The Unteachables

by Gordon Korman

  “What kids? My kids? They won’t be there. Nobody entered.”

  She looks evasive. “That might not be exactly true.”

  The coffee is getting cold. “Of course it’s true. I’m their teacher. Don’t you think I would have noticed if one of them was working on a science project?”

  “They did it as a group.”

  “I repeat: not possible.”

  She drops the bombshell. “They’ve been working on it at the dealership.”

  It strikes a chord. The frequent extended trips to Terranova Motors. Emma accompanying the kids so I won’t see what’s going on. They’ve been doing this behind my back. It all fits—except for one gigantic question—

  “But why?”

  “They did it for you,” she announces.

  “For me? Why in a million years would they think I’d want them to—”

  Then I remember: that random district policy—ten points added to the science scores of all winners. That would be enough to—

  “They’re trying to save my job!”

  She beams. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “No!” I explode. “It means the kids blame themselves for what happened. How would they even know about the connection to their test results?”

  She studies the threadbare carpet.

  “You had no right to tell them that!” I rave. “It’s a gross violation of my privacy. Worse, it made them feel pressured to enter a science fair they have no chance of winning!”

  “Don’t be mad at them—”

  “I’m not mad at them,” I exclaim. “I’m mad at you! They could never do this on their own. You set this up—you and that Terranova dimwit!”

  “Jake loves you.”

  “Yeah? Well, I tremble to see what would happen if he hated me!”

  She puts on an expression I remember from Fiona—the I’m-not-taking-no-for-an-answer face.

  “Okay,” Emma concedes, “so maybe we weren’t totally up front with you. But your kids are at school ready to present their project. And if you’re not there to support them, you’re never going to forgive yourself.”

  She doesn’t fight fair. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” I say. “I’ll get dressed.”

  Surrender. Total and unconditional. I might as well get used to it.

  Jake is waiting outside in the Porsche. “Hi, Mr. Kermit. Long time no see.”

  I scowl at him. He’s a partner in this deception, and deserves no better. Plus, with an entire car dealership at his disposal, he chose to bring this motorized roller skate.

  For the students, I remind myself, squeezing into the tiny back seat.

  All the way to school, Jake keeps up a steady stream of conversation, ignoring frantic signaling from Emma to keep his big mouth shut.

  “How about those kids doing this project on their own?” he enthuses. “They’re really something!”

  I’m too angry to answer. It’s also possible that I’m too contorted in the back seat to make any sound. I’m getting reacquainted with my knees, which are pressed up against my chest.

  When the Porsche reaches Greenwich Middle School, it takes the two of them to drag me out of the car.

  A banner over the front entrance declares:

  GREENWICH PUBLIC SCHOOLS

  SCIENCE FAIR

  DISTRICT CHAMPIONSHIPS

  The parking lot is packed. The school halls bustle with students and parents. I forgot how popular the science fair is. I knew once, back when I cared about such things.

  Walking stiffly—zombie style—after the tight car ride, I lumber inside, following Emma and Jake into the gym, which is the epicenter. The large space is filled with long tables, and colorful displays stretch as far as the eye can see. Students stand like sentries in front of their projects, excited and nervous, ready to face the judges.

  It’s been a rotten day so far, but as soon as I spot the kids of SCS-8, I feel the corners of my mouth turning upward. Even though I’m against this science fair idea 100 percent, I couldn’t be more proud. My Unteachables did this for me. Okay, I won’t be their teacher for long, but I’m their teacher today, and I intend to act like it.

  Seeing me, their faces light up, and I smile wider. I must be losing my mind. A real teacher would be chewing them out, not beaming at them. I beam anyway, because they look so thrilled with themselves—Kiana, Aldo, Barnstorm, Mateo, Rahim, and Elaine.

  I approach the group. “Where’s Parker?”

  “With his grandmother,” Kiana supplies. “You’ll see him soon.”

  Ah, the famous Grams. Some things never change. “Well, let’s have a look at this top secret project.”

