by Ali Benjamin
Jadelicious was the best Disruptor of all time. Like, on the episode where all the Megastars were dropped off in Times Square and tasked with getting people to applaud. All the other contestants just stood around on the sidewalk, basically begging tourists to pay attention to them. Not Jadelicious. She marched right into a nearby Broadway theater and asked if she could join the cast onstage during the final curtain call. So without even trying, she got a standing ovation from a thousand people!
Here at Mitchell, we had our own Disruptor: Paulie Fink. And just like on reality television, nothing at Mitchell would have been the same without him.
Pick a Winner
“That’s what I’m saying,” insists Sam as I arrive in Mags’s room. “It’s like Paulie just vanished.”
Most of the class is here already, clustered around the pom-pom kids. “We spent hours searching,” says Willow. “Not only could we not figure out where he went, we couldn’t find any record of any Finks living in Vermont. Anywhere.”
“It’s like he got beamed up somehow,” says Timothy. “Like, maybe he really was an alien all this time.”
“Come on, aliens aren’t real,” argues Yumi, and everyone turns to look at Henry, like they expect him to know.
“Statistically speaking, the probability of aliens existing is very high,” Henry says.
“See?” says Timothy. “He totally was an alien.”
Just then Diego arrives, posing dramatically in the doorway. He’s showing off a neon-green T-shirt, a little too small, stretched over the top of his other clothes. On the front is a cartoon stick figure picking its nose. Underneath, in big block letters, it says PICK A WINNER.
Diego drops a gym bag at his feet, flexes his muscles, and holds the pose.
“Paulie’s shirt!” Fiona shouts, and she leaps up. She’s wearing another pantsuit today, turquoise and far too big.
Gabby leans over and explains. “Paulie wore that shirt in last year’s soccer game against Devlinshire Hills,” she says. “Our school can’t afford uniforms, so we all just have to wear green T-shirts. Paulie always wore the ugliest ones he could find.”
“Except Glebus made him wear that one inside out,” Yumi adds. “She said it wasn’t up to Mitchell’s standards of self-respect.”
“She was just embarrassed in front of all those rich Devlinshire parents,” Fiona says.
“To be honest, I was a little embarrassed, too,” admits Yumi.
Diego picks up the gym bag and takes his seat. “Check it out: I found Paulie’s bag in the lost and found,” he says. “Been sitting there all summer, I guess. This T-shirt was right at the top.” Diego unzips the bag and pulls out an old sock, hard and crusty. He tosses it at one of the twins, who throws it at Lydia, who throws it to Fiona.
Fiona brings it to her nose, then hurls it at Yumi. “Do not smell that thing,” says Fiona. “Do not do it.” Yumi picks it up with a pencil and carries it to the trash.
Diego rummages through the bag. He pulls out a filthy baseball cap, a half-eaten granola bar, a plastic bag filled with crushed potato chips, an old binder jammed with notes and pages, and an origami frog. I try to imagine what kind of person could possibly get away with wearing that neon PICK A WINNER monstrosity. If I’d worn something like that last year, I’d have been shunned for all eternity.
“And check these out.” Diego pulls several pieces of paper from the bag, each folded into thirds. “They’re emails to his parents. From Glebus.”
He puts Paulie’s hat on his own head, clears his throat, and begins to read.
Dear Beatrice and Mark:
Thank you for sitting down with me yesterday to discuss my concerns about Paulie. In that meeting, I promised to keep you apprised of any new incidents as they unfolded.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for more to unfold.
This morning, the class was ten minutes into a lesson on the Stamp Act of 1765 when Paulie reached into his backpack and pulled out a series of items wholly unrelated to the curriculum: three pieces of bread, turkey, cheese, sliced tomatoes, and a jar of Dijon mustard. Paulie spread these items across his desk, then proceeded to make himself a double-decker sandwich. When the teacher paused the lesson to ask what he was doing, Paulie took a bite, then held out his sandwich to his teacher. His cheeks now stuffed, he asked, “Oh, did you want a bite?”
