by A W Hartoin
“I like it,” said Luke. “And Mom said I didn’t have to cut it for Camp this year if I didn’t want to.”
“You’ll cut it,” said Caleb.
“No way, man,” said Luke.
“You’re gonna cut it for the same reason Mom used to make you cut it.”
“Like what?”
“Remember the time you got your head stuck to the maple tree?” asked Caleb.
“You did that, too, and it was a onetime thing. I just won’t rest my head on any sap.” Luke leaned back and crossed his arms.
“How about the time your hair got set on fire?”
“You’re the one who lit it on fire, assmunch.”
“Never mind,” said Caleb. “Keep it long. With your luck we’ll be calling you Scar Head by the end of the summer.”
I exchanged grins with my sisters. Luke and Caleb had terrible track records with their hair. During previous summers, they’d set fire to each other’s heads, gotten stuck to trees, had flea infestations and numerous ticks. Luke got his hair stuck in a locked door and had to wait three hours until someone came to free him. But the last straw was when they were ten and a beetle laid eggs in Caleb’s hair. He got an oozing, crusty rash. After that, Aunt Calla shaved their heads before they left for Camp. I never did anything to my head, but somehow got grouped with Luke and Caleb on the haircutting.
Luke balled up his napkin and threw it at me. “One more day of Bitch Pritchett, huh, Pup?”
“You’re not supposed to say that, Luke,” said Ella.
“Mind your own business, Ella Smella,” replied Luke.
Ella screamed “Mom” at the top of her lungs while Luke stuck his finger up his nose and pretended to flick a booger at her. I clamped my hands over my ears and watched Mom jog out of the front door. She was barefoot and now wearing one of my dad’s old flannel shirts over her tee shirt.
“I’m coming for christsakes,” she said as she climbed into the driver’s seat. “Jeez, you people are driving me insane.”
I tentatively took my hands off my ears just as Ella began to howl again.
“Ella, enough. You’re fine.” Mom could yell louder than Ella any day.
“Luke called me ‘Ella Smella’ again.”
“You’ll survive.”
April leaned forward. “Mom, I don’t think you have any pants on.”
“I don’t need pants to drive you to school. Who are we, the Kennedys?”
Ella and April slunk down in their seats and straightened their matching headbands.
“I’m so sick of driving you kids to school,” said Mom.
“You could let us drive,” said Luke.
“You’re never driving this van. Not ever.”
“Why? We’ve never had an accident,” said Caleb.
“Only because nothing you do is an accident,” Mom said. “Listen to that. The front bumper is still rattling.”
“That mechanic is an idiot. We could fix it,” said Luke.
“Absolutely not. It still smells like rotten watermelon in here because of you.”
“We put a tarp under the watermelon to protect the seat,” said Caleb.
“You should’ve had one over it,” she said.
“No way. We had to video the explosion when the airbag went off.”
“No, you didn’t.” Mom clapped her hand onto her forehead and glanced at me. “Puppy, you better wipe that smile off your face. I know you were in on it.”
“If you know he was in on it, why didn’t he have to pay to replace the airbag, too?” asked Caleb.
“Puppy’s been in enough trouble for things he didn’t do this year. He deserved a free pass.”
Mom winked at me and I smiled back. Mom got it. It seemed like she wasn’t paying attention, but she always was. She hadn’t mentioned my lighting the elephant after she’d caught me at it like she’d forgotten, but I knew she hadn’t. I guess she didn’t really mind my asking Ernest for a favor. I had one more day with Miss Pritchett and with a little help from my ancestor it’d be the best day of the year.
We arrived at the front door of school, as the warning bell rang, and Mom said, “Crap,” under her breath. We all scrambled out and sprinted for the doors, scattering in different directions. Mr. Hubbert peered at us from his office window, shaking his head. He might’ve been smiling.
