by Lorri Horn
She looked over his shoulder, smiling at a picture someone else had sent him of their own dog’s tongue sticking out.
“Oh, I get it. I get that there’s no way in carnation to keep up with this in our record-keeping,” she shrugged at him and then looked around for Wolfie. “Wolfie! Wolfie! Where’d he go?” He had run off with a sheet of paper and shredded it up for entertainment. “Wolfie! Argh! Hippity hop, dog! Come on! Let’s go out for a wee.”
“Ha! Maybe paper isn’t all that easier to keep track of!” laughed Dewey. “I can save the chats. I just have to remember to do that,” suggested Dewey.
“Chances of that?” asked Clara, lifting Wolfie up as Dewey quickly snapped a picture of them and posted it on Snapchat with the caption, “In the doghouse.”
“I can do it, but it sounds awful. Why do we have to keep track of it all, anyway?”
“Tbh, I don’t know,” she shrugged.
Before he could ask her how she knew what tbh meant, and before she and Wolfie could head up and out to conduct his business, Bryan Frenchie came careening down the slide and onto the lofty 700 fill power Hungarian goose-down pillow landing-pad. Dewey knew Bryan from last year, when Bryan was in fourth grade, and Dewey had been in fifth.
“Oh, hey Bryan! What brings you here?” Dewey asked as Wolfie freed himself, flounced over, and put his head down into the landing-pad, indicating to Bryan that he required his greeting in the form of a back rub. Bryan missed the cue though and instead clumsily patted Wolfie a few times on the head and squashing it head down deeper into the pillow. Wolfie surfaced with his face looking like a mushed peanut butter sandwich, and Clara gave a chuckle.
Momentarily distracted, Bryan cocked his own head in a sort of well-isn’t-that-an-interesting-look kind of way and then answered Dewey, “I’m in trouble. I’m going to get myself kicked out of class or school or something. I’m pretty sure I need your help.”
Dewey, who, over the past couple of years, had established himself to be none other than the greatest parent problem solver, logically assumed that Bryan meant for him to help him with his parents on this issue and handed him the standard paperwork to fill out, which asked the requisite questions about the problems the client’s parents cause and best hiding places in the home and workplace.
“No, you don’t understand,” clarified Bryan looking up from the paperwork. “My parents aren’t the problem. Not yet, anyway! My teacher is.”
Dewey and Clara looked at each other with interest. This was new. A teacher problem. Well, why not? thought Dewey. How different can it really be?
“What’s the basic problem?” asked Dewey, reorienting himself.
“The problem is she’s a nut job, and I’m having too much fun.”
“So what’s the issue again? I’m not totally getting it. Why would that be a problem?”
“I think, sir,” clarified Clara, “Mr. Bryan is concerned that she’s driving him to entertain himself and others, and for that, if I’m understanding correctly, he, not she, is being reprimanded.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it!”
Without missing more than another beat and a half, Dewey replied, “Ah, right. Teacher problems. That’s a different day,” Dewey confirmed, covering for the fact that he hadn’t expected this as a topic at all. “We see those issues tomorrow.” Clearly, he needed to stall. “Can you come back tomorrow, Bryan? We will be glad to take your case and work with you then.”
Bryan nodded yes, but his shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit as he stood up. Clara handed him two warm sugar cookies wrapped in a napkin and gave him three small, gentle pats on his back. This time, instead of climbing on Clara’s back to get up to the air ducts, as clients of the past had done, they showed Bryan to a platform and had him step on it. Dewey pressed a button, and it lifted Bryan up to the air ducts so that he could climb back out the way he’d come into the attic.
The idea of installing the Garage Gator Electric Motorized Lift System as a mini-elevator for his clients had been Colin’s. The installation went easily, or so Clara reported. The kit came with its one 3/4” drill bit and would hold up to 170 pounds—a nice addition to their operation, as well as a good idea with Clara’s back starting to feel the weight of how busy they’d become.
Dewey called out into the air ducts to be sure Bryan was no longer in earshot, and then he spoke.
“Teacher Problem Solver! Fascinating. We can do that, right, Clara? I am sure we can do that. It’s not all that different. We just gotta change a few lines on the paperwork is all!”
