The Secret School

by Avi

Exactly two weeks after the day Miss Sedgewick had appeared, the weather turned springtime glorious. The air was balmy, with fluffy clouds floating through an arcing blue sky. The mountains themselves—with their constantly retreating snowcaps—seemed to be soaring. Tom announced he'd seen a bald eagle on the way to school. Charley countered by insisting he'd seen hummingbirds, the season's first. Early flowers—brilliant yellow snow lilies—dotted the valley, signaling spring's late arrival and the promise of summer, wonderful summer. No one, including Ida, wanted to be inside. Still, she told herself, they had to be.

  All that morning, Ida kept stealing glances out the open window. Once, when she noticed Ruckus grazing, she even caught herself wishing she could be a mule for a day.

  Four times she quietly opened her desk drawer, pulled the sheepskin aside, and checked the clock. She wasn't tired; she was restless. The room—despite the open windows—seemed small and stuffy.

  "When Ida caught sight of a mule deer coming down the road and then trotting off into the woods, she gave up. She had to get out, too. Suddenly she said, "I wish to make an announcement."

  The fidgeting children gave her their attention.

  "It's recess time and I've decided that I need recess, too. From now on I shall go outside and play when you do. When I do, I shall be Ida. But when recess is over, I will be Miss Bidson, your teacher, again. May we agree on that? All in favor, raise hands."

  "Ida's gonna be a human again!" Herbert shouted as he stretched both hands high.

  All the other hands shot up, too, and there was a dash for the door.

  Once outside Ida didn't stop. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she ran as hard as she could—away from everyone, toward the eastern hills—as if determined to reach the top of a mountain. It felt so good to run again. Then she flopped down in the tall grass, spread her arms and legs like a windmill, and gazed up at the sky.

  The sun was warm. The breeze in her face was fresh and clean. High above her, a hawk began to circle.

  Ida giggled. Maybe he thinks I'm a mouse, she thought.

  Suddenly consumed with a desire to play, she ran back to the school yard.

  As soon as Tom saw Ida coming he huddled with Herbert. Then he called out, "Crack the whip! Crack the whip!"

  Everybody tore down behind the privies to the flat area near the pond. Once there they all joined hands, urging Ida to be at the end. Completely giddy to be romping again, she agreed. It was Herbert who grasped her hand securely. Tom, being tallest, naturally took the lead. He led them round and round in tighter and tighter circles until Ida had a hard time staying on her feet. She didn't care. She was so happy to be part of the group again.

  Tom led on, fester and fester, until, as he made the final cracking twist, he shouted, "Let her go!" With that, Herbert let Ida's hand slip. The boys had it all perfectly planned and timed. Ida went flying through the air until she landed, with a great splash, right in the middle of the pond.

  Soaked and mud spattered, she sat in the water. For a moment she just remained there, gasping for breath, shocked. The next moment she broke out into laughter, laughing as she had not laughed in a long time. As the other children joined in, she could not stop.

  Suddenly they heard a voice say, "My dear Miss Bidson. Are you giving swimming lessons?"

  They looked around. It was the county examiner, Miss Sedgewick. She seemed to be struggling not to laugh herself. "I have visited many a school," she said, "but never one like this. Now I'm afraid I really do need to speak to you all."

  Dripping wet, red faced, and mud streaked, Ida waded out of the pond and plodded in sodden shoes toward the schoolhouse. The other children followed uncertainly.

  Tom edged up to Ida. "Sorry," he whispered.

  She looked up at him. He looked so pathetically guilty that for a moment she felt an almost irrepressible giggle rising. "Do I look a sight?"

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Yes," and started to laugh again but tried to repress it.

  Ida bit her lip to keep herself from laughing more.

  As the students filed into their places, Ida stood shivering beside the teacher's desk. This was, she knew, a very serious moment. "Why was she so desperate to laugh?

  "My dear," said Miss Sedgewick, "have you no dry clothes?"

  "No, ma'am. Can I explain what we were—?"

  "Miss Bidson, you are the teacher here. Do take your place."

