Did you know Harvard gets more than 30,000 applications a year and only accepts about 2,000 of them?
That means they have (approximately) 28,000 denied applicants a year. That’s (approximately) 28,000 annual failures.
Winter break starts in a couple of weeks, and I’m electrified, thrilled, and aflutter. Mom, Dad, and I are going to visit Harvard. This will be my first time there. I want to see everything.
Mom says we should go to Disneyland or something instead. She says I’ll be bored. On the other hand, Dad says that the present is a present that needs to be unwrapped and used to invest in tomorrow. I couldn’t agree more.
But the present means today and not eleven days from now. Today is the day I start Operation Anti-Blockhead. I just hope everyone appreciates how I’m going to help them learn and unwrap each of their gift-wrapped presents.
Whipping my classmates into shape shouldn’t be a problem. Teaching is a snap. If Ms. Bryce could do it, then I can, too.
“Ready for school?” Mom asks.
“Am I ever,” I reply, strolling past Mom and to our garage.
Last year, the school bus had a flat tire and we arrived thirty minutes late. Never again, I said. School is too important. I like to ride my bike when I can, but it’s too cold to ride it now. So Mom drives me every morning. I always insist we leave early. That way I’m the first one to arrive in class.
I’ll have the room to myself for thirty minutes. I have plenty to do.
Ten minutes later we pull up (before many of the teachers!), Mom kisses me, and I hurry to class. Once inside, I sit at the teacher’s desk that is now my desk. I make a long list of responsibilities that need to be assigned.
I’ve also started searching through Ms. Bryce’s papers. Since she’s been a teacher for just about forever, she has lots and lots of papers. I’ll be adding my own touches to them, of course. The assignments must be challenging so my classmates rise from the depths of mediocrity and soar on the wings of academic alacrity!
That means they’ll be excited, fired up, and ready to learn.
Time flies and soon the warning bell rings in the hall, signaling four minutes and fifty-three seconds until class starts. (The bell is supposed to signal five minutes until class starts, but the timer is fast. I’ve clocked it against my watch.) Students pile in. Brian enters and immediately hurls an eraser at Kyle. Cooper lugs a big stack of comic books. Trevor flips a football back and forth in his hands. He tosses it to Gavin, who spikes it on the ground and then yells, “Touchdown!” I shake my head. Those boys are all 100 percent blockheads.
I wait until the bell rings, and then I stand up, pounding my stapler on my desk. It takes three hits before everyone stops their mindless yapping and looks at me. “Thank you,” I say. “I understand fun and games is, um, fun. But we can’t spend every day doing nothing but playing.”
“Why not?” asks Seth, way in the back of the room. Brian nods. So do Danny and Jasmine.
“There goes Miss Bossy again,” Trevor whispers to Gavin. I stiffen and try to brush off his comment.
“I would much rather goof off, too,” I say, my voice rolling with false enthusiasm. The art of persuasive communication is tricky. I’ve read that if you sympathize with your audience, they’ll listen to you more. So I continue with my most caring voice, even if I don’t believe a word of what I’m saying.
After all, I am caring. I am a lot more caring than I am bossy, anyway.
“Who wouldn’t rather play?” I continue. I clear my throat. “But our parents will grow suspicious if we don’t have homework and take tests.”
Brian hurls an eraser at me, but it misses and strikes the wall, bouncing harmlessly off the whiteboard. I don’t flinch. Leaders never flinch.
“I don’t want homework!” Brian complains.
“Neither do I,” I say, although I do want homework. I mean, I want to give homework. “But it is only work if a teacher assigns it to you. If we assign it to ourselves, then it’s kind of like playing.”
“ ‘If we assign it to ourselves, then it’s kind of like playing,’ ” says Brian. He repeats my words using an odd, high-pitched voice that I think is supposed to mimic mine, but sounds nothing like me. He’s way too whiny. I don’t whine. Bossy people might whine, but leaders lead.
