At that moment, the door is flung open, and Miss Fountain breezes in, beaming. “What do you think, everybody? Isn’t it awesome?”
“I forgot to mention,” Mr. Kermit adds. “Miss Fountain helped a lot, so we owe her a big thank-you.”
Nobody utters a sound.
Our teacher shuffles uncomfortably. “Well, Miss Fountain, I’m sure you’re in a rush to get back to your students—”
Miss Fountain is looking around in growing concern. “But—where is it?”
Mr. Kermit seems flustered. “Well, there wasn’t much space, and—” In resignation, he walks to the storage closet and opens the door the rest of the way. On the inside is a chart with all our names in a column. At the top is written: GOODBUNNIES.
Miss Fountain’s brow furrows. “This isn’t going to work. It has to hang in a place where everybody can see it.” She pulls the poster from the door and rehangs it on the front wall right behind the teacher’s desk. “Much better.”
I raise my hand. “What are Goodbunnies?”
“You are,” she explains. “You’re the Goodbunnies. Every time you’re a helpful hare—like when you do a good deed or get a good grade—you earn one puffy-tail. When your line of puffy-tails reaches the basket of carrots, you get a reward.”
“I don’t like carrots,” Barnstorm complains.
“It could be a treat, or maybe even a pizza party with a cake—”
“A carrot cake?” Barnstorm asks suspiciously.
“The carrots are just a symbol. Here, I’ll get you started.” From a baggie attached to the bottom of the poster, she removes seven Velcro-tipped cotton balls and pins one to the first slot beside each of our names.
For some reason, I feel like I’ve accomplished something, even though the week has barely started.
Aldo lets out a loud raspberry. “This is stupid! What are we—five? I’m not wasting my time collecting rabbit butts.”
Mr. Kermit is annoyed. “All right, smart guy. You just cost yourself one”—his face twists—“puffy-tail.” He pulls off the Velcro sticker and puts it back in the bag.
“No fair,” grumbles Aldo.
Miss Fountain is just about to go back to her own class when there’s a knock at the door, and this new guy walks in. He’s an adult, but not one of the teachers, and he looks really familiar, although I can’t place where I’ve seen him before. Mr. Kermit knows him—that’s for sure. Our teacher has gone white to the ears, like he’s staring into the Great Pit of Carkoon from Return of the Jedi.
The newcomer says, “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Kermit—”
As soon as I hear the voice, I recognize him.
Barnstorm beats me to the punch. “Dude—you’re Jake Terranova!”
Sixteen
Parker Elias
Jake Terranova!
Everybody knows Jumping Jake Terranova, who will jump through hoops to get you a great deal on a new or used vehicle. The billboards are all over town (although to me, TERRANOVA MOTORS looks more like AROMAVENT ROTORS). Anyway, there’s no mistaking the face. This guy’s famous! What’s he doing in room 117?
Mr. Kermit has an expression on his face as if he smells something really bad. It’s the way he looks when there’s a vuvuzela blaring. And since the vuvuzelas are all gone, it can only mean one thing: he hates Jake Terranova’s guts.
Miss Fountain steps forward. “I really should explain, Mr. Kermit. I ran into Jake—that is, Mr. Terranova—at my parents’ country club. I wanted to see if he remembered me. He sold me my Prius last year.”
Mr. Terranova smiles with all thirty-two teeth. “Great car. Are you in the market for a new vehicle, Mr. Kermit? Emma loves hers.”
“It makes me feel good to know I’m helping the environment every time I drive,” Miss Fountain says with a meaningful look over her shoulder at Ribbit.
Our teacher’s eyes get so narrow that they’re barely slits.
“Anyway,” Miss Fountain goes on, “we got to talking, and your name came up, Mr. Kermit. I told him about that story in the Telegraph—”
The car dealer cuts her off. “This should come from me.” He turns to Mr. Kermit. “I read the article about the vuvuzelas. They mentioned something from the past—something I was involved in.”
Our teacher has his teeth clenched until his lips have practically disappeared. “Mr. Terranova used to be one of my students,” he explains, his speech clipped, “some years back.”
