Miss Bruce nodded. But it wasn’t a very big nod.
“Very well, then,” said Mrs. Brattle, standing up. “Then let’s get you two back to class.”
Miss Bruce kind of jumped a little in her chair. “Me?” she asked. “You mean I have to go back? To your class? Today?”
Mrs. Brattle looked down at Miss Bruce and smiled. “Why, of course you do. Right now. You’re the teacher.”
Miss Bruce looked like someone had just told her to go for a walk in a graveyard. At midnight. Without a flashlight. She was scared.
And then I got it: She was scared of us—of the kids! Of noise and silliness and craziness! Miss Bruce was scared, and Mrs. Brattle wasn’t. Because Mrs. Brattle was a real teacher.
Miss Bruce bit her lip. She looked at Mrs. Brattle and said, “Don’t you think you should come with me?”
Mrs. Brattle shook her head. “No, you’ll be fine. The class will be waiting to see what happened to Jake, and Jake is going to look like he’s had a good scolding. Jake is also going to be a perfect angel from this moment on. And you are going to walk back into that room and show all the boys and girls that just because you smile once in a while does not mean that they can go wild and misbehave.”
Miss Bruce said, “But… but I cried. All those kids saw me cry and run out of the room! I can’t go back.”
Mrs. Brattle smiled and patted Miss Bruce on the arm. “Don’t worry, dear. Everyone understands about crying, especially children. When it happens, you dry your face off, and then you go on with whatever you have to do. And you have a class to teach.”
Then Mrs. Brattle took hold of the back of Miss Bruce’s chair, so Miss Bruce had to stand up.
“There we go,” said Mrs. Brattle. “Now, you and Jake run along. Mrs. Reed is needed back in the library. And Jake, from now on, I want nothing but good news about you, is that clear?”
I nodded.
And then Miss Bruce and I walked down the hall to our classroom.
• • •
I did what Mrs. Brattle said. I walked into the room. I sat down. I didn’t look at anybody. I didn’t smile. I tried to look like I had just lived through the worst ten minutes of my life. I tried to look like I was happy just to be alive.
And it turned out that Mrs. Brattle was right. Not one kid tried to be silly. Not one kid was noisy or rude.
And Miss Bruce did great. After all that yelling and the crying and the running out of the room, she acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And because she acted that way, it wasn’t. It was like none of it had ever happened.
But it had happened. And I had the proof. Because I kept on being funny.
Except I was never funny in class. And not when Miss Bruce was around. Or Mrs. Brattle.
So mostly I was funny for Willie. Before school, at recess, in gym class, on Saturdays—every chance I got, I told Willie jokes and made funny noises and faces at him. At lunch one day I made a pig face, and Willie laughed so hard he snorted a chunk of Oreo right out of his nose! I was a riot!
But after about three weeks, Willie was starting to go crazy, and I was starting to run out of jokes. So one day I just stopped. And I’m glad I did, because it’s hard to try to be funny all the time. It’s much better to save up silliness for special occasions. Like sleepovers. Or long bus rides.
The rest of Miss Bruce’s student-teaching time went by pretty fast. And the best part is she wasn’t as grumpy or as picky or as fussy as before. It was like Miss Bruce didn’t have to be that way anymore. Because she wasn’t afraid. I guess if you can laugh and giggle, and then watch your class go nuts, and then scream and yell, and then run out of the room crying, and then come back and have everything be okay, there’s not much left to be scared about.
Mrs. Brattle planned a surprise party for Miss Bruce at the end of her three weeks. We all signed a big card we made for her in art class. And when Mrs. Brattle gave her a book and a hug, I thought Miss Bruce was going to start crying and run out of the room again.
But she didn’t. She blinked a lot. And then she smiled. It was a big smile, with teeth and everything. Her voice sounded wobbly. And she said, “I learned so much here at Despres Elementary School. And I know that no matter how many other places I go and no matter how many other children I teach, I’m never going to forget you.”
Miss Bruce was talking to the whole class. But at the end, she looked right at me. And I got this feeling that what she meant was, she was never going to forget me: Jake Drake, Class Clown.
Want to read more
about Jake’s classroom
adventures?
Here’s a look at Jake’s first adventure,
Jake Drake, Bully Buster.
CHAPTER ONE
Bully-Magnet
I’m Jake—Jake Drake. I’m in fourth grade. Which is my best grade so far. I’ve got a man teacher this year, Mr. Thompson. He’s pretty old, but he’s not mean. And he likes the same kinds of books I do. Adventure stories, books about volcanoes and jungles and the ocean, joke books, Calvin and Hobbes—stuff like that.
But there is one thing about Mr. Thompson that’s weird. Pete was the first to see it. Which makes sense. Pete is a science kid. He collects bugs and fossils and plants, and he knows all their names, and he’s maybe the smartest kid in the school.
After about two weeks of school, Pete pointed at Mr. Thompson. Then he whispered, “He’s wearing those pants again.”
“Which pants?” I said.
“Those pants,” Pete said. “The same pants he wore yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I think he wears the same pants every day.”
“No way,” I said. “He probably has a lot of pants that are the same, that’s all.”
So Pete said, “I’m going to test my theory.”
See what I mean? That’s how science kids are.
That afternoon we had read-aloud time on the rug, and Mr. Thompson sat in a beanbag chair. Pete sat right next to Mr. Thompson and a little behind him. Mr. Thompson started reading, and he got to the part when the Swiss Family Robinson wrecks their ship.
All the other kids were looking at Mr. Thompson’s face or at the ceiling or somewhere. I was watching Pete.
Pete pulled his hand out of his pocket. His hand went behind Mr. Thompson’s foot, just for a second, and then back to his pocket. And then Pete sat and listened like everyone else.