When I got to my homeroom, Miss Pritchett stood at the door with her arms crossed, looking down her long nose at me. I ignored her and slid into my seat a split second before the final bell. I lay panting across my desk with my legs splayed across the aisle. The rest of the class snickered and looked at Miss Pritchett. She smoothed her sleek blond hair as she stared at me. The class kept their laughter low so as to not excite her wrath. Miss Pritchett wasn’t known for being tolerant. She’d given out three detentions on the last day before Christmas break because we were happy. I got two of them. She made me serve one of the detentions that very day and I had to watch everybody else leaving through swirling snowflakes, while I wrote, “I will not stick my tongue out at authority figures,” one hundred times. I hadn’t stuck my tongue out at anybody since kindergarten, but that was the crime Miss Pritchett picked.
Miss Pritchett glared at me and I knew she was dying to give me a detention on the last day of school because I’d have to serve it that afternoon after the assembly. But she’d have a problem if she tried it. Mom and Aunt Calla were coming to the assembly. After the awards, we’d drive straight to Camp. Mom wasn’t going to sit on her butt for an hour while I served time for one of Miss Pritchett’s supposed crimes, not on that day, no way.
I straightened up and pressed my palms together like an angel. That got another snicker from the class. When I looked back at Miss Pritchett, I found her still hovering by the door eyeing me with loathing. She wore her usual Friday black, but it was extreme even for her. Her prim sweater set, skirt, heels and pearls were all black. Miss Pritchett was the only person I knew who hated Fridays. She’d start her weeks with something akin to cheerful, but as the week wore on her mood darkened and so did her clothes. She’d go from pink to green to purple to grey and end up in her Friday black with a mood to match. I figured she resented our weekend reprieves. Our escape for the entire summer must’ve filled her with venom and she looked ready to spit it at us.
I assumed my most innocent face, because she hated me the most and would use any excuse to nail me. She’d yelled at me once for frowning. As Miss Pritchett and I stared at each other, I began to think it might be nice to get a detention and see what would happen. I’d never intentionally gotten one before, but it might be worth it. If Grandpa Lorne was right, Ernest would manipulate everything in my favor. Even better, Mom might tell Miss Pritchett off. She deserved that and more after the year I’d spent with her. Everyone from Mr. Hubbert to the lunch ladies had tried to teach Miss Pritchett how to be a decent human being that year. She should’ve learned something, but she hadn’t. She was still Bitch Pritchett, fresh out of teachers’ college, and well on her way to the bad teachers’ hall of fame.
Chapter Three
MR. HUBBERT REFILLED his tea cup with his favorite black Darjeeling and sucked the luscious steam into his lungs. The sun’s delightful heat called him back to his office window. He stood letting the rays soak into his skin and surveyed the school’s empty courtyard. The manicured lawns and sculpted topiary, while quite perfect, looked sad and incomplete. Students were needed in those spaces, filling them with their raucous laughter and energy. Children, whatever their ages, completed perfection.
Images of the MacClarity and Ross kids flitted through his mind, because, of course, they were the last ones he’d seen there, tumbling out of their minivan and rushing into the different buildings of the K-12 campus. Violet had leaned out of the van’s window and waved at him, unconcerned about schedules as always. A beautiful woman, Violet, even with her spiky hair and rather bizarre ways. If she had a flaw, Mr. Hubbert couldn’t find it. The same with her sister, Calla, and the rest of the
clan. A wide smile rumpled his face into multiple lines and wrinkles at the thought of them.
Mr. Hubbert imagined his favorites rushing to their seats, just under the wire. Laughter and smiles would surround them in their lateness as they did everywhere. Well, perhaps not everywhere. Miss Pritchett’s class wouldn’t be smiling or laughing. The thought of Miss Pritchett twisted Mr. Hubbert’s usually genial face into a grimace. How could he have made such an error?
He turned from the joys of the summer sun to his desk covered with framed pictures of his wife, Lorraine, favorite past students, and teachers. His eyes ran over the desk’s beautifully carved lines and exotic inlaid woods. He tried to enjoy the memories of his grandfather that they usually evoked. But he found no solace there. Everett Hubbert was one of the best headmasters who ever lived and Mr. Hubbert felt his grandfather’s disapproval emanating from the great man’s desk. Everett Hubbert would never have hired Miss Pritchett, and he would’ve brooked none of his grandson’s excuses for doing so.
