. He scuttled up to Duane Scrod Jr. and said, “Young man, I intend to find out if you’re telling the truth about this preposterous pimple project, or if it’s just some prank you thought up to have a few cheap giggles at my expense.”

  Smoke looked puzzled. “Why would I do a dumbass thing like that?”

  “Because kids always try to take advantage of substitute teachers, that’s why. To prey on them, as it were. You think we’re here just for your sport and entertainment.”

  Wendell Waxmo inched closer.

  “I know your type, son,” he said, “but I insist on respect. Why else would I go to all the trouble of dressing up this way?”

  Smoke shrugged. “Because you’re a total whack job?”

  The class exploded, and Wendell Waxmo turned purple. Then he did something that caused the students to swallow their laughter: He jabbed a pale knobby finger at Smoke’s nose.

  “You,” he said, seething, “owe me an apology!”

  Nick and the other students fully expected Smoke to chomp the substitute’s offending finger in half, as he’d done to Mrs. Starch’s yellow pencil.

  But Duane Scrod Jr. shocked them all. He didn’t nip, nibble, or even spit on Wendell Waxmo. Instead he clenched his jaws, took a slow, tight breath, and said, “You’re right, bro. I’m sorry.”

  Which prompted Marta to jot another frantic note to Nick: He’s turned into an alien!

  If the truth were known, Dr. Dressler had the names of four other substitutes who were completely sane and normal. He chose Wendell Waxmo instead, knowing full well that the man was more or less out of his mind.

  It was Dr. Dressler’s belief that once Bunny Starch found out who was teaching her classes, she would immediately terminate her leave of absence and rush back to rescue her students.

  In the meantime, the headmaster braced himself for angry phone calls from Truman parents complaining about Wendell Waxmo’s distracting wardrobe, bizarre teaching style, and loony impulses to break out in song.

  For now, though, Dr. Dressler had a more pressing problem.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” he asked Jason Marshall.

  The detective said no thanks and took a seat. “Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “Not a word. He just showed up for class this morning,” Dr. Dressler said, “out of the blue.”

  “Did you notice anything different about him?”

  Dr. Dressler chuckled uneasily. “Everything about him is different. He’s like a whole new person.”

  “What do you mean?” the detective asked.

  “He looks like a real student is what I mean. He looks like he actually wants to be here.”

  “But that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Certainly,” Dr. Dressler said, though privately he was both alarmed and suspicious. When the bell rang, he nervously poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “You’ll see for yourself,” he said to Jason Marshall.

  Moments later, Duane Scrod Jr. walked into the office. He didn’t look like an arsonist; he looked like the future president of the Student Council. He also appeared perfectly fit and healthy, despite having digested Mrs. Starch’s pencil.

  Dr. Dressler introduced Detective Marshall. “He’d like to ask you a few questions, Duane.”

  “No problem.” Duane Scrod Jr. made himself comfortable on the headmaster’s leather sofa.

  Jason Marshall took out a legal pad. “I heard about the incident with Mrs. Starch,” he began.

  Duane Scrod Jr. didn’t deny it. “Is it against the law to bite a pencil?”

  “Some of the other kids said you also threatened her,” the detective said.

  “She was making fun of me. I guess I got mad,” the boy admitted. “I told her she’d be sorry if she didn’t get outta my face. It was wrong, what I said. Definitely.”

  “So you didn’t mean it?”

  “ ’Course not.”

  Jason Marshall wrote down Duane Jr.’s answers. Dr. Dressler couldn’t get over how normal the boy looked; he couldn’t imagine what had caused such a dramatic change in grooming and attitude.

  “Yet the next day you didn’t come to school,” the detective said.

  “Yeah, I skipped. That was wrong, too,” Duane Scrod Jr. said.

  “Have you ever been out to the Black Vine Swamp?”

  “Sure. Catchin’ snakes.”

  “Did you go there on the day of the class field trip?”

  The boy seemed to be expecting the question. “No, I went snook fishin’ down at Marco. There was a mullet run and a big tide. You can ask Benjie Osceola—he was on the other end of the bridge.”

