The Unteachables

by Gordon Korman

  Miss Fountain tries to make us feel better. “You can’t take this so personally,” she tells us on Monday morning. “Your project was just as good as the wind turbine, but clean power is very hot these days.”

  “Hot?” I echo. “We set the whole street on fire! What could be hotter than that?”

  She’s patient. “I mean popular. People care about the environment. Your project was wonderful, but internal combustion engines are so last century.”

  “How do you think everybody got to the science fair?” Barnstorm challenges. “They drove internal combustion engines.”

  “I’ll bet nobody came by wind turbine,” Elaine adds in her usual rumble.

  Miss Fountain just sighs. I can’t be mad at her. She wanted this every bit as much as we did.

  It was Ribbit who showed me that teachers aren’t always the enemy, even when they make you do work, or yell, or take away your rabbit butts. If it wasn’t for Ribbit, I never would have heard of Where the Red Fern Grows, which I’d be done with by now if we didn’t drop everything to work on the science fair. I can barely picture my life before I knew about Billy, Old Dan, and Little Ann, who feel like real people to me—except Old Dan and Little Ann, who are dogs.

  “Poor Mr. Kermit,” says Kiana. “I can’t believe we let him down.”

  “I don’t want any more of that kind of talk,” Miss Fountain lectures sternly. “You didn’t let him down. Just the opposite—he’s prouder of you than he’s ever been of any class. And he loves his new car.”

  “Then how come he was afraid to drive it home from the science fair?” Mateo asks.

  “That was just because of the racing fuel,” she explains. “Once Jake drained all that out and put in regular gas, Mr. Kermit was fine. He has the cutest nickname for it. He calls it Coco Nerd. Isn’t that adorable?”

  Miss Fountain thinks a lot of things are adorable. That’s not my style. Maybe Vladimir, in a lizardy kind of way. And Old Dan and Little Ann, although I never met them in real life.

  Anyway, Ribbit might be psyched about his car, but he isn’t psyched enough to come to school today. Even worse, our sub turns out to be Dawn of the Dead again.

  To be honest, she’s not as mean this time around. Some of that might be that we’re so depressed about losing Ribbit that nobody has the energy to give her much of a hard time. We drop a few textbooks, but our hearts aren’t into it enough to get the timing right. Who can buzz out a fake power hum when the best teacher in the world is getting shafted—and you could have helped, but you failed? We deserve Dawn of the Dead. We deserve someone even meaner than her. I can’t picture who that would be. Mateo probably knows.

  When she tells us to work, we don’t argue with her. We don’t groan and complain. We don’t even goof off. I’m just as happy to get back to Old Dan and Little Ann. It might take my mind off Ribbit and how we blew it for him.

  Dawn watches us a few minutes. Then she sighs and says, “All right, let’s hear it.”

  We stare at her blankly.

  “Come on,” she persists. “Something’s eating you—all of you. Tell me what it is.”

  It’s like a dam breaks, and we all start jabbering at the same time.

  “Our teacher’s getting fired for no reason at all!”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “That jerk Thaddeus hates Mr. Kermit!”

  “He’s worse than the Dementors!”

  “I should have run him over when I had the chance!”

  It goes on and on. We never run out of complaints about how awful and unfair it is. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a class where everybody else is just as mad as I am. And we can’t all have anger management issues.

  Sometimes mad is exactly what you’re supposed to be.

  The amazing part is Dawn of the Dead doesn’t chew us out or shut us down. She listens, which can’t be easy with all seven of us yelling over each other. Then she has a long conversation with Miss Fountain, who comes to see what the racket is about.

  The two of them are in the hall talking for what seems like forever. Finally, the substitute walks back into the room and faces us.

  “Well, it seems as if I misjudged you young people.”

  She’s wrong about that. Anything bad she thought about us last time goes double. Because we had the opportunity to help Ribbit.

  And we came up empty.

  Thirty-One

  Mr. Kermit

  The Coco Nerd is back—in a manner of speaking.

