“Potato chips are not nutritionally questionable—as long as they feed the curiosity of your children,” said Mr. Sparks.
Mrs. Brede winced. “Oh, puh-leese.”
“Yeah, gimme a break,” echoed Lumpkin, Sr.
Mr. Sparks shot a desperate look at Regina Jasprow.
“Potato chips can be wholesome if you choose the right brand,” the art teacher improvised.
“Wrong!” a parent blurted out.
“What makes you such an expert?” said Emma Zeisel.
“Dr. Joseph Parmigiano, D.D.S. And in case anyone’s wondering, those three letters at the end of my name indicate I’m a dentist. That’s what makes me an expert. You can take my word for it—potato chips are dental time bombs. They’re worse than candy, which is why I refuse to let my Flossy eat them.”
“Bottom line, Teach,” barked Lumpkin, Sr. “We don’t need some ponytailed loon in green sneakers forcing our kids to eat chips. Hank, Jr., eats plenty all on his own.”
Mr. Sparks struggled to keep his cool. “Okay, Mr. Lumpkin. I get it. You don’t approve of my clothing or my educational methods. It’s true, I don’t wear a crisp white lab coat or sensible lace-ups. And I don’t make your children memorize the life cycle of the frog or the parts of the flowering plant. But if the school had wanted that kind of science teacher, they wouldn’t have hired me.”
A lethal silence spread through the lab. Parents shifted in their seats as the battle lines were drawn between the pro- and anti-potato chip factions.
This was not how Mr. Sparks had hoped to start things off. He had planned to demonstrate the principles of combustion using a rocket fuel he had brewed out of potato chips, sugar, yeast, and warm water. But he abandoned the Parents’ Night experiment when he realized that Mrs. Brede, Lumpkin, Sr., and Dr. Joseph Parmigiano, D.D.S., were doing a fine job triggering an explosion all by themselves.
A late arrival only made matters worse.
“Don’t mind me,” said Principal Birdwhistle as she tiptoed across the lab and took a seat near the inflated python.
“We were just discussing the value of the potato chip curriculum,” said Mr. Sparks.
“Value indeed,” huffed Mrs. Brede.
Mr. Sparks looked to Principal Birdwhistle for some guidance, but she responded with a wishy-washy shrug that said, You’re on your own.
Fortunately he wasn’t.
“I don’t know why everyone’s getting twisted into pretzels about a silly snack food,” said Emma Zeisel. “Think about last year. Remember Miss Hagmeyer? The woman forced our kids to sew cloth animals stuffed with her old panty hose. I don’t recall anyone complaining about her kooky teaching methods. Frankly I’ll take potato chips over panty hose any day of the week.”
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room.
“Sorry, toots,” said Lumpkin, Sr. “Potato chips are a lot worse than underwear for one obvious reason.” He patted his sizable paunch.
“I must concur,” said Mrs. Brede.
“Plus let’s not forget about cavities, bacteria, and plaque,” Dr. Parmigiano noted.
“And while we are on the topic of undergarments,” said Mrs. Brede, “there is something I have been meaning to ask you, Mr. Sparks.”
“Fire away.”
“My Antoinette tells me you remove your clothing during class. Is that true?”
“It is,” said Mr. Sparks. “But strictly for educational purposes,” he quickly added. “Here, let me show you.” He undid his button-down and revealed a T-shirt that said:
“WE KNOW NOTHING AT ALL. ALL OUR KNOWLEDGE IS BUT THE KNOWLEDGE OF SCHOOLCHILDREN.”
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
“Tough to argue with a Nobel Prize winner,” said Emma Zeisel.
“Especially a Nobel Prize winner who, your kids may have told you, was born on March fourteenth.”
“What’s so special about March fourteenth?” said Lumpkin, Sr.
“It just happens to be National Potato Chip Day,” said Emma Zeisel.
“Your point, Mr. Sparks?” Mrs. Brede demanded imperiously.
“My point is simple. The fifth graders aren’t just learning about potato chips. They’re learning from potato chips. And I might add I am learning from them.”
Principal Birdwhistle looked up from her clipboard. “Do you mean, Franklin, that you learn from the potato chips or from the students?”
“From both,” said Mr. Sparks. “I learn from both.”
The response appeared to satisfy his boss.
An Asian woman with long black hair raised her hand.
“Ms. Dhabanandana?” said Mr. Sparks.
“Your potato chip experiments are very good. I’ve never seen my P.W. so excited about science. He even is helping in our restaurant, to earn extra money for a research project.”