I ignore Brian’s intended mockery. “Learning isn’t work if you learn on your own.”
“ ‘Learning isn’t work—’ ” begins Brian in his squeaky voice.
“Knock it off,” says Kyle. “She has a point.”
I raise an eyebrow. I never would have thought Kyle Anderson, of all people in the world, would listen to me.
I’ll need to reevaluate his 100 percent blockheadedness. Perhaps it’s only 98 percent block.
I flash him a grateful smile.
Brian sits down, but he looks annoyed.
“Our parents asked why we didn’t have any homework last night,” Danny says, looking at his twin sister, Jasmine. “We always have homework.”
“Mine asked me the same thing,” says Jade with a big frown.
“Mine too,” Madelyn adds. “And so did my orthodontist.” She points to her braces.
“When my parents asked why I didn’t have homework, I panicked and told them I had a huge test today,” whimpers Gavin. “If I don’t bring home a graded test soon, they’ll wonder what’s going on.”
More kids groan. Others mention similar concerns. Emmy’s parents almost emailed the teacher yesterday, asking if she’d left her homework at school.
I lean back, letting the class talk. They are convincing themselves of the importance of homework, which only makes my job easier.
“But we don’t have a teacher,” Danny says. “So how are we going to have tests?”
Kids continue to moan. They argue. They fear that even one more day without homework will trigger phone calls, school visits, and general chaos.
I smirk to myself.
“Only smelly sock haters want a teacher,” growls Brian. “Or smelly sock lovers, or whatever.”
This conversation has gone on long enough. I need to resume order. I slap the stapler against the desk twice. A few kids continue to complain. I stand behind my desk, stapler in hand, ready to bang it down again. But Kyle barks, “Quiet!” and the entire class silences. Kyle’s blockhead percentage lowers even more. Everyone looks at me.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I have a solution.” I pause so the class eagerly awaits my next words. I hold my tongue. The anticipation mounts. A few kids lean forward.
“Someone has to make a sacrifice for the good of the class,” I continue, my chin high. Heroic. Heroes always have jutted chins. “And that someone will be me. I don’t want to make this tiresome, laboring sacrifice, believe me.” I keep my smile from bursting out. Instead, I keep the very deep and sincere expression that I am faking on my face. “But I will. I will assign and grade homework. I will give tests. I, of course, would much rather play games. But I will take responsibility for keeping us out of trouble.” I give a deep, loud sigh and frown.
“You would do that for us?” asks Lacey.
“You’re so noble!” exclaims Paige.
I bite my lip to keep my smile from spreading too much. I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. I am making a sacrifice, even if it will help me, too.
“So what happens now?” asks Emmy.
I lift a piece of paper from the desk. I clear my throat. “First of all, we need to have a little discipline. We can’t be running outside taking extra recess, for example. I’ve assigned jobs. If we band together, then no one will discover our secret. Then, we’ll have the best year ever. Are you with me?”
The class cheers. Even Brian raises his fist. Kyle pounds his desk in agreement. Trevor and Gavin smile, too.
Convincing the class is easy.
Just like being a teacher is easy.
I go through my list with the class. Emmy will take attendance and lunch count every day. Eli w
ill bring it to the office. Kyle will feed Soda, the room hamster. Madelyn will be our line leader for lunch. And so on.
I will grade, assign, lead the class, and hold the pencils for our daily detention drawing, which we should do every day, with today’s drawing now. Principal Klein will expect a detention note every day, and we shall not disappoint him.
The entire class gathers around me, and they each grab one of the twenty pencils clutched in my fists. “Who has the stub?” I ask.
“Not me!” says Brian.
“Not me!” says Trevor.
Adam raises his hand and groans. “I do.”
As Adam frowns, I pass out work sheets to the class. I’ve added extra questions to them, so they are more challenging. “And we’ll have a test Friday,” I say.
No one complains. Gavin says, “Thanks for the homework.”
“My pleasure,” I respond.