  Wet though she was, Ida sat down. Under the cover of her desk she slipped off her shoes. She was aware that if she so much as peeked at Tom, she would burst out laughing again.

  "I am sorry to have come at such an awkward moment," Miss Sedgewick began, addressing Ida as well as the class. "I should begin by commending you all for your desire to be in school. As far as I'm concerned, there's no harm in your studying together. In fact, I admire it greatly. If you wish to allow Miss Bidson to be your unofficial teacher, there's nothing wrong with that, either."

  The other children burst into applause. Ida allowed herself a big smile. The desire to laugh eased.

  "However," Miss Sedgewick said with new severity, "as for getting credit for what you are doing, that's quite another matter. Credit for the term will require passing an exam given by the county."

  Tom raised his hand. "For the eighth graders? Is that what you mean, ma'am?"

  "For the eighth graders, certainly. But here's the choice I offer: I'll keep your secret, but in return you must all take a final exam."

  "All?" Ida said, now very serious.

  "All," Miss Sedgewick repeated.

  "Me, too?" asked Mary tremulously.

  "You, too, my dear."

  "I thought tests were just supposed to be for Tom and Ida," Herbert objected.

  "Young man, you have changed the rules here," Miss Sedgewick replied. "Now I have, too. You can't get credit for taking a full term unless we see that you have truly mastered it."

  "Miss Sedgewick," asked Ida, "can ... can I see the exams so I can make sure I know what to teach?"

  "But then the results would only tell us what you taught your students, Miss Bidson, not what they know. No, my dear, just continue as you've been doing. The test will allow me to see what you have accomplished. Agreed?"

  No one spoke.

  "Is that a yes or a no?" asked Miss Sedgewick.

  "We've been doing everything by voting," Ida said.

  "Then please feel free to vote," Miss Sedgewick urged.

  Ida stood up. "Those in favor of everybody taking exams like Miss Sedgewick says, raise hands."

  All hands—except Herbert's—went up.

  "I'm afraid," said Miss Sedgewick, "this won't work unless everyone agrees." She turned to Herbert. "Young man, would you reconsider?"

  "Aw,"—he scowled—"if I take that exam, I'm just gonna fail it."

  "Herbert, please," Ida pleaded.

  Herbert stared down at his desk.

  Once more, Ida said, "Those in favor."

  This time all hands—including Herbert's—rose.

  "Good," said Miss Sedgewick. "Then I shall be here bright and early on the morning of June the seventh to conduct examinations. I presume for you, too, Miss Bidson."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "So, if you please, just give me each student's name and grade level."

  Ida found a piece of paper, and while the class looked on in silence, she provided the information.

  Miss Sedgewick took the paper, folded it up, and placed it in her purse. "I wish each and every one of you good luck," she said, and started for the door. Reaching it, she paused. "Two more things," she said. "I urge you to inform your parents and the school board about what you are doing. And, Miss Bidson, do get into dry clothing before you catch your death of cold."

  The children waited until they heard the sound of a car driving away.

  "I suppose," said Ida, "we'll just have to work harder."

  "And there's one more thing," Herbert called out.

  "What's that?"

  "No m
ore swimming!"

  When Ida and Felix got home that afternoon, Ida went right into the kitchen. Her mother was at the big plank table kneading their weekly bread.

  "Ida!" she cried. "What happened to you?"

  "We had some fun at school today," Ida said ruefully.

  Mrs. Bidson gave her daughter a look. "Ida, are you teaching or playing games down there?"

  "I'm teaching, Ma," Ida said hotly. Then she told her everything that had happened, including the unfortunate visit by Miss Sedgewick. "Now the whole school has to take exams," Ida said. "I've ruined everything."

  "If you had," her mother said, "that woman would have said so."

  "In the whole time I've been teaching," Ida said, "it was the only fooling I've done. Anyway, it was fun." She pouted. "The most fun I've had in a long time."

  "Ida, a teacher will always be held up as an example to her students."

  "That's not fair!" Ida burst out. "I'm a person, too. I should study electricity, like Tom. Or play with a printing press. No one thinks he's bad when he's fooling."