Clara pulled up the usual form: “Name? Grade? School?” Clara read.
“Well, all of that is helpful,” replied Dewey. “Go on.”
“Home Address?”
“Keep that. Why not? But better add school address as well,” and Clara revised.
“Best Entry to Your Home Without Being Noti—”
“Ah! Yes, that part is going to prove trickier, isn’t it? Delete that. We can’t just sneak into a classroom, I don’t think.”
“Top Three Hiding Places in Your Home?” Clara continued.
“Replace it with Classroom Number and Time Class Meets,” added Dewey.
“Siblings (names and ages)?” Clara posed with doubt.
“No,” replied Dewey. “Replace it with ‘Best School Friends.’”
“Pets? Parents’ Names?”
“Replace with ‘Possible Snitches in Class,’” said Dewey, slowly thinking aloud as he suggested it. “And add ‘Name, Description, and Subject of Teacher Causing Problem.’”
“‘Problem Parent(s) Cause You?’” Clara finished reading the form while still adding, deleting, and revising.
“‘Teacher,’ of course,” Dewey tilted his head to the side, gesturing with both palms up, acknowledging the obvious revision.
“Great!” he added. “Anything else?”
Before they could think more, however, Dewey got a text from his mother reminding him that he needed to watch his little sister, who they called Pooh Bear instead of Emma, in about fifteen minutes.
“You’d better go, sir,” cautioned Clara as she did a “save as” of the new document. “I’ll get this finished up for tomorrow. You know your mother doesn’t like when you’re late.”
“Come here, Wolfie. Come say ‘bye’ to me before I go! Come on, Wolfie!” He pranced over and dropped his one-and-only old shabby Skunky in front of Dewey. Dewey certainly wouldn’t be the one to break it to him, but it wasn’t so one-and-only—Wolfie actually had ten of those skunks, so that one would always be handy to find. He remained none the wiser, as he had no idea that Clara owned ten different Skunkies, or so she and Dewey assumed. Really, who could know such things for certain? Maybe Wolfie loved all ten with equal passion, as a mother dog loves each of her puppies.
“Oh, sorry buddy, I gotta go now. Clara, throw his Skunky, would ya? I feel bad!” Wolfie grabbed the skunk in his own mouth, shook him hard in the air. It always made Dewey laugh when Wolfie thrashed Skunky around like that. He picked up the flat black and white furry friend between his teeth and shook it as hard as he could from side to side, his head moving so fast it looked like he had three heads.
“Go, on, boy! Kill it!” laughed Dewey.
“Okay, okay. Just a few throws,” agreed Dewey. That proved challenging though. Wolfie sure might like to have someone throw Skunky to him, but he had a hard time with the “letting go” part. He clenched his teeth down tightly on Skunky’s floppy stuffed body.
“Boss,” cautioned Clara. “You need to go, and Wolfie needs to see a man about a horse.”
Dewey looked confused.
“Oh, you young Snapchatters. He needs to take a wee. And you need to skedaddle.”
“Oh! Okay, okay.” Dewey laughed. “I’m going.” Dewey gave Skunky one big yank out of Wolfie’s mouth and lobbed it long and hard across the room for
good measure.
“See you tomorrow, Clara.”
“Until tomorrow, Dewey Fairchild, Teacher Problem Solver.”
Recorder Mrs. Décorder
“Well,” Dewey began, feet up on his desk and the form up on his computer screen, “we can see right here that you have a considerable teacher problem with Mrs. Décorder.” Dewey then read back to Bryan what he had written under the category of “Problem Teacher Causes You.”
“‘She’s rather unconventional!’”
“Right?!” Bryan nodded, eagerly agreeing with his own words as Dewey quoted them.
Dewey continued, raising one finger pointed at Bryan. “You cope by goofing off. Any sensible kid would do the same. So, I’m going to need to gather more information on her to help,” he concluded.
At that, Clara pulled out a thin back pen from the desk drawer.