“Leon’s doing the same thing,” said Emma Zeisel.
“And Lily-Matisse has been extraordinarily helpful around the art studio,” Regina Jasprow interjected.
“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Brede. “It is absurd to treat potahto chips like precious diamonds.”
“I agree,” said Mr. Sparks. “Potato chips are much more valuable.”
“Well!” huffed Mrs. Brede, clutching her gem-encrusted B-shaped brooch.
“Look around you at the room,” said Mr. Sparks. “Can diamonds teach your kids about the conservation of energy? About timekeeping? About aerodynamics? About dichotomous classification? About the growth of Peronospora infestans?”
“What the heck is that, Teach?”
“Potato rot,” said Mr. Sparks, pointing to the tuber standing on the filing cabinet. “Professor Spud is part of a long-term unit on optics and data collection. We’ve been documenting his decay using pinhole cameras made from recycled potato chip cans. Here, take a look. I think they’re pretty nifty.”
While the parents inspected the chip can cameras, Mr. Sparks went around the lab with an open bag of chips. He quickly realized that the bag of chips was much more than a snack. It was a barometer of support. The parents who accepted his offer did so to endorse the all-chips-all-the-time curriculum. The parents who declined were rejecting his methods.
It came as no surprise that Mrs. Brede, Lumpkin, Sr., and Dr. Parmigiano, D.D.S., said no. But the reaction Mr. Sparks knew mattered most was that of Principal Birdwhistle.
She reached inside the bag.
That was a good sign—one that prompted Mr. Sparks to breathe a sigh of relief. But just when he thought he was off the hook, he noticed that the principal removed her hand without a chip.
Mr. Sparks put on a brave face. “Oh, darn,” he said. “Look at the hour.” He pointed at a wall of wired potatoes, thankful it was time to wrap things up. “I guess we got sidetracked by the lively discussion.”
As the parents began to leave the lab, Mr. Sparks said, “Oh, and a quick reminder. My co-researchers and I will be taking a field trip next week, so please make sure to hand in their trip waivers.”
“The form says the class is traveling to a research center,” Mrs. Brede said suspiciously.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Sparks. “We’ll be studying globuli solaniani.”
Mrs. Brede frowned. “Nothing dangerous, I trust.”
“Entirely harmless,” said Mr. Sparks.
“I don’t know, Teach,” said Lumpkin, Sr. “This globuli stuff—it sounds like a mouthful.”
“It is,” said Mr. Sparks. “But nothing your kids can’t handle.”
TWENTY-ONE
The Bus Ride
At the start of the field trip, the fifth graders still didn’t know where they were headed. They waited impatiently outside the school, fidgeting with their can cameras and angling their science journals to catch the sunlight. Normally lab notebooks don’t reflect light. But normally lab notebooks aren’t covered in foil chip bags, as most of these were, thanks to an art class taught by Lily-Matisse’s mom.
“Did you bring Fathead?” P.W. asked Leon.
“O
f course. You know what Sparks says. The scientist always prepares for inspiration to strike.”
“The only thing I’m worrying might strike is Lumpkin,” said Lily-Matisse.
“We’ve got to get our hands on that jacket,” said P.W. “Where are we money-wise?”
Lily-Matisse, who was acting as the treasurer for the jacket fund, said, “We’re up to thirty-one dollars and fifty cents. Plus four dollars that my mom still owes me for filling glue pots.”
“That brings us to thirty-five fifty,” said P.W. “One-fifty-nine ninety-nine minus thirty-five fifty equals … let’s see, that’s the same as one-sixty minus thirty-five fifty equals… one-twenty-four fifty, take away a penny equals … one-twenty-four forty-nine. If we keep doing extra chores, we’ll have the jacket by—”
The arrival of the school bus, and the crush it caused, prevented P.W. from completing his guesstimation.
Mr. Sparks stood inside the bus and called through the glass, “What’s the secret password?”
“Globuli solaniani!” the fifth graders shouted.
Mr. Sparks stepped back and pulled on a long metal handle. His students piled in.
“Time to tell you what we’re up to,” said Mr. Sparks excitedly as his students hustled for seats close to the front. “Despite what you may have heard, globuli solaniani is not a fatal disease that makes your limbs fall off at night. Nor is it a giant sea slug that lives on the ocean floor. Anyone figure out what it is?”
The class had no idea. Or rather, the class had tons of ideas, none of which were correct.
“It was actually Henry Lumpkin who came closest to unlocking the mystery.”
All eyes focused on Lumpkin, who was as startled as the others to hear his name mentioned.