  I turn my attention to the display board behind them. The title is The Internal Combustion Engine. Obviously, the idea came from working at Terranova Motors. There are several fantastic drawings and diagrams done by Rahim. They’re so professional that I wonder if the judges will believe it’s real student work.

  Beyond that—my heart sinks a little—the project is pretty thin. There’s an information booklet with a few pages that could have been copied from any automotive web page. That’s it. No working motor in a study that’s supposed to be all about them. Not even a model of one.

  I picture some of the other displays on the labyrinth of tables throughout the double gym. There’s a miniature wind turbine and batteries that store the electricity it generates, a Foucault pendulum, a replica of the internal gyroscope that provides telemetry guidance for a ballistic missile. Everywhere, microscopes peer down at single-celled organisms, Geiger counters click, test tubes bubble, and static electricity jumps up Jacob’s ladders. These projects come from the most talented science students in the entire district, not just Greenwich Middle School. The Internal Combustion Engine is a nice effort, but it doesn’t come close to anything else here. This is like entering a grape into competition against a two-hundred-pound watermelon at the state fair.

  Anger surges inside me. Maybe Jake doesn’t know any better, but surely Emma understands that The Internal Combustion Engine doesn’t stand the chance of an ice cube in molten lava against the other projects here. I take in the proud, hopeful faces of the Unteachables. It goes without saying that they’re about to finish dead last. They could very well be laughed out of the competition. The blow could destroy their confidence and undo most of the progress of the past weeks.

  The judges are at the very next table, practically chortling with glee as they watch a small robot shoot baskets at a Nerf hoop built into the giant crate that is the display. Two men and a woman—the high school science teachers along with a professor from the local college. They make notes on their clipboards, but there’s no mistaking the enjoyment on their faces.

  Not for long, I think, as the threesome approaches The Internal Combustion Engine.

  The kids are so amped that you can almost hear a power hum emanating from them. I feel a little sick. I resolve then and there to make a big stink if the judges are unkind about the project. Why not? There’s no downside. What can they do—complain to Thaddeus and get me fired?

  To my relief, the three are respectful and professional. They’re obviously not very impressed, but they go through the motions of examining the display. They even come up with a few questions to ask.

  The college professor reads through the booklet and comes to the last page—I never made it that far. There are exactly two words, written in large block capitals:

  LOOK OUTSIDE

  An arrow points toward the gym’s corner exit, which opens out to the parking lot.

  The man frowns. “What does this mean?”

  Elaine’s deep baritone supplies the answer. “Maybe it means, you know, look outside.”

  “This way!” adds Barnstorm, thump-swinging on his crutches toward the door. The judges follow, herded like cattle by the rest of the class.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper to Emma.

  She smiles at me, misty-eyed. “That would spoil the surprise.”

  Jake i
s grinning, which is almost worse than her kindergarten ways. I am so not in the mood.

  I step out of the gym and look around, mystified. Nothing’s there—nothing but parked cars.

  And then an enormous roar cuts the air, an earsplitting vroom so loud that you feel it under your fingernails. All attention is wrenched away from the vehicles in the lot to the single car standing in the driveway, revving its enormous engine.

  It’s an amazing sight. The paint job is bright red with flecks of silver that catch the sunlight and dazzle the eye. Emblazoned on the driver’s door is the image of a leaping frog. Sparks fling from the animal’s powerful back legs, spraying the full length of the chassis to the rear bumper. There’s no hood, and the motor has been raised to full view, shiny and brand-new. Twin tailpipes, gleaming chrome, slash down both sides of the car. Multicolored LED lights flash from every wheel rim.

  Stunned and speechless, all I can do is stare. Emma is clamped onto my arm, cutting off the circulation. What does this hot rod have to do with a middle school science fair entry?

  The judges are pop-eyed.

  “This is your project?” the woman from the high school breathes.

  The kids nod, tickled pink with themselves.

  “It’s our working model,” Kiana brags.

  Aldo leans into the gym and bellows, “In your face, losers!”