Mr. Hubbert slid into his cushy leather chair and fingered his calendar with its big, red X’s marking off the weeks of Lorraine’s cancer treatment. They also marked the weeks he’d had to deal with Miss Pritchett. The whole year had been an ordeal from the start and it wasn’t over yet. Miss Pritchett would be at him about something before the day was out. He’d never known any person who was so thoroughly disliked. There was always staff that was unpopular with the students, like Mrs. Gerberding with her boring accounting lectures or Mr. Parker, the librarian, who had an uncanny ability to find students necking in the stacks, but Miss Pritchett was a different animal all together. Everyone hated her, from the other teachers to the janitor to the PTA.
How he could’ve hired her was a mystery, even to him. He had only the vaguest memory of choosing her. Miss Pritchett’s interview for math teacher fell on the day after Lorraine was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Mr. Hubbert might’ve hired Attila the Hun, if he’d shown up on time.
Lorraine told him Miss Pritchett was to remind him that he was human and bound to make a mistake every once in a while. A mistake would’ve been acceptable to him, if it hadn’t caused so much trouble for everyone else.
And his mistake was evident from the first day. Miss Pritchett stood in the gym at the morning assembly, stiff and unsmiling. All the other teachers teased and laughed with their new charges, but not Eleanor Pritchett. She pursed her lips until they turned white and her fists never left her hips. He heard her shouting over the din when the other teachers didn’t even try. Mr. Hubbert’s impression of his new teacher never improved.
On her first day, she gave two detentions. Her students lost privileges faster than frog eyeballs got flicked in science class. Mr. Hubbert tried to calm her down. He told her to listen to her students, get to know them, and not overreact to their youthful indiscretions. Miss Pritchett wasn’t interested. She lectured him about all the new techniques she’d learned in college and told him, a man who’d been teaching for thirty-five years, that he was behind the times and needed help.
Miss Pritchett believed in three key things: homework (lots of it), quiet, and authority. Mr. Hubbert thought she would’ve made a good prison guard, but he let her go her own way, assuming she’d realize respect had to be earned. He was wrong. Miss Pritchett, with all her own good grades, had an amazing capacity not to learn anything, even when the lessons were as obvious as they were with The Pack.
The Pack was a group of students, mainly made up of the MacClarity and Ross kids. There were five main kids: Luke and Caleb Ross, the juniors; Puppy MacClarity, the freshman; and the girls, Ella and April in the seventh grade. The kids were cousins, but membership in The Pack extended beyond the borders of blood to include friends. The Pack was a powerful but benevolent force. They looked out for each other. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of The Pack because they had a way of making you regret your mistakes. If Miss Pritchett bothered to get to know her students, she would’ve known that, but then again Mr. Hubbert would’ve lost his only distraction from Lorraine’s illness.
It all started when Miss Pritchett called Violet in for a conference about Puppy. Mr. Hubbert felt he should intervene, but he decided to see what would happen when Miss Pritchett met Violet. He wasn’t invited, but he heard both sides later on.
Miss Pritchett informed Violet that Puppy had ADD and she was sending him to be evaluated. Violet didn’t take that too well. An argument ensued and Violet denied permission for the evaluation. She told Miss Pritchett she thought Puppy did quite well, thank you very much and have a good day. Miss Pritchett didn’t take that too well, and when Puppy brought home his first report card, it was full of C’s with one measly B.
Violet marched into his office the next morning, tossed a fat file folder in front of him and plopped down on the edge of his desk.
“Well,” she said, as she tapped the toe of her red leather peep-toe pump to an odd rhythm only she could hear.
“I’ve been expecting you,” said Mr. Hubbert. “Care for a coffee?”
She nodded and he fixed her favorite, a cappuccino with extra foam. He passed it to her, gestured for her to sit down in one of the big green leather chairs in front of his desk, and then sat beside her. She slipped off her ancient black biker jacket and straightened the men’s dress shirt she wore underneath.
“Aren’t you going to look at the folder?” Violet asked, still tapping her foot.
“I don’t need to. I imagine it’s full of Puppy’s excellent work.”
“Of course it is. Puppy deserves A’s, not C’s. What are you going to do with that woman?”