Where did Clara come from? Bryan wondered. Had she been here the whole time, or did she just get here? Bryan felt unsure, but there she stood now, all four-feet-nine-inches of her. She held in her other hand a plate of warm oatmeal cookies—no raisins, of course. Only a rare breed of kid wanted a shriveled-up, dried-out grape in their baked goods, she had always reasoned. Chocolate chips made a most suitable substitute for raisins.
She handed Dewey the pen and offered Bryan a cookie.
“Oh! Thanks!” replied Bryan.
When Dewey just stared at the pen in his hand, she reached over, pressed down on the pen’s clip, and it began to speak:
“‘Well, we can see right here that you have a classic teacher problem with Mrs. Décorder. She’s rather unconventional!!’
‘Right?!’
‘You cope by goofing off. Any sensible kid would do the same. So, I’m going to need to gather more information on her to help.’”
Whoa! A recorder pen! Dewey raised one eyebrow in admiration at Clara. Where did she get this? he wondered.
As Bryan chewed on the flat, dense, and delicious cookie, Dewey looked for the “on” switch to try make it record again.
“It’s voice activated, sir,” explained Clara.
“Testing, testing. One, two, three,” Dewey spoke into the pen. He pressed the pen’s clip, as Clara had done, triggering it to repeat his words.
“‘Testing, testing. One, two, three,’” played back.
“Awesome,” approved Dewey.
“Awesome,” agreed Bryan.
“Here you go,” offered Dewey, handing Bryan the pen with care and ceremony, like it was the key to a trusted kingdom. He lowered his voice. “Bring this espionage equipment with you to class the next couple of days to surveil the subject in her habitat. Then dispatch the data back here this weekend. We’ll launch a full-scale operation as soon as we’ve completed the undercover part of the mission, then we’ll review and analyze the evidence. Don’t worry, Bryan. We’ll safeguard a solution, or my name isn’t Dewey Fairchild, Teacher Problem Solver.”
Technically, he hadn’t earned that title yet—Teacher Problem Solver. But that pen had really upped his game.
Bryan nodded affirmatively and helped himself, with Clara’s nod of approval, to another cookie on his way out.
You know, Clara?” Dewey said running his fingers through his hair, until it got snagged in a small knot. “Maybe I should get one of those fedora hats.”
Sliding the plate of cookies over to Dewey, Clara smiled warmly and sat down at her desk to work.
Dewey stacked the cookies, one on top of the other, to make a tower. Thin and neat, each one lined up perfectly, as his thoughts drifted from fedora hats to his homework, and how he didn’t feel like doing it. He wondered what else he might find to do first.
Suddenly, while in the perfectly happy place Clara sometimes called woolgathering, Dewey’s heart leapt into his throat, and his fingers tingled hot with fear. Clara had let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Dewey had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone scream, so the moment not only alarmed him because it startled him unexpectedly, but also because he suddenly feared for her life. As he moved toward her, he could hear her yelling at someone.
“Oh, I’ll tie your tail in a knot. I’ll cut off your little ropey tail. Think you can hide from me? I’ll slap you asleep, and then I’ll slap you awake for sleeping. You hear me? Are you a mouse or a man? Come out here and fight like a man. I’m gonna stomp a mudhole in you and walk it dry. I r—”
Dewey looked into her wide, terror-filled eyes. “What?” he interrupted her. “What is it?!” he implored when she silently shook her head.
“Mouse,” she now whispered so softly that he could barely discern her words.
“A mouse?” he repeated, half comprehending what she’d said. “You saw a mouse?”
Clara’s eyes got wider, and she nodded. He looked up at her as she stood in the middle of her desk.
He looked around. “Where?”
She pointed to the corner of the room. Dewey walked over, and his heart rate began to settle back down as he acclimated himself better to the situation.
“I don’t see it. Wolfie, come here, boy. Look for a mouse, would ya?”
Wolfie slept soundly on the cushion. He looked up when Dewey called him but, evidently, followed the lead of Dewey’s heartbeat, and settled back down. Surely, Clara’s scream must have startled him too?
“You’re sleeping through all of this?” laughed Dewey. “Oh, that’s just great,” he shook his head in disbelief before addressing his panic-stricken assistant again. “Clara, I don’t see it. I’ll keep looking. Maybe we have a mouse problem.”
