Stuart Goes to School

Stuart Goes to School Page 2

by Sara Pennypacker

  kid was just digging around, looking for something.”

  “That is quite impossible, of course,” Mrs. Spindles

  frowned. “Stuart, this is a very serious situation, and

  it is not the time for jokes.”

  Stuart’s head hurt. This was turning into a rotten

  day. His arms were just about falling off from all the

  digging. He still hadn’t found anything no one had ever

  seen before. The teacher thought he was making jokes.

  And then he realized he had an even bigger prob-

  lem: all that orange juice. He checked the clock — the

  bell wouldn’t ring for hours. He’d never make it. He

  raised his hand. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “It’s at the end of the hall, next to the teachers’

  room,” Mrs. Spindles told him.

  Stuart wrote the directions down. They sounded

  simple, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew simple things

  could get tricky fast. I will not get lost; I will not

  get lost, he repeated to himself all the way.

  And he didn’t. There at the end of the hall, right

  next to the teachers’ room was the boys’ bathroom. But

  of course getting lost was only one of the things that

  could go wrong. Getting stuck inside was another.

  Stuart used the bathroom faster than anyone had

  ever used it before in the history of the world. He

  washed his hands even faster. He was almost out of

  there, but his heart began to squeeze in fear. I will not

  get stuck inside; I will not get stuck inside, he told his

  worried mirror face.

  By the time Stuart dried his hands, he was a teeny

  bit panicked. He tore across the room, skidded to the

  door, and yanked the handle, hard.

  Too hard.

  Stuart stared at the door handle in his hand and

  tried not to cry. He didn’t really care about being

  locked inside the boys’ room. But pretty soon Mrs.

  Spindles would notice he was missing. She’d find out

  the door was stuck, and she’d call the firemen to get

  him out. It would probably be on the evening news. No

  one would ever want to be the friend of someone like

  him.

  He was eight years old, and his life was ruined.

  Stuart leaned his head against the wall and stroked

  his cape sadly. He had made the cape so interesting

  things would happen to him, but this was not what he

  had had in mind.

  He wished he could just crawl into a hole and dis-

  appear.

  And then it occurred to him: maybe he could.

  Very gently, Stuart pulled the hole from his pocket.

  He shook it out and spread it against the wall. A little

  tunnel appeared. It was too dark to see anything

  beyond, but he took a deep breath and squeezed him-

  self through. Anywhere was better than the boys’ bath-

  room.

  Stuart poked his head out the other side of

  the tunnel.

  The room beyond was loud and full of teach-

  ers. A bunch of them were watching cartoons on

  television. A few were reading comic books on

  the floor with their feet on the walls. Two of

  them were jumping on a couch, making faces at

  each other. Giant boxes of doughnuts were scat-

  tered all around, and everybody was chomping

  gum or puffing cigars like crazy. Signs all over

  the room read: NO KIDS ALLOWED!

  Wow, thought Stuart, so this is the teachers’

  room! One teacher stuffed three doughnuts into

  his mouth all at once, then stuck out his tongue.

  The others laughed and clapped him on the

  back. A teacher next to him made a rude noise.

  The others laughed and clapped her on the back,

  too.

  Just then the door opened and Mrs. Spindles ran in.

  Someone hit her with a spitball. Mrs. Spindles hurled a

  doughnut back. “I can’t play,” she said. “One of my

  students got locked in the boys’ room.”

  Mrs. Spindles picked up a

  phone and dialed. “Hello,

  hello!” she cried. “Code 3 at

  Punbury Elementary! Send the

  firemen right away!” Then she

  ran out of the room.

  Stuart gulped in horror. He

  had to get back to the class-

  room, right now — but how? He couldn’t just walk

  through the door, or jump out a window. There was

  only one thing that might work. . . .

  Before he could worry about everything that might

  go wrong, he dropped to the floor. He reached behind

  him and peeled off the hole. Then he crawled to the

  nearest wall, slapped the hole against it, and made his

  escape into the hall.

  Back in room 3B, Mrs. Spindles was nowhere to be

  seen. Stuart knew this was his big chance to turn all his

  bad luck into good. He climbed onto her desk. “I have

  something to show for Our Big Interesting World!” he

  announced. “Something you have never seen before!”

  Stuart led the kids down the hall. One by one, he

  showed them the hole into the teachers’ room. One by

  one they bent down and looked through it. He could

  hardly wait to see their reactions.

  And then one by one, they stood up and stared at

  Stuart as though he were crazy.