When reading was over, I got next to Pete and whispered, “What did you do?”
Pete grinned and pulled something out of his pocket. It was a little black marker, the kind that doesn’t wash out.
I got behind Mr. Thompson and looked down. On the right leg of his pants, on the back of his cuff, was a tiny black spot.
So that’s how we found out that Mr. Thompson really has two pairs of pants. Every Thursday he wears tan pants that are just like the other pair, but they don’t have the little black spot and they look a little newer. Pete’s theory is that Thursday must be laundry day at Mr. Thompson’s house. Because every Friday, we can see the little spot again.
• • •
My best friend is Phil Willis. Everyone calls him Willie. Willie isn’t in my class this year. We have gym class and music class and art class together, but for the rest of the time Willie has Mrs. Steele. I’m glad I have Mr. Thompson. I mean, Mrs. Steele is okay, but Willie has a lot more homework than I do. Also, Mrs. Steele is a spelling nut. And a math nut. And a social studies nut. I guess she’s a nut about everything. That’s why Willie’s favorite class this year is gym.
Like I said, I’m in fourth grade. That means I’ve been going to school for five years now. And if you count the two years I went to Miss Lulu’s Dainty Diaper Day Care Center, plus one year of preschool, then it’s more like eight years. Eight years of school.
So here’s what I can’t figure out. If everybody who works at school is so smart, how come they can’t get rid of the bullies? How come when it comes to bullies, kids are mostly on their own?
Because every
year, it’s the same thing. Bullies.
Here’s what I mean. Okay, it was way back when I was three. I was at Miss Lulu’s Day Care. It was the middle of the morning on my second day, and I was standing in line for milk and cookies. And this kid with a runny nose and baggy overalls cut right in front of me.
I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know any better. Remember, I was only three back then. For all I knew, kids with runny noses got to go first.
So I took my cookies and my milk and sat down at a table. Nose Boy sat down across from me. I smiled at him and took a drink of my milk.
And what did he do? He reached over and grabbed both my cookies. Before I could swallow my milk, he took a big slobbery bite from each one. Then he put them back on my napkin. And then he smiled at me.
I looked at the stuff coming out of his nose. Then I looked at my cookies. And then I turned my head to look for Miss Lulu.
She was still handing out goodies. A crime had taken place, but Miss Lulu was busy.
So I reached over real fast and took his cookies. But then I looked down. Nose Boy had already taken a bite out of them, too.
He smiled again, and I could see the crumbs and chocolate chips stuck in his teeth. So I thought to myself, Who needs a snack anyway? I slid his cookies back across the table, drank the rest of my milk, and went outside to play.
Three minutes later I was on a swing, just trying to get it going. And somebody grabbed the chain. That’s right—it was Nose Boy again.
He snuffled a little and said, “Mine.” Nose Boy wasn’t much of a talker.
Then I said something like, “I got here first.” That was a mistake. The first rule of dealing with a bully is: Never try to tell him why he’s wrong. Bullies don’t like that.
He yanked hard on the chain and said, “No! Mine!”
I looked around, and Miss Lulu was on the other side of the playground. Then Nose Boy jerked on the chain again, so I got off the swing.
Nose Boy was my first bully. And for the next four years, I was a bully-magnet.
In preschool it was Mike Rada. I called him Destructo. Blocks, LEGOs, Popsicle sticks, crayons, and paper—no matter what I made or what it was made out of, Destructo tore it to bits.
In kindergarten it was Kenny Russell. Kenny was King Bump. There are a lot of times everyday when a bump or a shove can be bad. Like if you’re standing next to a puddle at the bus stop. Or when you’re drinking a carton of chocolate milk, or maybe when you’re working on a painting. If there was a bumpable moment, King Bump was there, all through kindergarten.
In first grade my main bully was Jack Lerner, also known as The Fist. Jack never actually hit me. He just hit things close to me. Like my lunch bag. Like every day. A big fist does a very bad thing to a Wonder Bread sandwich. And I learned real fast not to bring any little containers of pudding. All during first grade I ate cookie crumbs for dessert.
So that was me. I was Jake Drake, the bully-magnet. It was like all the bullies got together to choose their favorite target. Every bully for miles around seemed to know that I was the perfect kid to pick on. And I think I finally figured out why they all liked me so much.
For one thing, bullies need a kid who’s just the right size. If the kid is too big, then there might be a fight someday. Bullies don’t like to fight. And if the kid is too small, then the bullying is too easy. There’s no challenge.
Another thing about me that bullies like is that I don’t have a big brother, or even a big sister. I just have Abby, and she’s two years younger than me. Bullies figure out stuff like that right away.
And bullies can tell that I’m not the kind of kid who runs to tell the teacher all my problems. Whiny tattletales make bad bully-bait.
Also, I think I look kind of brainy. Most bullies don’t seem so smart, and when they see a kid who looks like he is, something inside a bully says, “Oh, yeah? Well, now you’ve got to deal with me, smart guy!”
And I guess I am a smart guy, because I am good at thinking. And because I’m a good thinker, I finally learned what to do about bullies. But I didn’t figure all this out at once. It took me four long years. It took having to deal with Nose Boy, and then Destructo, and King Bump, and The Fist.
It also took being picked on by a Certified, Grade A, SuperBully. Which is what happened back when I was in second grade. That’s the year I became Jake Drake, Bully Buster.
Andrew Clements has been hailed by the New York Times as “a proven master at depicting the quirky details of grade school life.” His many celebrated books include the contemporary classic Frindle and the New York Times bestsellers The Landry News and The Report Card. He and his wife, the parents of four grown children, live in Westborough, Massachusetts.
Jake Drake, Class Clown Page 4
