School-Tripped
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Holm and Matthew Holm
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Holm, Jennifer L., author. | Holm, Matthew, author, illustrator.
Title: School-tripped / Jennifer L. Holm and Matthew Holm.
Description: First edition. | New York : Random House, [2019]
Series: Babymouse. Tales from the locker; 3
Summary: “When Babymouse’s art class goes on a field trip to the museum, she decides to test her freedom by exploring the big city without a chaperone.” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018047500 | ISBN 978-0-399-55444-5 (hardback)
ISBN 978-0-399-55445-2 (glb) | ISBN 978-0-399-55446-9 (epub)
Subjects: | CYAC: School field trips—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Mice—Fiction.Animals—Fiction. | Humorous stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H732226 Sch 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780399554469
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v5.4
a
For Myly,
the most adventurous person ever!
Contents
Cover
Other Titles
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Same Old Middle School
Chapter 2: Mouse-terpiece
Chapter 3: A Work of Art
Chapter 4: Glamour-A-Go-Go!
Chapter 5: Wrong Turn
Chapter 6: Pounding the Pavement
Chapter 7: Subway Series
Chapter 8: The Wizard of Dumplings
Chapter 9: Exit Stage Left
Chapter 10: Not-So-Secret Garden
Chapter 11: Top of the World, Baby!
Chapter 12: Last Bus to School
Chapter 13: There’s No Place Like School
About the Authors
Picture a dark auditorium.
A bright spotlight shines overhead.
A single microphone hums in anticipation.
Slowly pan in on me, Babymouse, sitting on a stool center stage.
I lean forward and begin my monologue.
“I guess I thought middle school would be exciting. And it was—for maybe three weeks.
“Oh, who am I kidding? Make that one week. The truth was that middle school was just like elementary school, with way more homework, and way fewer arts and crafts projects. It was boring. Nothing exciting ever happened.”
SCREECH!
I jumped as I heard a loud noise offstage. A door creaked open, and a janitor appeared, dragging a mop and a rusty bucket of sloshing dirty water. He flipped on the lights to illuminate an empty auditorium.
“Hey!” he barked. “You’re not allowed to be here.”
I hurried off the stool, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I had a free period, so I thought I could hang out here.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“I’ll let it go this time,” he said. “But don’t let me catch you in here again….”
He didn’t have to tell me twice! I gathered my things and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. So much for freedom of expression!
But anyway, about my take on middle school…
It probably sounds like I’m being dramatic. But I’m really not! It had gone from this shiny-new magical experience into another never-ending parade of classes, homework, and popularity contests. (None of which I was winning.)
Here was my life in a nutshell:
If only I could click my heels together and disappear into a far-off land of adventure.
Instead, I wandered into the school lobby to check out the “New and Cool!” bulletin board. The sad thing was, not a single thing on the board was new or cool in the slightest.
Seriously, it was the same yellowed flyers as always, probably posted a hundred years ago, when the school was first founded.
(I’m pretty sure some of them were typed on a typewriter!)
The bell rang, and the hallways flooded with students changing classes.
I had gym next period. Which meant I had to play soccer. It wasn’t my favorite. Everyone played like sharks.
Plus, unless one of my friends was a team captain, I always got picked last. Last time Felicia and Berry were captains, they picked every single possible person except me. You think I’m kidding?
Don’t get me wrong. I tried my best, but…my best was not very good. (Though I was still better than a rabid squirrel! I think….)
On my way to the locker room, I ran into my best friend, Wilson, in the hallway.
“Hey, Babymouse, heading to gym?” he asked.
“You know it,” I replied.
In no time, we had all suited up and taken the field, practicing our shots on goal. (Which meant we didn’t need to pick teams—thank goodness!)
When my turn came, I took a running start and kicked the ball with all my might. I ended up missing completely and flew onto my tail at the most slippery part of the field. That would have been bad enough. But instead of just landing and staying put, I slid all the way down the field and straight off the side.
Luckily, an enormous mud puddle broke my fall.
I heard a burst of cackling. I covered myself, thinking it was a flock of geese coming to poop on my head. But it was worse. The cackling noise was the popular girls laughing at me from the sidelines.
Story of my life. If I’m not being pooped on by geese, I’m being laughed at by the popular kids.
At least Wilson came over and helped me up.