After I’ve passed out the assignments, I sit back at my desk. Lacey and Paige approach me. “We can help,” Lacey suggests.
“It’s really a one-person job,” I insist. “But thanks, anyway.”
“Maybe we can prepare some work sheets?” asks Lacey.
“Or come up with test questions?” suggests Paige.
“No, no. I will do it all myself,” I say. This will be a piece of cake.
I am Maggie Cranberry, and my future is looking so bright I wish I had worn sunglasses to school.
It’s quiet in the house. Too quiet. When I think of quiet things, I think of ghosts, and when I think of ghosts, I get nervous.
I suppose there are nice ghosts and mean ghosts, just like there are nice people and mean people. But you never know which sort of ghost you’ll get, and once you get ghosts, there’s nothing much you can do about them. You’re haunted, and that’s that.
But there aren’t ghosts here, not really. At least I hope not. It’s noisy in class, and I guess I’ve just gotten used to the continual screaming. I wish I could put on the TV—the sound would make the room feel less scary—but Mom doesn’t let me watch television on school days.
Maggie gave us more homework than Ms. Bryce ever did, and Ms. Bryce gave us a lot. I have a pile of math work sheets, reading logs, and more.
Maggie says it’s not really homework since we’re assigning it ourselves, but it sure feels like homework to me.
Most of these sheets appear to be from Ms. Bryce’s files, but I think Maggie created a few on her own. There is a work sheet on “Why Homework Is Awesome!” and I’m pretty sure that’s a Maggie original.
Maggie explained that if she gave us more homework than usual, no one would suspect we didn’t have a teacher. I guess that makes sense, sort of. I just wish she didn’t look so happy about assigning it. As Maggie handed out new work sheets, her face was one giant grin. She kept insisting she was making a big sacrifice creating homework.
I’m not sure if Maggie really felt she was making much of a sacrifice at all.
We thought not having a teacher would mean less work, but it sure seems like we have a lot more.
I sit at the kitchen table with my homework, a glass of milk, and a plate of saltine crackers. I have a napkin, too. My mom doesn’t like me to make crumbs.
I sip my milk and then take out a new yellow pencil, freshly sharpened, and get to work. I don’t want to be the only one in class who doesn’t complete the assignments.
I don’t want to stand out.
But instead, I write a story in my notebook.
My story is about a kid who always stands out. I call him Cire, because that’s Eric spelled backward and he’s the opposite of me. He wears bright orange shirts to school, always talks as loudly as he can, and raises his hand for every question in class, even when he doesn’t know the answers. Often, he blurts out answers without even being picked.
Everyone hates him.
One day someone decides to teach him a lesson. Cire loves gum. He’s always chewing it. So someone puts a pack of gum in his locker, forcing it through the slats. When Cire opens his locker, he just assumes the pack of gum is his.
He puts a stick in his mouth. Cire doesn’t know the gum has been secretly filled with superglue.
As soon as class starts, their teacher, Mrs. Brick, asks a question. Cire’s arm shoots straight up. Before the teacher can even call on him, he starts to speak.
But his mouth is superglued shut. Although Cire tries to speak, he can’t open his lips.
Sweat forms on his forehead. Cire mumbles, “Mmmm … mmmmm,” but that’s all he can say.
“I don’t find this funny at all,” says the teacher.
“Mmmmm …”
Finally, the teacher points to the door. “If you insist on muttering nonsense, then you can go to the principal’s office right now.”
Cire stands up, still mumbling. The teacher frowns at him. “I hope you learn your lesson.”
Mrs. Brick smiles to herself. She’s happy that she can now choose other kids without Cire always interrupting. As he leaves the room, Mrs. Brick pats the outside of her pants pocket, where she can feel the special pack of superglue-spiked gum she brought to school that day, resting inside.
It’s not one of my better stories. I am about to rip it out of the book and throw it away when I notice a shadow hovering over my page. My mom stands over me. “What are you doing?”