While it’s true there’s nothing specifically in the handbook about sandwich-making during class, I’m sure I don’t need to explain why we cannot allow our classrooms to become personal kitchens at students’ whims.
With all my best hopes that we can put this incident, and all the many others that we discussed, behind us.
Alice Glebus
P.S. Just in case, I’ve amended the handbook with a rule that prohibits the preparation of food during class.
Dear Beatrice and Mark:
Perhaps I was too specific in my most recent email. My concern is not about sandwiches per se.
Today a pizza delivery person appeared outside the window of the sixth-grade math class. Paulie walked over to the window, paid for the pizza, then proceeded to pass slices to his classmates.
They were, as you can imagine, simply delighted.
But classroom time is not mealtime, and I do hope you can make this clear to Paulie. Thank you for understanding.
Alice Glebus
P.S. I’ve updated the student handbook to indicate that no meals of any sort may be prepared during, delivered to, or consumed during class. I do hope this is clear enough.
Beatrice and Mark:
Once again, I was apparently too specific.
Today during class, Paulie opened up a jar of mayonnaise and began eating the contents in giant, glopping spoonfuls.
Well, that certainly got the other children’s attention. Not in a good way. Several of them gagged, and one had to rush to the bathroom to dry heave into the sink.
How could a student possibly eat mayonnaise in heaping spoonfuls, you might ask? I asked the same question. Upon further investigation, it seems Paulie was eating vanilla pudding, which he’d carefully transferred to an empty mayonnaise jar.
Paulie is technically correct that pudding isn’t a “meal” (nor, for that matter, is mayonnaise), so his actions today don’t violate our new policy around meals in classrooms. That said, perhaps you can discuss with your son the difference between the spirit of the law and the letter of the law.
Your cooperation, as always, is appreciated.
AG
P.S. I have since updated the handbook for a third time. It now says, Food products of any kind, including herbs, spices, condiments, or liquids other than water may be consumed only in the cafeteria, and only during a designated lunch period. I believe, at last, that this finally covers it.
Beatrice and Mark:
If there’s any good news in this letter, it’s that we seem to have finally written the food-related rules in such a way that Paulie’s moved on. The bad news, of course, is that one can never anticipate and write rules for every single scenario Paulie might be able to dream up.
I love shiny things as much as the next person, but I sincerely wish that Paulie had not placed piles of glitter on top of the ceiling fan in my office on a warm day.
Perhaps it’s time to meet again.
Unintentionally bedazzled and not exactly thrilled about it,
A.
By the time Diego finishes reading the last email, he can hardly breathe, he’s laughing so hard. Everyone’s cracking up, even serious-looking Henry.
“I wonder what he was planning to do with those emails,” he says.
“Maybe he was going to Scotch-tape them to her car, like that time he covered her windshield with images of his own face,” says Yumi. “He always had some trick up his sleeve.”
“Remember when Paulie spent the whole day calling Glebus ‘Jan’?” Timothy laughs.
“Every time, she corrected him, and then he was like, Okay, sorry, Jan,” Sam finishes. “She’s not even named Jan. She’
s Alice.”
“And remember the day he wore that chicken suit?” Lydia says.
“Stop!” Fiona laughs. “Stop! It hurts to laugh this much!” She sinks to the floor dramatically.
When Mags swishes in—“Good morning, Originals!” she says, her voice a little singsong—she looks around at everyone. “Oh, dear. Fiona, off the floor. Yumi, put the ukulele away. And Diego, you know the rule: no hats in the classroom.”
Mags holds out her hand, and Diego reluctantly hands over Paulie’s cap.
“Yesterday, we talked about myths,” she begins, placing the hat on the fireplace mantel. “We talked about how people shared myths as a way of explaining the world, and trying to exert some control over it. But over time, this worldview was challenged by philosophers.” She tells us that philosophers were people who sat around and tried to think their way into understanding the world.
“Ugh,” says Fiona. “I wish Paulie were here right now. He’s literally the only one I can think of who could find a way to turn ancient philosophy into something interesting.”