  Not that anybody would recognize it. It bears very little resemblance to the 1992 Chrysler Concorde Fiona picked out all those years ago. It looks like exactly what it is—a mean set of wheels designed by a bunch of eighth graders who think nothing is worth driving unless everybody’s staring at it. Chrome. Glitter paint. LED lights. Tailpipes the size of cruise missiles. And an engine you can barely see over.

  I’m afraid to honk the horn. I know their taste in music.

  Even without the racing fuel, the thing is a rocket. The first time I dare to tap the gas pedal, I nearly rear-end a cement truck. Only Dale Earnhardt Jr. could drive this car. It should be outlawed by the government.

  I’m crazy about it. My kids built this for me. It’s the second-greatest gift they could have given me—number one being the sight of Superintendent Thaddeus diving headfirst into a muddy flowerbed, coming up fragrant with fertilizer, a chrysanthemum behind his ear.

  They’re the best class any soon-to-be-ex-teacher could ever hope to have. They even put a frog logo on the door in honor of my last name. Kermit the Frog. Come to think of it, the frog theme has been in place since the beginning of the year—more proof that the so-called Unteachables have better heads on their shoulders than anyone suspected. I just never connected it with all that ribbiting before.

  I don’t mind. It’s kind of a tribute.

  On day one, a cop pulls me over just to get a good look at what I’m driving. The officer writes out a ticket giving me one week to cover up the engine.

  I call Jake, who promises to design a hood that complies with the law. He also agrees to raise the seat four inches so I’ll be able to see the road in front of me.

  “I don’t want the kids working on it,” I insist over the phone. “They’ve done more than enough for me already.”

  “I’ve loved being their sponsor,” Jake replies. “They’re a fantastic group.” A brief pause. “Too bad not all your classes measured up to their level.”

  He’s 1,000 percent right about that. Who’d know better than Jake, who single-handedly made the 1992 class a nightmare and messed up my life in the process?

  On the other hand, 1992 was a long time ago. In 1992, the Coco Nerd was just a car. Today it’s a weapon of mass destruction. The transformation of Jake Terranova has been no less dramatic. He’s a businessman, an entrepreneur. A grown-up. A solid citizen who’s done so much for the Unteachables. Plus, a few days ago, I spotted his Porsche parked in front of the Greenwich Diamond Exchange, and Jake himself inside, examining velvet trays of rings.

  Fiona’s daughter could definitely do worse.

  “People change,” I tell my former student. “You’re—you’re a good guy, Jake.”

  Jake actually gets choked up on the other end of the line.

  I’ve never ruined anyone’s life, but apparently it’s almost as hard on the messer as it is on the messee.

  I go back to school on Wednesday. Not because I care one way or the other whether the place is still standing, but because I don’t want the kids to think I blame them for not winning the science fair. In fact, the opposite is true. They exceeded my wildest expectations. They’ve been doing that on a daily basis ever since they dumped the vuvuzela shipment in the river.

  Another thing about the new and improved Coco Nerd: it’s unparkable. Those external tailpipes make it as wide as a ferryboat. But I finally get it jammed in between Emma’s Prius and the pickup truck belonging to the Elias farm. The door opens and I have about four inches of clearance
to squeeze myself through. Amazingly, I make it. I’ve been slimming down lately, thanks to the mustard-on-toast diet. Since I’m going to be out of a job soon, maybe it’s time to reinvent myself as a weight-loss guru. I’ll be rich. Or at least I’ll be able to afford gas for the Coco Nerd’s 585-horsepower engine.

  I’ve barely set foot inside the entrance foyer when Principal Vargas rushes up and grabs me by the arm. “Zachary, I need to talk to you.”

  “Later,” I promise her. “I want to reassure my class—”

  “Now!” And she literally drags me into her office and shuts the door.

  She’s obviously been staking out the front hall. It can only mean one thing. Thaddeus is using the events of the science fair to fire me effective immediately. The superintendent is so mad that he won’t even let me finish out the semester.