“It could’ve been worse, Babymouse,” he said.
“How?”
“At least your elbow didn’t get muddy.”
Le muddy sigh.
My gym teacher came over to check on me. Once she was convinced I didn’t have any broken bones, she let me hit the locker room early.
I plodded off the field slowly, squish, squish, squish-ing with every step.
Finally, I made it into the school and back down to the girls’ locker room. The warm smell of sweat and feet (or maybe it was sweaty feet?) hit me like a ton of bricks, as usual.
I tracked mud all the way to my locker and swiveled the lock until I got the combination right.
Now, if you thought my regular locker was bad—boy, wait till you see my gym locker.
Penny and I shared a locker. Let’s just say it was obvious whose part was whose.
I was pretty sure I had a clean shirt in the back somewhere, behind my other stuff. The problem was that an old water bottle was lodged in front of it, jammed in the locker. I tugged on it.
The next day wasn’t much of an improvement.
Until I got to art class.
Art was my favorite subje
ct. Mostly because it was the one place where I could let my imagination run a little wild. History was not very creative, and don’t get me started on algebra.
We were doing a unit on great artists throughout the centuries. My teacher, Ms. Painter (yes, that is really her name!), was clicking through slides of some of the world’s most famous masterpieces.
I thought it would be a lot of fun to be an artist. I loved painting.
And I had plenty of friends who would be great models.
I wondered if famous artists had to deal with all the same middle-school problems I did.
Did Salvador Dalí have to share a locker?
Did Mary Cassatt ever forget her homework?
Did Vincent van Gogh struggle to learn fractions?
Or did they just get to sit around and be creative?
It seemed like a pretty sweet life, especially the whole eating part. (Who doesn’t like chocolate gateaux?)
My sweet dreams of cake disappeared when Ms. Painter clicked on the lights.
She walked to the front of the room. Students lifted their heads off their desks and wiped away the drool. (Except one. My friend Georgie had fallen asleep. I nudged him, and he quickly shot up in his chair—which was pretty obvious, considering he was a giraffe!)
“Class, I have an exciting announcement to make…,” Ms. Painter said.
Now, like every other kid, I had learned a long time ago that when a teacher makes an “exciting announcement,” it’s usually just about the least exciting thing in the whole entire world.
But Ms. Painter wasn’t one of those teachers, so I was actually curious.
“Next week, our class will be going on a special trip,” she declared.
A special trip?? I was ecstatic! I loved class trips! (Almost as much as I loved exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!)
But where could we be going? It had to be somewhere art-related, right? My mind immediately began to scan through all the most artistic cities I could think of….
Paris? Mais oui!
London? Cheerio, old chap!
Rome? Grazie! Prego! Okay, that just means “Thank you” and “You’re welcome.” I didn’t know much Italian. But that was exactly why it would be the perfect place to visit!
Or maybe we would go…somewhere over the rainbow!
My teacher cleared her throat and continued.
“Anyway, as I was saying, we will be going on a special trip…to the art museum in the city!”
I looked at Penny, who was sitting next to me. She gave me a huge high five. She loved art just as much as I did.
“That’s not all,” Ms. Painter went on. “As middle schoolers, we are focusing on the importance of responsibility and independence. Therefore, you will not have chaperones in the museum with you. Instead, we’d like you to stay together in pairs. We will be counting on you to behave respectfully.”
No chaperones?
No one to ask for permission to drink from the water fountain.
No one to keep track of us when we used the bathroom.
No one to make us count off by numbers in the parking lot.
It was incredible. It was unbelievable. It was…
FREEDOM!
“Any questions?” Ms. Painter asked.
I raised a hand and waved wildly. “Ms. Painter! Ms. Painter!”
“Yes, Babymouse?” Ms. Painter said with a smile. She was the one teacher who appreciated my high level of enthusiasm.
“What should we wear? What should we bring?” I asked.
I was all about planning.
“Both good questions, Babymouse,” she said. “You can wear whatever you like, so long as you pair it with comfortable shoes. Also, please bring a bag lunch or money. There are food trucks outside the museum.”
Upon hearing “food trucks,” Wilson almost fell off his chair. “All right!” he mouthed to me.
The bell rang.
“Please take a permission slip with you on the way out,” Ms. Painter called over the noise of chairs and desks shifting. “I’ll need them signed and returned by Friday in order for you to participate.”