But actually, what Mags tells us turns out to be kind of interesting all by itself.
Trapped in a Cave
Mags leans against the mantelpiece. “I want you to imagine,” she begins, “that you are all prisoners.”
“We are,” says Fiona. “We’re all prisoners of school.” She sighs, then starts banging her forehead on the table. If Mags notices, she pretends not to.
“As prisoners,” she continues, “you’ve lived your whole lives inside a cave, chained in such a way that all you can see is a single wall. That wall is all you’ve ever seen, all you’ve ever known. Occasionally, shadows from the outside world are cast on your wall. A dog passes by, and you see the shadow of a dog. A bird flies past, and you see the shadow of a bird. A chariot rumbles by, and you see the chariot’s shadow. You learn the names of these things: dog, bird, chariot. But remember: You never see the objects themselves—only their shadows. As far as you know, a dog’s shadow is the dog.”
“So…,” Diego says. He looks like he’s really thinking about what she’s saying, but it’s hard to take him seriously because he’s still wearing that awful PICK A WINNER shirt. “You’re saying we think we’re seeing something, and we’re even sure that we know what it is we’re seeing, but we’re wrong?”
“Yes, Diego. Excellent,” Mags says. She glances around the room. “Now imagine this: One day, one of you prisoners is released. Which one of you wants to go free?”
Fiona’s head is off the desk now. In a flash, she’s on her feet, waving her hand wildly. “Me! I want to!”
But Mags points to Diego instead. “Diego, since you asked the first question, I choose you to leave the cave.”
Fiona slumps down again, dejected. Gabby leans over and pats her arm in sympathy.
“So Diego steps out into the big wide world,” Mags goes on. “But Diego, I’m sorry, the first thing that happens is this: You’re nearly blinded by the sun.”
“Been in a cave my whole life, Mags.” He shrugs.
“Exactly. You can imagine how painful the sun might be at first, how frightening the world must seem. All those colors. All that motion and bright light. It takes quite a bit of time for your eyes to adjust. But with time, they do adjust. You begin to see the world outside the cave. You see an actual dog, an actual bird. You discover, oh this is a dog, this is a bird.”
I look around the room and realize everyone’s paying close attention. Maybe because the whole thing doesn’t feel like she’s lecturing or preparing us for a test or anything. She’s just telling us a story.
“Ah, but Diego, you haven’t forgotten about your old friends,” Mags continues, sweeping her arm toward us. “All those other prisoners, still trapped and staring at the wall. In fact, Diego, you’re eager to share with them what you’ve learned about the world! So you rush back to the cave and explain to them that everything they know about the world is wrong. You try to explain to them that birds have color, and feathers, and three dimensions, and scaly legs, and that dogs have fur and eyes…”
Mags stops. She leans on the table and glances around. “And those of you who are still in the cave, remember, you’ve never seen anything but those shadows. Would you believe what he tells you?”
I think about that. I try to imagine someone insisting that all the things I know are just flickering shadows of something that’s more real, more true. I mean, I think I’d believe the truth when I heard it… but would I?
“Maybe some people would?” says Lydia. But she doesn’t look so sure.
“I think most people would think he’s nuts,” says Sam.
“I suspect you’re right, Sam,” says Mags. “How could you possibly believe him? You’ve seen those shadows with your own eyes. Besides, how could anyone accurately describe color, or three dimensions, to someone who’s never seen these things? So here’s a different question, the really big one: After Diego’s visit, you’re offered the chance to leave the cave yourself. Would you follow Diego?”
Fiona nods immediately. “Yes!” she says. “Definitely.” She and Diego fist bump. Henry bites his lip, nods, but he doesn’t look quite as sure.
I stare down at the dark wood of our shared table. I try to picture the whole thing—the dark walls, the dim shadows. I try to imagine stepping outside, seeing the real world for the first time. But all I can picture is squinting into white light.
“I’d be scared,” Gabby finally says. “I might go, but I think I’d be really scared.”