  Stuart bent down and looked into the teachers’

  room. It was dark and totally empty inside. Just the

  way he suddenly felt when he realized everyone had left

  him there alone.

  Stuart walked back to 3B as slowly as a person

  could walk without actually standing still. At this rate,

  he hoped, the other kids might be in fourth grade by the

  time he got there. On the way, he passed an exit. He

  stopped to poke his head out the door, wishing he could

  just run away.

  There in the parking lot were all the teachers. They

  were watching a crew of firemen putting away their

  ladders. The chief was talking to Mrs. Spindles.

  “The darnedest thing. There was no one in the boys’

  room at all. But it’s a good thing you called. We found

  two more of the Punbury Holes!”

  Another fireman joined them. “Yep. One in the

  boys’ room, one in the teachers’ room. Right through

  the walls! Whoever did this is probably a dangerous

  criminal!”

  Stuart ran outside. He didn’t want someone else to

  be blamed for what he did. “Wait,” he cried. “I made

  the holes!”

  Everyone turned to stare at Stuart. A man stepped

  forward. “I am the principal,” he said. “You have

  obviously just had a very bad shock. In fact, we all

  have, so we are going to dismiss school early today.”

  “But really, it’s because of my cape . . . ” Stuart tried

  again.

  “The principal is right, Stuart,” said Mrs. Spindles.

  “You’ll feel much better tomorrow. You might as well

 
go home now.”

  Stuart decided to walk so he wouldn’t have to face

  the other kids on the bus. With every step, his cape

  seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until he could

  hardly drag himself along. He sat down to rest outside

  Stanley the Trash Collector’s barn, and his cape hung

  around him like a frown.

  “Hi, Stuart,” said Stanley. “You look as sad as yes-

  terday’s trash.”

  Stuart told him about his day. “I think my cape isn’t

  working anymore. I think it’s making me unlucky.

  Maybe I should just throw it away.”

  “People throw stuff away too quickly,” Stanley

  said. “You’ve got to give it a chance.”

  “I guess I could try wearing it one more day,” Stuart

  sighed. “After all, things couldn’t possibly get any

  worse.”

  DAY THREE

  There should be a rule, Stuart thought, that if you

  are late to school no one should talk about it. Being late

  is embarrassing enough.

  “You are late this morning, Stuart,” Mrs. Spindles

  said, as if anyone in the room hadn’t noticed this.

  “I’m sorry,” Stuart said, feeling his ears begin to

  blow up. “I had to fill in about a hundred holes. I’m the

  one who dug them, not some dangerous criminal!”

  “Oh, Stuart!” laughed Mrs. Spindles. “Stop pulling

  my leg!”

  Stuart sank into his seat, stunned. Why would she

  say that? He wasn’t even close enough to pull her leg.

  Plus, why would he want to?

  He sighed. It was hopeless. Even though

  he was wearing all his clothes, and even

  though he had remembered not to drink any-

  thing this morning, he was still going to have a bad day.

  Math was first. Today’s lesson was the number

  twelve. Most of the kids already knew about twelve.

  They knew it was also called a dozen. They knew it was

  ten plus two. Or six plus six.

  Stuart knew about twelve, too. So far so good. And

  then Mrs. Spindles said something so wonderful Stuart

  could hardly believe his ears.

  “Now class,” was the wonderful thing she said, “I

  want you each to draw a picture for twelve.”

  Finally! Here was his chance to make up for all the

  bad starts! He had been the best drawer in his old

  school. If another kid drew a mouse, people might think

  it was a zucchini squash or a hat. There was no way to

  tell. But if Stuart drew a mouse, everyone knew it was a

  mouse. Even grown-ups. That’s how good he was.

  He wanted to draw something really fabulous now.

  Something so good all the kids would fight with one

  another to see who could be the best friend of such a

  great artist. He took his special

  drawing pencil from the pocket of

  his cape and began.

  Stuart worked so hard he lost

  track of time. This happens to

  artists a lot. Pretty soon all the

  other kids were crowded around

  his desk to see what was taking so

  long. Here is what they saw:

  Twelve students! There were twelve students in

  Mrs. Spindles’ third-grade class. And every one of them

  was on Stuart’s paper!

  Stuart knew it was one of his best drawings. Very

  detailed. Still, his heart thudded with dread. Drawing

  people could be tricky. You never knew how people

  might react. They might get mad if you left off their

  ears or made their feet look a tiny bit like bananas.