  “They built the engine from parts in my shop,” Jake explains, his voice hoarse with pride. “My mechanics supervised, but the kids did all the work.”

  “They did everything,” Emma confirms. “One of them is even the driver.”

  That’s when I recognize Parker at the wheel, grinning so wide that his face is about to break.

  “Why is there an elderly woman with him?” the professor wants to know.

  “That’s Grams,” Kiana explains. “It’s a long story.”

  “They did a lot more than just put an engine in,” Jake goes on. “You’re looking at new tires, rims, glass, wipers, interior. And the body work—remember, this car is twenty-seven years old.”

  I snap to attention. “Twenty-seven years old?”

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Sure, it’s all rebuilt and fancy and souped-up, but the original shape is still there, hidden beneath the tailpipes and the chrome and the blinding paint job.

  It’s . . . it’s . . .

  God bless America, it’s the Coco Nerd.

  Twenty-Nine

  Parker Elias

  It’s worth all the hard work to see Mr. Kermit’s face when he recognizes his car, brand-new and so much better. Although how could it be any worse than it was when he left it, being shoveled up off the entrance to the parking lot?

  I tap on the gas and listen as the roar echoes off the front of the school building. Some cars purr like a kitten; this one screams like a howler monkey—all thanks to 585 horses under the hood. (If it had a hood.)

  Howler monkey. I saw that in a book a couple of days ago. At first, it looked like HOLEY WORKMEN, but I figured it out in record time. That’s been happening faster and faster lately, thanks to the extra reading help Mr. Kermit has gotten for me.

  And not just me. Ribbit helped every kid in our class. There’s no way we could ever thank him enough for what he’s done, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try. That’s why we rebuilt his car for him. And it’s why I have to use this science fair project to totally blow the judges’ minds and save his job.

  Grams regards the large eggplant in her lap quizzically. “I can’t imagine why I bought this pocketbook,” she complains. “It doesn’t match anything I wear.”

  “Please don’t squeeze it,” I request. “It’s the blue-plate special at Local Table tonight.” If I’m driving, there had better be farm business involved.

  At that moment, Kiana raises her arm and drops it. The high sign! I stomp on the gas.

  Even I’m shocked by the burst of acceleration as those 585 horses hurl us forward at breakneck speed. In a heartbeat, the others are far behind me in the rearview mirror. The feeling of raw power is so awesome that, when we run out of driveway, I almost forget that I’m the one who’s steering the car. At the last instant I yank on the wheel. We thump onto River Street and fly down the block, tires barely touching the pavement. According to Jake, this engine should get us from zero to sixty in 4.6 seconds. By now, we’ve got to be just about there.

  As we pick up speed, Rahim’s banner unfurls from the car’s old-fashioned radio antenna. I can see it in the mirror, fluttering in the slipstream behind us—the expertly painted words of the message we need to deliver beyond any other:

  FIRE RIBBIT? NO WAY!

  My classmates are jumping up and down and cheering, so it must be open and readable.

  The adults aren’t moving at all, which might be from shock. We didn’t tell Jake or Miss Fountain about the banner part. And, of course, Mr. Kermit himself didn’t suspect any of this until a few seconds ago. (He might not even know he’s Ribbit.)

  Then everybody’s gone as I screech around the corner to circle the block. That’s the plan—a quick loop of the school, banner flying, and back up the driveway to stop at the judges’ feet so they can examine this monster engine, every inch of it built by us.

  By this time, Grams is enjoying the ride. “Where are we going, kiddo?”

  “The senior center, like always,” I reply, “with a short detour to impress the judges!”

  “Judges?” she echoes in a strange tone. “Don’t you mean firemen?”

  “No, Grams, they’re judges,” I explain patiently. “This is a science fair project.”

  She frowns. “Then who’s going to put out the fire?”

  That’s when I spot tongues of bright orange flame in the rearview mirror. I panic. “The car’s on fire!”

  Grams is totally calm. “No, it isn’t, kiddo. It’s that rag we’re towing.”