  "Speaking of bad, I'm afraid I have more unfortunate news," said her mother. "I met Herbert Bixler's pa when your father and I were at the feed store today. He complained to me that Herbert is wasting his time going to school. Said he wants to go to the school board and complain that you're keeping the school open."

  "He didn't!"

  "Well, perhaps he was just talking big."

  "Ma, you know what I think? I think Mr. Bixler doesn't want Herbert to come to school at all!"

  "I'm just telling you what he said."

  "Or maybe Mr. Bixler's mad at me because I went down to his place," Ida confessed.

  "Did you? Why?"

  "Ma, it's what teachers do. Herbert hadn't been in school. I'm supposed to find out why. You know what Mr. Bixler said? Said Herbert's schooling doesn't matter."

  "Honey, Mr. Bixler's wife died when Herbert was still a baby. Mr. Bixler's had bad luck on his farm. Lost a whole lot of sheep because of disease. Folks say his debt is piling up. He's not a happy man. Unhappy folks do unhappy things."

  "Do you think Mr. Jordan already knows what we're doing?"

  "Ida, in this valley—sooner or later—everybody knows everything about everybody. You could tell him yourself, you know."

  "He'd only say no."

  A frowning Ida sat down before the kitchen table.

  "Is there something else?" her mother asked.

  Ida said nothing.

  "Is it Tom?"

  Ida shook her head.

  "Can't be any worse than what you've already told me, can it?" her mother coaxed.

  "Ma ... I've been working so hard at teaching, I've been letting my own studying go. Way I'm going, I'll be the only one failing the exam."

  "Well, Miss Bidson, however you decide to head off that problem, I suggest you start by getting into some clean clothes."

  Thirteen

  THAT EVENING AFTER her chores and grading were done, Ida worked late into the night. She began with her reader, focusing on sections she had not read before. She studied grammar and tried to memorize passages, working in particular on "A Psalm of Life," a poem by Longfellow. In the morning she parsed sentences in her head as she milked Bluebell. At the breakfast table she did math problems, her eyes glued to her textbook.

  Though her father frowned at her, he said nothing.

  As she and Felix drove to school she recited the Longfellow poem:

  "Tell me not in mournful numbers—Brake, clutch!

  Life is but—Not so hard!—an empty dream—

  For the soul is dead that slumbers—Brake!

  And things are not—Brake, clutch!—what they seem

  Life is real!—Brake!—Life is earnest!

  And the grave—Clutch!—is not its goal;

  Dust thou art, to dust returnest—Brake!

  Was not—Brake! Clutch!—spoken of the soul.

  "We're here!"

  In school, right after the morning exercises, Ida stood before the class.

  "Anyone know where Herbert is?"

  "Working, probably," Charley said.

  "I need to know," Ida said, "if our school is still secret. How many of you told your parents what we're doing? I did," she informed them. "Had to."

  Tom was the first one to respond. Then, shyly, Natasha raised her hand. Charley said, "I just told ours that school was going on. Didn't say you were teacher."

  Ida explained what had happened when she went to Herbert's place and spoke to Mr. Bixler. "By mistake I told him I was the teacher," she said. "He didn't like it." Then she told them what Mr. Bixler had said to her mother.

  "Think he really will say something to Mr. Jordan?" Natasha asked.

  "My dad says Mr. Bixler isn't really mean," Susie put in. "Just unhappy all the time."

  "My ma said the same," Ida agreed. "I don't know what he'll do. But if you haven't already, I guess you'd better let your parents know everything. Just try to get them not to tell anyone else, specially Mr. Jordan."

  She sighed. "Guess we better get on with our own work," Ida said. "Can't be any shirking if we're going to pass those exams."

  Ida went to her desk and consulted her notebook, then gave instructions to the class. "Tom, sentence parsing. Mary, penmanship. In particular, your Gs, Qs, and Fs. Susie, I'd like you to help her. Natasha, when you're ready, I'll quiz you on the continents. Charley, reading. Felix, you start off with a recitation of your ABCs."