I hurried to the front of the room and grabbed a permission slip off her desk.
I knew it was kind of silly, but I was so excited about the trip that even the permission slip seemed exciting to me. Until I actually read it.
My face fell. Ever since I’d gotten my Whiz Bang™ phone, I’d taken it everywhere I went. I couldn’t just abandon it after everything we’d been through!
Still, I tried to focus on the positive: I was going on a special class trip into the city! A special class trip into the city with no chaperones. It was thrilling! Finally, I felt I was being treated like a grown-up.
I practically floated all the way to Locker. It took me several tries to open it, but even that couldn’t get me down today. I was so zoned out that I didn’t notice Penny coming up behind me.
“Hey, Babymouse!” she said.
“Hey back!”
Penny pointed to the picture I had taped in my locker next to my drawings. “I love Tommy H!”
He was the hottest star on Broadway.
“So do you want to be class trip buddies?” she asked.
“Definitely!” I exclaimed.
“Cool!” she said. “By the way, that’s a really good drawing. You’re talented, Babymouse.”
She walked away.
I stared at my drawing. Was she right? Was I talented?
Huh. I guess it couldn’t hurt to bring some of my OWN artwork on the field trip, just in case the museum curator was looking for an up-and-coming artist to showcase!
RING!
That was the last bell of the day. I got my stuff and sprinted toward the door so I could get a good seat on the bus.
I flew by my gym teacher, who blew her whistle and called after me, “Hey, Babymouse! No running in the halls! Why don’t you show that hustle on the soccer field?”
When I reached the bus, I was the first one in line. Huzzah!
The driver pulled the lever to open the door, and I hopped on, looking around. I had the whole bus to myself. It wasn’t really about getting the best seat. It was about getting the “least worst” seat.
The back of the bus? Too bumpy.
By the wheels? No legroom.
Behind the driver? Nah!
Maybe in the middle on the left? The seat was cracked.
Or on the right? Yuck! There was bubble gum everywhere.
The one behind it? I was not going anywhere near whatever that was on the floor.
Suddenly, the bus driver yelled, “JUST SIT DOWN, KID!”
I looked up and saw students piled up behind me. I sat in the closest seat.
Right on the gross bubble gum.
Ewwwwwwww.
* * *
When I got home, I ran inside with the permission slip already in hand.
“Mom!” I yelled, opening every door. “Mom! I need you! It’s an emergency!”
Moments later, my mom ran into the kitchen in a bath towel. Soapsuds dripped off her arms and legs and all over the floor.
“I’m here! I’m here!” she yelled. “What’s wrong?”
“Mom, I need you to sign my permission slip!”
I thrust the paper in her direction.
“You need me to…what now?” she asked, frowning.
I smiled sheepishly and waved the sheet at her.
“We’re going on a class trip to the art museum in the city! And there are no chaperones because we’re learning independence and responsibility!”
My mom sighed heavily. The permission slip in my hand began to feel like a flag of surrender. Sopping wet, she took it from me and placed it on the table.
“Babymouse,” she said seriously. “I think we need to talk about what IS and what is NOT an emergency again.”
“Okay,”
I said slowly. “I’ll talk to you after your shower.”
She nodded and went back upstairs. “And wipe the floor, please,” she called back.
* * *
Wiping the floor, it turned out, was just one of the many, many things I would have to do to convince my parents I was “independent” and “responsible” enough to join my classmates on an unchaperoned trip to the city.
I had to make my bed every morning, empty and load the dishwasher, help fold the laundry, collect random coffee cups from my mother’s office, hang up wet towels in the bathroom, make sure that dirty shoes were left outside, and vacuum our den. I don’t know why doing any of these things made me more responsible, but the house sure started to look a whole lot cleaner.
But after a few days of being extra extra responsible, and no false-alarm emergencies, I convinced my mom to sign my waterlogged permission slip. I had helpfully filled in the washed-away words.
Big City, here I come!
In the days leading up to the class trip, I worked hard on my art collection whenever I got the chance. I used watercolors, colored pencils, charcoals, and mixed media (a collage kind of thing) until I had a fabulous portfolio I really loved. Surely, the museum curators would see I was a budding talent, ready to bloom into a master artist!
The night before the class trip, everything was finally ready.