“That’s not enough. They should hear the whole truth.” He addresses us. “You might have heard about a cheating scandal. Well, Mr. Kermit had nothing to do with it. It was me. I can’t believe the newspaper dredged up that old story.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Terranova,” I assure him. “None of us read newspapers.”
“I do,” Mateo puts in. “Middle Earth Weekly. Of course, it’s more fanfic than news.”
The car dealer gives him a strange look. “The point is I don’t want you kids to think that Mr. Kermit did anything wrong. It was my fault. I got caught and I got suspended for it.”
“No kidding,” Aldo pipes up. “We just got back from being suspended. But I didn’t think it would happen to a big-shot rich dude.”
Barnstorm snorts a laugh. “He wasn’t a big shot when he got suspended, dummy. He was a kid like us.”
Aldo and Barnstorm wheel around in their seats, turning belligerent expressions on each other. But Mr. Terranova quickly steps between them. “Guys, I was in middle school once too. If you two want to throw hands, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. But not here and not now.”
Aldo and Barnstorm back down.
The car dealer faces Mr. Kermit again. “So I came here to apologize, which I should have done years ago. And if there’s anything I can ever do to help out—you know, with the class—all you have to do is say the word.”
“Thanks for your generous offer,” our teacher says stiffly. “But that won’t be necessary—”
“Of course we want your help!” Miss Fountain exclaims, and it’s pretty obvious this was her plan all along.
Mr. Kermit’s sour expression gets worse. “I’m sure Mr. Terranova wouldn’t appreciate it if you and I went to his lot and tried to sell cars. And he would be just as unsuccessful trying to teach our students.”
“Be reasonable,” she pleads. “He’s built a business. He could give a math unit on earnings versus expenses, or how to amortize a loan. He could let us tour his repair shop and maybe teach us about basic auto mechanics.”
“He could let me take out a Dodge Viper for a test drive.” I add, “I have a license.”
Mr. Terranova doesn’t answer. He’s beaming at Miss Fountain, and at that moment he looks exactly like his picture on the billboards (without the flaming hoops, obviously). “It’s a date,” he says, and Miss Fountain’s cheeks get all red, even though it isn’t really hot in the classroom.
“Well, maybe,” Mr. Kermit concedes. “If the curriculum allows.”
“We don’t have a curriculum,” Mateo points out. “We just get worksheets while you do crossword puzzles.”
That costs him a puffy-tail.
Seventeen
Mr. Kermit
The Goodbunnies chart is mocking me.
No matter where I am in the room, my eyes are drawn to the bright pink poster board with its white puffy-tails. Even at my desk—when I can’t see it—I sense it behind me. Knowing it’s there is almost as bad as looking at it.
As great as the temptation may be, I can’t bring myself to throw it out. Emma keeps finding excuses to come over and check on it. She’s frustrated that no one is earning any puffy-tails. She’s determined to stick with the teaching style that worked with her kindergarten class last year. Her mother was like that—100 percent headstrong when she believed she was right. Middle schoolers won’t excel for that kind of infantile reward system. And these particular middle schoolers wouldn’t excel if you put ten thousand volts to the soles of their feet. The only thing that mo
tivates them, apparently, is the prospect of dumping mass quantities of vuvuzelas into the river.
But that’s another story—and a much more bizarre one. I don’t like to think about that. There are some questions that should never be answered.
My new habit is to get to class before the kids. That way, I can be finished with the New York Times crossword puzzle by the time they arrive. Just because the school saddled me with the worst class in the district doesn’t mean I have to pass that disrespect on to the students. They deserve better—some of them. One or two. And anyway, all of them jumped into the river when they thought their teacher was drowning. That says something.
I’m still not sure what.
As I spread the newspaper out, I have to push the Toilet Bowl to the edge of the desk, which sends some papers skittering to the floor. A couple of weeks ago, I would barely have noticed. But now that this place looks sort of like a real classroom, it’s worth a little effort to keep things neat. If not, one of these days Emma might show up with a CLEANBUNNIES poster board, and this one will have the name ZACHARY on it.