  Everybody set to work.

  More than before, Ida put everyone to tasks that they could do on their own. While they set about their assignments, she sat at her desk, secretly working on her own studies—in particular, math. Secret school Secret student, she thought.

  Halfway through the morning, Ida walked up to Tom's desk.

  "Yes, Miss Bidson," he said.

  "Tom," Ida said, whispering so no one else would hear. "I'm not teaching now. I'm studying for myself. How do you do this kind of math problem?"

  Tom looked at her, pushed the hair away from his forehead, and gave her a wink.

  "Tom," she whispered. "Please."

  "Okay. Better sit down, though," he said, and showed her how to do the problem.

  "Thank you," she whispered, giving him a grateful look when he was done.

  In the evening as soon as she got home, Ida raced through her chores, retreated to the loft, and worked on her studies. After dinner she did the same.

  Her mother found Ida in bed. By the glowing light of a kerosene lamp she was rereading the school's frayed copy of Great Orations by Great Men.

  "Ida, it's very late. You're pushing yourself too hard."

  "What's the good of me being teacher?" Ida replied with anguish. "If everyone else passes the exams and I don't, it'll be the last time I ever teach."

  "Honey, I'm sure you know more than you think."

  "Ma, the exam is a couple of weeks away, but I have no idea what's in it. I have to know everything."

  "Honey, I don't want you getting sick. Won't be good for anything then."

  "I'll be a whole lot sicker if I don't get to high school."

  Mrs. Bidson sighed and retreated down the ladder.

  The next day school started as usual. As the hours passed, it grew darker and darker. Recess was held, but the thunderheads gathering around the mountain peaks made it clear that a big storm was coming.

  "We'd best light the lamps and get in some dry wood," Ida said.

  Right after lunch the storm struck. It came softly at first, then quickly shifted into roof-rattling hail.

  The children gazed around, watching the large hailstones bounce off the windows.

  Tom raised his hand.

  "Yes, Tom?"

  "Can I bring in Ruckus? He gets panicky in hailstorms."

  Ida frowned. "You never did when it stormed before."

  Tom nodded toward the windows. "That's big hail."

  "Very well, I suppose it's all right. But I don't want that mule interfe
ring."

  Tom dashed out. Moments later he returned, leading the mule through the schoolhouse door. He looked around, then backed the animal into the boys' wardrobe and shut the door.

  With the lamps on and the stove hot, it was cozy in the schoolhouse. The students stayed attentive to their work. Now and again in the wardrobe, the mule stamped and occasionally brayed, but no one paid him any mind.

  It was still raining that afternoon when Mary, standing before the class, got ready to recite a poem. The rest of the children were listening intently.

  "'The Song of the Bee,'" Mary began.

  "This is the song of the bee.

  His legs are of yellow,

  A jolly, good fellow,

  and yet a great worker is he.

  In days that are sunny—"

  The door burst open. Mr. Jordan stood there, his yellow rain slicker dripping wet. "So it's true what I was told. You are meeting here. Well, this school is supposed to be closed. And as of this moment, it is closed. Now all of you get on home where you belong!"

  No one moved.

  Suddenly from the boys' wardrobe, there came a loud stamping.

  Puzzled, Mr. Jordan opened the wardrobe door. The mule stuck his head out and brayed in Mr. Jordan's face.

  "And get this mule out of here!" Mr. Jordan cried.

  Fourteen

  THE NEXT DAY Ida and Felix stayed home. There was no choice.

  Felix was more than happy to work along with his father, helping repair the barns and tend to the sheep in the fields. Ida, however, woke that morning completely miserable. No teaching. No exams. No high school. No future. She was trapped. And it was her own fault. If only she hadn't spoken to Herbert's father!

  Though she wanted to, she knew she couldn't lay abed doing nothing. She did her regular chores before breakfast, then took care of the baby when her mother asked her to. The spring sheepshearing had begun.

  Ida took Shelby up to the loft and tried to entertain him with one of her schoolbooks.

  "I could teach you your ABCs," she offered. The little boy studied her with large, uncomprehending eyes.