“I was about to do homework,” I explain, quickly flipping to a blank page and lifting a work sheet. I don’t show Mom any of my stories. She’d just tell me they’re a waste of time.
“Do we write on the table without a place mat?” she asks with a frown. It’s not really a question. “You could get pencil marks on the wood.”
Our yellow vinyl place mats are next to me, stacked neatly on top of one another. I remove the top one and slide it under my notebook. “Sorry.”
“And what do we say about putting coasters under glasses?” she asks. Again, it’s a question but not a question.
I don’t see a coaster, so I put my glass on the copy of Hamlet that I’m still reading.
I’m not really reading it. I’m agonizing over reading it.
“Sorry, again,” I mumble quietly.
“Don’t mumble,” says Mom. “You sound like your mouth is glued shut.”
“I said I’m sorry,” I say again, louder and more clearly.
“Fine,” she says, satisfied. “Now give me a kiss.”
She bends over so that her cheek is within range of my mouth. I give her a quick peck.
She straightens up, but then she shakes her head at me. “Don’t slouch, either. It’s bad for your back.”
I sit up straighter.
“That’s better. I love you.” Mom leaves the room, and once she’s out the door I begin writing another story. This one is about a mom who always lets her son make messes at the kitchen table and sit however he wants to sit.
It’s a boring story, but it makes me smile.
As I sit down in class, I unzip my backpack and remove my homework that’s not really homework.
I did it last night, and I have no teacher.
Yow. Yow. Yow.
Who would have imagined that?
Yesterday, when Maggie suggested we do homework, I thought it was a good idea, at first.
I figured that if I did lots of homework, I could prove to Mom that I’m good for something.
But I didn’t even get to show her my work because she sent me to my room after I came home two hours late.
Mom had asked me to come straight home from school so I could watch the twins and Marley while she ran some errands. But I forgot and played tag football with Brian and the guys.
Since I was banished to my room, I couldn’t watch TV or anything. Instead I did my homework that’s not really homework.
The assignment was not easy, either. I reread a chapter of my math textbook so I could complete some of the more difficult questions on one of the work sheets. It turns out I had two of the formulas backward, and one I completely misunderst
ood. It took a while, but I finished all of the questions, and I think I got them all right.
I felt proud to finish the work.
But Mom was too busy to look at it. And then I remembered that we didn’t have a teacher. That sucked most of that pride out the window.
Still, maybe I’m better at schoolwork than I’ve always thought. Maybe, just maybe, I could be a good student if I just tried my hardest and didn’t give up so easily.
Which is a strange thing to think, right?
Before I went to bed, I asked Mom about her promotion. She said she was still thinking about it.
“What’s to think about?” I asked.
“It would mean more time at the office,” she said. “Who would take care of all of you?”
“I could help.”
She just smiled, shrugged, and kissed me good-night.
I don’t think she trusts me to take care of anything. But she’s wrong. I can help, just like I can do my homework that isn’t homework.
I can become a brand-new Kyle. I know it. I’ll show Mom, too. I’m just not sure how.
In class, I flip the eraser between my fingers and look at Brian. I balance the pink rubber rectangle on my fingertips.
The brand-new Kyle doesn’t throw erasers.
I bury it in my hand. I can’t spend every day whipping erasers at people, can I?
THUNK!
An eraser bounces off the side of my head. Brian laughs. “Head shot! Two points!”
I tell the voice inside my head, the one that’s been whispering that I shouldn’t be such a goofball, to go away!
Because I can’t let a head shot go unanswered, can I?
I hurl my eraser at Brian, where it smacks his ear.
“Ear shot! Three points!” I declare.
In Eraser Wars, hitting an ear is worth three points. Hitting the head is worth two points, striking the body is worth just one point, and a nose shot is worth a whopping four points.
Colds and allergies can hurt your nose,
But they don’t compare to eraser nose blows.
That’s when I notice Brian holding an entire handful of erasers.
He must have brought them from home.
Uh-oh.
Class Dismissed Page 6