I’m about to toss the papers when I recognize the first page. It’s one of my old worksheets, accompanied by four additional pages of neat handwriting. Kiana Roubini, reads the name at the top. I remember her handing in something like this. And come to think of it, she’s always been a little less out to lunch than the rest of them.
I scan a few lines. It’s an essay of all things, and it seems to be pretty well written. I read on, drawn in by her compelling sentences and well-constructed arguments about mass transit. She’s really enthused about the subject, and she expresses herself beautifully. What’s she doing in SCS-8? This is brilliant work!
Any teacher would be delighted to receive an essay like this. Why, back when I was first starting out—
My vision clouds. That was a long time ago, when teaching was more than a job; it was a sacred mission. I was young and stupid then, and I’ve vowed never again to make the mistake of caring about the students. I cared about Jake Terranova once. Look where that got me.
On the other hand, it isn’t Kiana’s fault that Terranova went into business selling exams. It won’t be breaking the promise I made to myself to give her the feedback she deserves for a fantastic piece of work.
So later, when the students arrive, I return her paper. Written across the top is: A+ Excellent.
She’s surprised at first, then thrilled. It triggers more long-suppressed memories: well-deserved praise, pride, and satisfaction. Motivated teacher, motivated student.
Then she asks the question I expect the least: “Do I get a puffy-tail?”
Why would Goodbunnies even be on the radar screen of someone capable of writing such a top-notch essay? But I reply, “Sure, why not?”
As I attach the Velcro puffy-tail next to her name on the chart, I have the undivided attention of every soul in that classroom. If I’d taken out a sword and knighted the girl, it couldn’t have been a bigger event.
Barnstorm raises a crutch. “How come she gets one of those things? What about the rest of us?”
“She wrote an essay,” I explain. “If you want a puffy-tail, you have to work for it.”
“Not necessarily,” Parker pipes up. “Miss Fountain says you can also get one for being a helpful hare. I drive my Grams to the senior center every day. If that’s not helpful, what is?”
So he gets a puffy-tail too. That opens the floodgates:
“I loaded the dishwasher after dinner last night!”
“I did blue face paint at the Avatar convention!”
“I broke scoring records in three sports!”
“I took out the garbage!”
I award puffy-tails like it’s going out of style. True, most of these “accomplishments” aren’t very impressive. But puffy-tails themselves are so meaningless that it would be hypocritical to raise the standard to earn them.
Rahim gets one for staying awake long enough to receive it.
Only Aldo can’t come up with anything better than “On the bus today, this kid tripped over my book bag and landed in gum.”
I sigh. “That doesn’t sound very—uh—helpful to me.”
Aldo tries again. “Well, now it’s in his hair and he can’t get rid of it. He looks like a doofus!”
“Dude, you could have moved your bag out of his way,” Barnstorm pronounces. “That’s the helpful hare way. Otherwise, you should lose a puffy-tail.”
“He’s already at zero,” Mateo puts in.
“Zero is better!” Aldo explodes. “Because rabbit butts are stupid!”
“Easy to say when you don’t have any,” Barnstorm needles.
“Come on, Aldo,” Kiana whispers. “You must have done something nice!”
The boy’s still stumped. He sulks for the rest of the day.
Just before lunch, Emma looks in, catches sight of the poster board with so many new puffy-tails, and beams with pleasure.
When I submit the official request for a school bus, Principal Vargas regards me with deep suspicion. She’s probably thinking about how many vuvuzelas you can cram into a whole bus. A lot more than a thousand, for sure.
I elaborate. “It’s for a field trip.”
“Field trip?” She’s amazed. “For your kids? Where?”
“We’re going to Terranova Motors.” Speaking those words is even harder than I thought it would be. “We’ve been invited to tour the repair shop . . .” I regurgitate Emma’s reasons why this is a good idea.
“Back up, Zachary. I’ve known you for a long time. Why would you go anywhere near Jake Terranova?”