  “There’s me!” shouted Olivia. “Stuart drew all my

  barrettes!”

  “Awesome!” cried Nacho. “My feet look like

  bananas!”

  All the kids were so happy to find themselves in

  Stuart’s drawing.

  “Let’s show Mrs. Spindles,” they said.

  Stuart was secretly very proud. But he just said,

  “Well, okay. If you want to.”

  But where was Mrs. Spindles?

  Olivia called down the hall. Nacho checked the

  playground.

  “Just like your drawing,” Nacho said. “Twelve kids

  and no teacher.”

  Stuart looked at his drawing. He looked at his pen-

  cil. He looked at his cape. Of course.

  “Don’t worry,” he told the other kids calmly. As if

  losing a teacher were the most normal thing in the

  world. “Things like this happen to me all the time. I’ll

  just have to draw Mrs. Spindles to bring her back. No

  problem.”

  But there was a problem: No room on the paper.

  The twelve students filled up the classroom. The swing

  set filled up the playground.

  There was only one place left to put her.

  “Help!” Mrs. Spindles’ voice floated down into the

  classroom. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I seem

  to have climbed up onto the roof!”

  “Don’t worry,” Stuart called up to her. “I’ll draw

  you a ladder.”

  But he couldn’t do it! He couldn’t draw a ladder,

  even though he had been the best drawer in his old

  school. Too many straight lines.

  Stuart tried again. And again. And again. He tried

  twelve times. Twelve ladders, each too crooked to use.

  Stuart began to panic. Probably no kid in the

  history of third grade had ever put a teacher on the

  roof. He was going to jail for life, unless he could think

  up a terrific idea.

  And then he did just that.

  “Hold on!” he called up to

  Mrs. Spindles. “You’ll be on the

  ground in a few seconds.” Stuart

  erased Mrs. Spindles’ old legs and

  gave her some new, reach-the-ground ones.

  Mrs. Spindles’s new long legs waved

  wildly past the windows. The other kids

  dove for cover under their desks.

  “Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Spindles.

  “What in the world has happened? How

  will I tie my shoes?”

  How will she walk around? wondered

  Stuart. How will she fit in the classroom?

  And whatever made me think this was a

  good idea?

  “Hang on,” he called, trying to sound

  cheerful. He got a big piece of paper. “I’m

  going to start all over.”

  Stuart bit his bottom lip to concentrate. Very care-

  fully he drew Mrs. Spindles inside the classroom. With

  normal legs.

  He drew twelve desks, and a flag, and a chalkboard.

  He drew Smiling Ed, the class turtle, and Sparky and

  Pal, the hamsters. It was the best drawing of his career.

  But it wasn’t done.

  Stuart grinned. Outside, where there was plenty of

  room, he drew twelve kids . . .

  ALL PLAYING TOGETHER!!!

  Stepping onto the bus going home, Stuart had the

  feeli
ng something was missing. It wasn’t a bad some-

  thing-was-missing feeling, like if you forgot to put your

  pants on. It was a good something-was-missing feeling,

  like if the poison ivy between your toes were finally

  gone.

  He took a seat in front of Nacho and tried to think

  what it was.

  Nacho tugged on his cape. “Will you draw me some

  longer legs?” he asked Stuart. “Like you did with Mrs.

  Spindles?”

  Stuart studied Nacho. Nacho was short, like he was,

  but at least Stuart had a tall neck. Nacho was just plain

  short, all over. In fact, he was the only kid in third grade

  shorter than Stuart. This was too bad for Nacho, but

  very good for Stuart.

  That’s what was missing! Stuart wasn’t worried

  anymore. He wasn’t the shortest kid in the class. He

  hadn’t thrown up from an egg salad smell, he hadn’t

  forgotten everything he’d learned in second grade, and

  he hadn’t gotten stuck in the bathroom. At least not for

  very long. And even though he hadn’t made any friends,

  the other kids had played with him.

  It felt weird not having anything to worry about,

  but good. Still, Stuart would have drawn Nacho longer

  legs if he could have. Even though it would have made

  him the shortest kid in third grade.

  “You can put sandwiches in your shoes to make

  yourself taller,” he told Nacho. “That’s what I do some-

  times. Ham and cheese is the best; tuna fish is not so

  good. But I can’t draw you longer legs. My cape

  doesn’t work that way. I only get one thing a day. One

  adventure.”

  “That’s okay,” Nacho said. “I can wait until tomor-

  row.”

  Stuart shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,

  either. It’s a different thing every day.”

 

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