“I’m afraid we’re stuck with her. She has a two-year contract, but Puppy’s report card will be amended to reflect his true grades.”
“How in the world did she think she was going to get away with this?”
“She gave Puppy low marks in participation and upped the amount that participation counts toward the final grade. I doubt she thought you’d save every single one of Puppy’s papers, and she considers me practically senile.”
“She doesn’t know us very well,” said Violet.
Mr. Hubbert laughed. “No, she doesn’t.”
Violet left smiling and Mr. Hubbert waited for what would happen next. He had no idea what it would be, but he wasn’t disappointed. Miss Pritchett gave Puppy more detentions for nothing and extra homework, claiming he needed remedial help.
A week after his meeting with Violet, a bloodcurdling scream echoed through his quiet halls. Mr. Hubbert ran down to Miss Pritchett’s office and found her wringing her right hand.
“What happened?” he asked.
“It shocked me,” she said, pointing to her lamp.
Mr. Hubbert called the school handyman and Mr. Clarkson checked out Miss Pritchett’s desk lamp. Then he told Miss Pritchett the lamp was wired wrong and she’d have to buy a new one. Mr. Clarkson could’ve fixed it, but he, like everyone else, refused to do anything for Miss Pritchett.
She bought a new lamp and a week later the halls rang with her screams again. The second lamp was also wired wrong and so was a third and fourth. Mr. Clarkson thought it was hilarious, but he feigned stupidity to Miss Pritchett. She treated him like a moron, speaking in slow sentences to make sure he understood her and he felt under no obligation to inform her somebody was mucking with her lamps. He did tell Mr. Hubbert and they agreed it was The Pack. The problem with The Pack was that they were bright kids, exceptionally bright, and there was no telling which one was rewiring Miss Pritchett’s lamps, much less prove it.
Miss Pritchett didn’t figure it out until her fifth lamp shocked her. She stomped into Mr. Hubbert’s office and demanded satisfaction.
“I want you to suspend Ernest MacClarity for one week or until he confesses to attacking me.”
“I wasn’t aware Puppy attacked you,” said Mr. Hubbert. He loved using Ernest MacClarity’s nickname because Miss Pritchett hated it.
“Making my lamps shock me is an attack,” she
said.
“I see, and what is your proof that Puppy did it?”
“Obviously he did it.”
“I can’t suspend Puppy without proof,” Mr. Hubbert said.
Miss Pritchett demanded that surveillance cameras be installed to catch the culprit. But Mr. Hubbert wasn’t about to strain the school’s budget when all Miss Pritchett had to do was stop punishing Puppy needlessly, and he told her so.
Miss Pritchett stalked out of his office, bought her sixth lamp and a tiny spy camera for her office. Then she waited like a spider waits for a fly, but nothing happened. Her lamp remained in working order and no one snuck into her office. After two weeks, Miss Pritchett tired of buying batteries for her camera. She reported her failure to Mr. Hubbert, who nodded and suggested, without much hope, that the whole thing was over.
Three days after Miss Pritchett gave up on her camera, her sixth lamp shocked her. She got so mad she threw it out her window where it landed on Mrs. La Roche’s car causing twelve hundred dollars of damage to the hood and windshield. When Mr. Hubbert gave her the bill, she nearly went into hysterics. She tore at her pearl grey blouse and her usually sleek blond hair looked like it’d been in a wind tunnel.
“I’m not paying for that. Give it to the MacClaritys,” she screeched.
Mr. Hubbert stepped back out of the range of her spittle. Miss Pritchett tended to spray when she was angry, which was quite often. Mr. Hubbert wanted to put on a rain poncho whenever she walked into a room.
“You threw the lamp, not Puppy,” said Mr. Hubbert, wiping her spittle off his jacket. “And I think you’re missing an obvious problem with your theory.”
“What? No, I’m not. That little…did it. I know he did,” she said.
“Puppy MacClarity wasn’t in school the day before you were shocked. The whole family was still in Chicago for Mrs. MacClarity’s gallery opening. They got back after midnight. You unlocked your door on Tuesday morning and were shocked first thing, right?”