I sigh. “Emma found him at some country club shindig. She’s a serious busybody, that one. She told him about the Spirit Week kerfuffle, and how it dredged up what happened. Now he wants to make amends.”
The principal folds her arms in front of her. “And you want to give him an opportunity to clear his conscience?”
“It’s not me,” I admit. “It’s the kids. They came alive when he walked into the room. They consider him some kind of celebrity. Listen, Christina, I know they’re awful, but what we did to them is just as awful. Are we really going to keep them cooped up like prisoners until they can be the high school’s headache? If there’s a chance for them to have a real education, we have to take it. And if that means Jake Terranova, then so be it.”
She looks at me for an uncomfortably long moment. “The last time I heard words like that, they came from a young teacher I used to work with. A teacher named Zachary Kermit.”
“That person is gone forever,” I assure her. “And he’s never coming back, which is a good thing because he was an idiot.”
“All right, you’ve got your bus.” The principal scribbles a signature on the requisition form and leans back in her chair, her expression sober. “One more thing, Zachary. You’ve probably already noticed that Dr. Thaddeus isn’t exactly your biggest fan. Well, the vuvuzelas didn’t do anything to change that.”
“I don’t lose sleep over what he thinks.” That’s mostly because I have such terrible insomnia that there isn’t much sleep for me to lose. But I don’t mention that to Christina.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” she persists, “but I think he’s going to try to go after your early retirement.”
I shrug. “He’s done it already. I know why I got saddled with the Unteachables. He wants me to quit. He’ll see his own ears first.”
“There’s another way,” she reminds me grimly. “One wrong step and he’ll fire you. Don’t give him cause. I’ll protect you as much as I can, but I’m not the superintendent. He is. And never underestimate how much power that gives him.”
I nod, take the bus authorization, and get out of there. It’s the cheating scandal, still haunting me after all these years. Thaddeus will never forgive me for it.
I thought Jake Terranova was back. Correction: he never left.
Eighteen
Kiana Roubini
TOP 4 REASONS WHY MY H
ALF BROTHER, CHAUNCEY, IS LIKE VLADIMIR:
The smell. Dirty diapers and baby puke. Enough said. Vladimir’s terrarium after the weekend is no perfume factory either.
The noise. Chauncey’s howling has the edge in volume, but Vladimir’s high-pitched squeaks are even more piercing. It goes without saying that both of them are spoiled by too much attention. That’s Stepmonster’s fault in Chauncey’s case. For Vladimir, it’s Miss Fountain’s seventh graders, and, lately, us. When he wants somebody to feed him a dead cricket—which is all the time—the cheeping and chirping are at a frequency that feel like a miniature blender at the center of your brain.
The teeth. They both have zero. Okay, Vladimir probably has more than that, but you don’t know they’re there until he nips you. And to be fair, Chauncey does have a couple of chompers breaking through, bottom front. It’s pretty cute, actually.
The time-suck. That’s the biggest similarity between them. Dealing with Chauncey is a twenty-five-hour-per-day job, mostly for Stepmonster, but also for Dad and me. If you leave him alone for ten seconds, he’ll find a way to stick his drool-covered finger into an electric outlet, light himself on fire, and roll down at least one flight of stairs. Vladimir is every bit as impossible to ignore. When he starts squeaking, you go running. And he’s not satisfied with just anybody. These days, the attention he craves is from Aldo. Leave it to Vladimir to love the least lovable person in the whole school, except maybe Elaine. Maybe it’s the red hair. It’s hard to ignore.
Anyway, I shouldn’t really complain that Stepmonster is so distracted. If it wasn’t for Chauncey, she might call up the school to ask how I’m doing and get told, “Kiana who?” The last thing I need is to get put in regular classes and have to break in eight new teachers, just when I’m starting to get the hang of Mr. Kermit.
Now that Ribbit’s doing real teaching, I don’t even have to make things up when Dad and Stepmonster ask, “How’s school?” I have something to tell them. There are things going on in room 117—things beyond worksheets and crossword puzzles.
The Unteachables Page 9