  “So,” I say bitterly, “is Thaddeus planning to ax me in person, or has he got you doing his dirty work for him?”

  In answer, she presses a copy of the Greenwich Telegraph into my hands.

  I don’t even glance down at it. “How do you like it, Christina?” On some level, I regret unloading my emotions on the principal, who has never been anything except supportive. But I’m just too upset to hold it inside. “How does it feel to wield the hatchet for him?”

  “Read it, Zachary,” she orders.

  SUPERINTENDENT TO SUPER TEACHER: “YOU’RE FIRED!”

  The Greenwich Telegraph, Local News

  By Martin Landsman, Staff Reporter

  It’s the goal of every community to create a school system in which each pupil is inspired to excel. This can’t be accomplished without great teachers. But an educator who can truly transform the lives of his or her students is the rarest of gems. Meet Mr. Zachary Kermit, teacher of the Self-Contained Special Eighth-Grade Class at Greenwich Middle School. By any objective measure, Mr. Kermit has performed a miracle. His students’ test scores are up 87 percent this semester. SCS-8 took second place at the competitive district science fair. Disciplinary problems have virtually disappeared. Most impressive of all, the atmosphere in his classroom—formerly one of Greenwich’s most difficult—has become nurturing, supportive, enthusiastic, and successful. And there’s no mistaking the students’ opinion of their teacher: they adore him.

  And what’s Mr. Kermit’s reward for this remarkable achievement? A letter of commendation? A bonus? A promotion?

  No, a pink slip. He’s been terminated, effective the end of the semester. . . .

  I read on. The reporter calls out Dr. Thaddeus by name and demands to know why the best teacher in the district is being fired. He accuses the superintendent of holding a personal grudge dating back to the cheating scandal in 1992. And he includes a quote from a member of that 1992 class—prominent local business owner Jake Terranova—guaranteeing that what happened back then wasn’t the teacher’s fault.

  The article concludes:

  Dr. Thaddeus, this message is for you. It’s time to put petty grievances aside and remember who our education system is supposed to serve—our children.

  I look up at my principal. “Who wrote this?” I squint at the byline. “Who’s Martin Landsman, and how did he find out about my class?”

  “Beatrice Landsman is the sub who covered your group on Monday. Martin is her son. I guess the kids gave her quite an earful.”

  “They’re something special.” I have to work hard to keep my voice steady. “Every time I think I’ve seen the best they have to offer, they climb one rung higher. That’s why I’m anxious to get to my room. We don’t have very many more days together.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” she exclaims. “Everyone in town has seen this article. The district offices are buried in phone calls and emails. You’re not fired anymore!”

  I’m stunned. “Thaddeus changed his mind?”

  “He didn’t have much choice. You’re a hero. And that means you can finish out the year and take your early retirement in June. Congratulations, Zachary. I’m so pleased for you.”

  A flood of relief and satisfaction washes over me. And yet . . . for some reason, I’m not as thrilled as I thought I’d be at such good news. Where’s the happy? The joy? The triumph at beating back that overblown, self-important tyrant of a superintendent?

  It comes to me in a moment of clarity: the problem isn’t the reinstated part. It’s the part about retiring in June. Why would I fight off Thaddeus’s attempt to force me out in December only to exit voluntarily a few months later?

  The Unteachables have done a lot for me this semester, but their greatest gift is this: they showed me that I’m still a teacher. I have a lot to offer students—not just this class, but many classes to come.

  “I’m not retiring,” I tell her. “Sign me up for next year.”

  She stares at me uncertainly. “Zachary?”

  I head for the door. “And I want SCS-8. Nobody else. If anyone has questions, I’ll be with my kids.”

  I stride to room 117 with an energy and a sense of purpose I haven’t known in decades. By the time I get there, my feet are barely touching the floor. So I’m a little shocked when I see how down the students are. Here I am, on top of the world, and they’re positively drooping. Barnstorm’s left crutch is the only thing keeping him from falling out of his chair. Rahim’s head is on his desk again. But he isn’t sleeping; he’s just too depressed to sit upright. Even Aldo is missing his usual belligerent expression, making him look almost agreeable. And there isn’t a single ribbit. Not one.