No one says anything else, and after a few beats, Mags says, “That, Originals, is the allegory of the cave. It’s a brilliant, beautiful metaphor about unlearning assumptions. It was first described by a Greek philosopher named Plato around 380 BCE.”
She starts passing out homework sheets. “Tonight I’d like you to spend a few minutes doing a little reflection on Plato’s cave, and how this thought experiment might relate to your own life.”
Out of the blue, Fiona bangs the table. “Hey!” She looks around the room. “Maybe that’s what happened to Paulie Fink! Maybe we’ve all been trapped in a cave, and…”
“And Paulie got out!” Lydia shouts. Fiona practically throws herself across the table to give Lydia a high five.
“Nah,” muses Timothy. “He came from the stars, and he finally figured out how to get back to his home planet.”
Sam shouts, “Alien!” and Thomas hollers, “Cave,” and then all of a sudden, they’re chanting again. Half of the class shouts, “Cave!” The other half shouts, “Al-i-en!”
And as Mags tries to get the class under control, I wonder how it’s possible that Paulie’s so-called friends didn’t even know he was leaving Mitchell.
Interview: Sam, Willow, Lydia, Thomas, and Timothy
SAM:
Another funny thing about Paulie is the way he made stuff up.
WILLOW:
He once told us he was an exiled prince from the Republic of Endrisistan. He told us all about the history of the country, and about how it’s the world’s largest source of trinsulium…
LYDIA:
Then we looked it up, and there’s no place called the Republic of Endrisistan and there’s no such thing as trinsulium!
SAM:
Another time, he said his parents were undercover spies who’d been sent to investigate Glebus for running the world’s only black market for scented candles.
THOMAS:
And he spent two weeks insisting to me and Timothy that he was actually our long-lost triplet. He said our mom had given him up at birth and never told us.
TIMOTHY:
He repeated it so often that he almost had us convinced. We actually asked our mom about it after a while.
SAM:
I mean, we’re talking about a kid who once showed up to school in a chicken suit and spent the whole day insisting that he was wearing regular clothes, no matter how much we were like, “Paulie, we can see you. You look like a chicken.” But
he’d tell you things so often, and so convincingly, they almost started to seem real.
Trampled
Here, if you’re interested, is how to feed a goat:
1. Everyone but one kid takes a fistful of grain pellets. Staying on the outside of the fence, the group walks together to the other end of the pen—as far from the gate as possible. The goats will follow along the inside of the fence, bleating and whining and jostling to get close to the food.
2. When you’re far from the gate, toss a few pellets over the fence, like confetti. This isn’t the goats’ meal. This is just to keep the goats distracted.
3. Once the goats are focused on the kids throwing pellets, the person who remained behind slips into the pen, carrying a big bucket of feed. For that kid, the race is on. They must pour the food into the goats’ bowls and get out of the pen before the animals realize they’re in there.
And if the goats do figure it out? Good luck.
On the second day of school, Mr. Farabi asks Henry to carry the bucket into the pen. Henry blinks hard, swallows nervously. But he goes in.
We grab and throw the pellets, but we run out before Henry’s done filling the first bowl. The goats notice him, and they charge at him. Panicking, Henry drops the bucket, sits down in it, and covers his head with his arms.
“Goats have no upper front teeth!” he shouts. “Goats are herbivores!” A second later, we can’t see Henry, or hear him, because he’s disappeared beneath a swirl of goat hair. By the time Mr. Farabi rescues Henry, his glasses are barely still on his face, and his hair is a mess.
As Henry stumbles out of the pen, Mr. Farabi lifts the bucket and asks, “Anyone else want to give it a try?”
Diego, still wearing that PICK A WINNER shirt, volunteers. The same thing happens: We run out of pellets, and the goats figure out that someone’s standing inside their pen with a giant bucket of food. Again they charge. Diego responds by zigzagging all over the pen as fast as he can. The goats try to follow but wind up crashing into one another and getting all confused.