“Oh, don’t say that, sir. No, I’m not coming here. I won’t. I can’t.”
“Clara, I don’t get it. It’s a mouse. It’s about the size of your thumb.”
“I don’t care for rodents. I’ll be back when it’s gone. Let me know.” Then, she folded her arms over her chest and just stared at him waiting patiently.
“Oh. Oh!” replied Dewey, finally catching on as he walked over and motioned her to the edge of the table. She hesitated. He looked down at the ground and all around for her.
“All clear. Come on.”
He expected that she would step down. Instead, she nosed her toes out over the desk, took in a small breath, and hopped, landing like a trapeze artist landing into her partner’s arms. What a sight they must have made: a ninety-four-year-old Clara in Dewey’s spindly eleven-year-old arms. The Flying Cottonwood Extravaganza. He carried her over to the Gator and prepared to set her down, but he could feel her begin to inch up his neck, so he lifted the Gator with them both and, once up top, sent her safely on her way.
She left without so much as an, “I’ll see you, Boss”.
Wow, thought Dewey. I’ve never seen her like this.
“Wake up, Dog. We’ve got work to do.” He roused Wolfie, and together, Wolfie and Dewey managed to delay starting his homework by spending the next few hours looking for a wayward mouse. Eventually admitting defeat, Dewey decided he’d better return Wolfie to Clara’s house, so Dewey could do some homework, and Wolfie could have his dinner. Anyway, he certainly wasn’t proving to be a great deterrent or hunter of mice, despite his hunting experience with a two-dimensional, sewn-together, floppy, incredibly-realistic skunk.
Dad’s Got Homework
As the sweet taste of summer days slipped away from the students, the school year got up and running for someone else too—Dewey’s dad. Dr. Don Fairchild, DDS, had gone back to school to live out his dream—to become a math teacher. Unlike any of Dewey’s friends who preferred their summer days spent in camp or free and easy, his dad had gotten a head start on things by choosing to take summer school. When his dad asked if he wanted to join him and take some enrichment classes, Dewey’s response was “No thanks, Dad.”
This fall Don Fairchild was well on his way to becoming a teacher, student teach
ing his own class.
Dewey hoped it would soon mean less attention on his own math and more attention on other kids’ math instead.
Right now, his dad was holed up in his makeshift office in the backyard guest-house with papers all over his desk. He had three yellow pencils with pink pearl cap erasers sticking out of his brown hair that made him look like a giraffe with knobby horns.
Dewey poked his head in the door to the sight of his dad’s messy office space.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going? I’m home. Mom left to run her errands.”
“Good. Good,” he answered without looking up from his computer screen as he turned the page in his book and patted his desktop, looking for a pencil.
Dewey slid one out from his dad’s curly brown head of hair and handed it to him.
“Oh, thanks. I’ll be right with you—as soon as I jot down this idea.”
After flipping the pages a few times back and forth, he finally scribbled something down and looked up at Dewey.
“How was your day?”
“Eh, you know. The usual.”
“Tell me something you learned in school today.” Dewey’s dad took a small plastic pack of peppermint toothpicks out of his red plaid shirt pocket and offered one to his son before sticking one in the side of his mouth. He’d developed a wee bit of a belly as of late, and he hoped the toothpicks would distract his interest in sweets. He found himself always longing for them due to the mysterious smells of baked goods wafting over from the neighbors’. Dewey’s mom had suggested that perhaps some more long walks might be more beneficial than peppermint toothpicks as a regimen, but thus far, this seemed to be his preferred strategy. Dewey shook his head to decline the offer.
“Like what? I don’t really remember,” he replied honestly. His school day seemed like a long time ago.
“Did anything funny happen today?” He wriggled the toothpick around with his tongue.
“Um, probably. Wait, haha! Yeah. Something did. In P.E. You know how all the lanes at the pool have numbers? Well, Coach Bautista doesn’t want everyone diving in the pool at once, so he had us count off, one to ten so he could send us over in groups of ten to one of the six lanes.”