  I sit down on the edge of my desk. “I have an announcement to make.”

  Kiana stands up. “Us first, Mr. Kermit.” Her voice is thin and watery. “We’re really sorry we couldn’t win the science fair for you. We came so close, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. Maybe it’s true what everybody says—that we’re a bad class.”

  I leap to my feet. “Don’t ever say that! You’re the best class in this school, and I know, because I’ve been shuffled around to most of them. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for! Besides,” I add, realizing I should have said this part first, “I’m not fired anymore.”

  Heads snap to attention, even Rahim’s. Elaine jumps up, sending her chair skittering.

  “You’re messing with us,” Barnstorm accuses.

  “For real, Mr. K?” asks Parker, his eyes huge.

  “For real,” I confirm. “I can’t explain it exactly, because I’m not sure I understand it myself. But it has a lot to do with—”

  That’s as far as I get. They swarm the desk, cheering and howling, almost knocking me over, battering me with high fives. Their behavior is loud, unruly, and borderline violent—completely unacceptable. I accept it. They’ve earned that much and more.

  Emma rushes over from next door to investigate the ruckus.

  “Ribbit isn’t fired anymore!” Parker yells at her, and she joins the celebration, unruly as any of the kids.

  I can’t help noticing that she’s wearing an engagement ring—a big one. I’m not her father, but in a strange way, I feel like a proud parent.

  “Enough! Settle down, everybody!” I glare my Unteachables back to their seats. “Just because we got some good news doesn’t mean this isn’t a school. Haven’t you all got work to do?”

  There’s a shuffling sound as books, papers, and iPads are pulled out of desks. Aldo and Elaine disappear behind their copies of Where the Red Fern Grows.

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Kermit,” Emma breathes as she heads back to her own class. “We’re going to have something inspiring to talk about during Circle Time.”

  As I sit down, I catch a flash of sunlight reflecting off the red and silver of the Coco Nerd out in the parking lot. We have a lot in common, the car and I. Just like me, it was a beat-up old wreck on the verge of falling apart at any moment. But we were refurbished—both of us—brought back to life by seven Unteachables.

  “No-o-o-o!”

  The cry from Aldo is pure agony.

  I turn
to him in alarm. “Aldo—what’s wrong?”

  His face is redder than his hair, and streaked with tears. “Old Dan and Little Ann!” he gasps, waving Where the Red Fern Grows in front of him. “They’re dead! Both of them!”

  “Heavy,” Elaine agrees, her expression solemn.

  “Well,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “some stories—”

  Aldo cuts me off. “I read one book all the way through—just one! And this is what I get for it? The cover should come with a sticker: Warning: Do not read unless you hate dogs!”

  The kid is totally inconsolable. By eighth grade, most readers have already experienced plenty of devastating sad endings. But in Aldo’s case, this is the first novel he’s ever finished.

  I turn to the Goodbunnies chart, pluck a puffy-tail from the Ziploc baggie, and affix it next to Aldo’s name.

  “Well done. You showed empathy in reacting to a piece of literature. Congratulations.”

  Aldo seems shocked at first. Then, amid a smattering of applause, he walks to the front of the room, removes his one and only puffy-tail, and offers it to Kiana.

  “Fair is fair,” he says bravely. “I owe you a lot more than just this one.”

  “Please keep it,” Kiana tells him.

  He shakes his head. “It has to work like a market economy.”

  She looks at me. “Come on, Mr. Kermit. Do I have to take it? Even in a market economy, there’s such a thing as giving someone you like a present if you want to.”

  Aldo’s eyes widen, and his hair seems to become just a touch redder—or maybe it’s a reflection of the sudden flush in his cheeks.

  I issue my ruling. “Absolutely. A lender is allowed to forgive a debt.”

  And Aldo Braff, the toughest case in the entire Greenwich School District, throws his arms around Kiana and hugs her.