  “The banner!” I risk a glance over my shoulder. She’s right! The heat of the tailpipe set fire to the bedsheet fabric we used to make the banner. Come to think of it, Jake mentioned that he filled the gas tank with racing fuel to get maximum performance for the judges. He said it burns really hot! Yeah, no kidding!

  What should I do? If I stop, then we won’t win the science fair and Mr. Kermit will be gone. But how can I drive a car that’s on fire? Well, technically, the car isn’t burning—just the sheet attached to the radio antenna. Already, FIRE RIBBIT? NO WAY! is down to FIRE RIBBIT? NO W. It looks like we want him to get fired right now! That’s the opposite of the message we’re trying to send!

  I wheel around another corner. Since I can’t stop, I speed up, flooring the gas pedal again. Maybe the wind will put out the fire. Instead, it fans the flames. The banner whips from side to side, leaving glowing embers dancing in the air. The next time I look back, a honeysuckle hedge is ablaze. This is definitely not covered under my provisional license!

  “Nice moves, kiddo!” Grams cheers. “I never knew you were such a good driver.”

  All the months I’ve been driving Grams, and she doesn’t notice my skills until I’m laying waste to the neighborhood. As I streak back toward River Street, I leave a line of smoldering bushes in my wake. Black smoke hangs in the air. Now the banner is down to FIRE RIB, which sounds like an ad for a restaurant. All along the sidewalk, people are shouting and pointing and scrambling to get out of the way of the swirling sparks.

  Breathing a silent prayer, I make the final turn onto River Street and streak up the school’s driveway. Even though this is a disaster, there’s only one place to go—back to the judges. Remember, our project isn’t Banner Making 101; it’s The Internal Combustion Engine. And that part works amazing.

  Suddenly, some guy in a suit steps from the parking lot right into the road in front of me. I slam on the breaks, sending the car into a skid. At the last second, the suit guy hurls himself out of the way, somersaulting through a flowerbed.

  The car fishtails around and lurches to a halt right before the three judges. Mr.
Carstairs runs up with a fire extinguisher and puts out the burning banner with a sea of foam. All that’s left is a single word, hanging limp from the antenna: FIRE.

  Like we didn’t already know that.

  Half the science fair is out on the lawn, gawking at me in horrified silence. I say the thing I’ve been rehearsing all along: “Ta-da!”

  It doesn’t go over as well as I expected.

  Jake rushes to help Grams out of the car. The eggplant drops to the pavement and splits open. Miss Fountain comes for me.

  From the direction of the flowerbed, the guy I almost hit marches up, red with fury under the layer of mud that cakes his face and expensive suit. Oh man—it’s Dr. Thaddeus, the superintendent!

  “Who’s the driver?” he rages. “I’ll have you arrested! You lunatic, how dare you . . .” His voice trails off when he realizes he’s talking to a kid.

  It’s an awkward moment. None of the adults have the guts to say anything, because most of them are teachers, and this mud ball is their boss.

  The only person who speaks up is Grams.

  “Who do you think you are?” she storms at the stunned Dr. Thaddeus. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a lowlife who hasn’t got the sense to put on a clean suit! Where do you get off yelling at my grandson—my grandson—”

  Then she says it: “—my grandson, Parker!”

  Parker.

  She called me Parker.

  A lot of crazy things happened this morning—like when our banner caught on fire and the eggplant got ruined. And I almost killed the superintendent, obviously.

  But for me, today will always be the greatest day ever, because Grams remembered my name.

  Thirty

  Aldo Braff

  Just because you’ve got anger management problems doesn’t mean there isn’t plenty to be ticked off about.

  Second. The Internal Combustion Engine finished second in the district science fair. It would have been better to finish 150th than to come so close to winning only to take an L. I don’t care about the trophy. You can find that plastic junk in any dollar store. But we were a hair away from saving Ribbit! And they gave first place to a bunch of dweebs whose teacher didn’t even need saving. I barely remember their project—some windmill thingy. No one’s ever going to forget ours—definitely not the fire department, who had to spray down all those bushes and trees because of “conflagration containment,” whatever that means.