  Duane Scrod Jr.’s story sounded convincing to Dr. Dressler, but the detective wasn’t finished.

  “Duane, I’m going to ask you something, and you’ve got to promise not to get upset. It’s my job, okay?”

  “No sweat.”

  “Did you sneak out to the Black Vine Swamp and set a fire to scare Mrs. Starch during the field trip?”

  The boy was true to his word—he stayed cool. He looked Jason Marshall straight in the eye and said, “I don’t do that stuff anymore.”

  “So the answer is no?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Did you do anything during the last few days that might have frightened Mrs. Starch into believing your threat was real? She hasn’t been back to school since the field trip.”

  Duane Scrod Jr. laughed. “That lady’s not scared of anything, especially a kid. I don’t want no more trouble from her—that’s how come I did that stupid essay she wanted. Sorry, but it was stupid.”

  Dr. Dressler felt obliged to ask, “What kind of essay?”

  Duane Jr. rolled his eyes. “She made me write five hundred words about zits.”

  The headmaster winced.

  “Seriously,” the boy said.

  Dr. Dressler made a mental note to have a diplomatic chat with Mrs. Starch when she returned to school. Dis ciplining a student was one thing; humiliating him was another.

  The detective had heard enough about the pimple paper. “I’m about done here,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by, Duane.”

  The boy rose from the couch.

  “Just a second—I have one question,” Dr. Dressler said.

  Duane Scrod Jr. turned, a trace of impatience in his eyes.

  The headmaster said, “I’m just curious, Duane. Did something in particular happen to bring about this major change in you?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  Dr. Dressler smiled in a way that he hoped would appear friendly and genuine. “The way you’re dressed, the way you’re acting—surely you’re aware of the difference.”

  Duane Scrod Jr. looked down at himself and scratched pensively at a radish-colored blemish on his neck. “I went campin’ for a few nights. Had tons of time to think about stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” asked Jason Marshall.

  “The way I was headed. Mistakes I kept makin’, all those wrong turns.”

  Even the det
ective seemed touched. “That’s just part of growing up,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, it gets old,” the boy remarked, “not carin’ about a damn thing in the world. So I decided to try it the other way.”

  Dr. Dressler nodded sympathetically. “Well, we like the new you, Duane.”

  “It’s a solid move,” Jason Marshall agreed.

  “I guess,” said Duane Scrod Jr., and excused himself.

  Dinner was a challenge.

  “I should’ve made fried chicken,” Nick’s mother said, “something you could pick up with your fingers.”

  “It’s okay. I need to nail this.”

  Nick was eyeing the pork chop on his plate, trying to figure out how to cut it. He was able to work the knife pretty well with his left hand, but he couldn’t keep the meat from sliding around without his other hand there to pin it down with a fork.

  “Let me unwrap your right arm,” his mom implored, “just for tonight.”

  “No way. This is how Dad’s gotta do it, right?”

  Nick’s mother said, “I’d cut his food if he were home. You can bet on that.”

  The disappointing news had come in a phone call that afternoon: Capt. Gregory Waters was fighting an infection in his wounded shoulder. The doctor had told Nick’s mother that his dad was responding slowly to the antibiotics.

  On a more positive note, the doctor reported that Captain Waters’ early rehab sessions were outstanding. Nick was pleased, though not surprised—his father had always kept himself in top physical shape.

  “How come they wouldn’t let us talk to him?” Nick asked.

  “Because he was sleeping. They said he did two hours with his left arm on the weight machine this afternoon.”

  “That sounds like Captain Studly.”

  “It does indeed.” Nick’s mom was watching the pork chop skate back and forth across his plate while he hacked at it with the knife.

  “You’re gonna starve to death, Nicky. Let me do that,” she said.

  “No! I’ll get the hang of it.” In frustration, he put down the knife and reached for a bread roll, which he gobbled in three bites. “It’s only my first day left-handed,” he mumbled through the crumbs.