“Yes,” said Mr. Sparks, “Henry Lumpkin—senior—pretty much nailed it at Parents’ Night, when he said that globuli solaniani sounded like a mouthful.”
The students giggled expectantly.
“Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Globuli solaniani is the Latin phrase for a certain substance with which you all have some familiarity. Would anyone care to attempt a translation?”
“Potato chips!” the whole class hollered.
“You are a smart bunch,” said Mr. Sparks. “But more to the point, the phrase has been promoted by a certain scientist named Furtles.”
Leon immediately guessed what was up. “We’re not going to the Furtles Potato Chip Factory, are we, Mr. Sparks?”
For an agonizing moment, the whole bus waited for an answer to that question.
“Yes,” said Mr. Sparks at last. “We are.”
Over the joyful shouts of his students, Mr. Sparks said, “I would contend that the coolest phrase in any language must be ‘potato chips.’ However, ‘field trip’ ranks a close second. And when you combine the two phrases? Well, I ask you, what could be cooler than that?”
Nothing, to judge from the cheering.
Mr. Sparks turned to Mr. Groot, the wood shop instructor who also took class pictures and drove the school bus. “Okay, Herman,” he said. “Let’s roll.”
Mr. Groot released the parking brake and shifted into gear. But just as he was about to pull away, a distinct tapping sound intruded on the mobile merry-making.
Thomas Warchowski was the first to locate the source of the tapping. “It’s the Hag!” he exclaimed.
All at once the cheering stopped. Alarm spread through the bus like poison gas. Mr. Sparks gazed at the fourth-grade teacher through the window and made a show of pointing at his watch. “We’re running late,” he mouthed, tossing up his hands apologetically.
The tapping persisted.
“Herman,” said Mr. Sparks, “cut the engine.” He reached for the door handle and allowed Miss Hagmeyer to board.
She was wearing her usual getup: black cape, black lace-up boots, panty hose the color of cooked liver, a helmet of black hair that everyone on the bus (with the possible exception of Mr. Groot) knew to be fake. She had a clasp on her cape made from glass eyeballs—a reminder of her love of stuffed animiles. And in her bony fingers she gripped her tapper, a dagger-sized sewing needle designed as an instructional tool, but adapted by Miss Hagmeyer for disciplinary ends.
“Phyllis,” said Mr. Sparks. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure has nothing to do with my presence,” Miss Hagmeyer replied brusquely. “I’m here to chaperone.”
“Surely Mr. Groot can provide the necessary backup, don’t you think?”
“It really doesn’t matter a stitch what I think,” Miss Hagmeyer grumbled. “It’s what Principal Birdwhistle thinks that counts. And she thinks you need me. So here I am.” Miss Hagmeyer waved the sewing needle at her former students. “I tried to teach these ruffians last year. I know what they’re capable of.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sparks. “I could use your help, of course, Phyllis. But I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your current fourth graders.”
“Don’t worry about them. They’re working on their costumes for the medieval carnival. They’ll be supervised until we get back.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Sparks, his voice all but disappearing.
Miss Hagmeyer wasted little time taking charge. “Okay, you troublemakers. You know the drill. Hop to it. I want to see everyone seated alphabetically by last name.” She marched up the aisle, casting her eyes (and her needle) right and left. “Tighten that seatbelt, Miss Brede. Zip it, Miss Jasprow! Feet out of the aisle, Mr. Lumpkin! Is that bubblegum I see, Mr. Warchowski? Swallow it now.”
When she reached the rear of the bus, her tone softened. “How’s the new animile progressing, Leon?” she purred.
“Fine.”
“Nearly finished?”
Leon shook his head and clutched his backpack. Special attention from Miss Hagmeyer was the last thing he wanted.
“Well, let me know when your animile is done.”
“Okay,” Leon whispered.
As soon as Miss Hagmeyer claimed her seat, Thomas Warchowski turned to Leon. “You really making an animile just for yourself?”
Leon noticed Lumpkin eavesdropping and quickly changed the subject. “Think the Hag’s here to spy on Sparks?”
“Probably,” Thomas Warchowski answered. “It’s all over the school how ugly things got at Parents’ Night.”
“Pipe down!”
Leon cringed. He kept forgetting about Miss Hagmeyer’s superpowerful hearing and equally powerful voice.
“While I must bow to Mr. Sparks in matters of science, I will pull rank when it comes to conduct. So pay attention, you chatterboxes. I will only say this once. TURN THE VOLUME TO … low! No ifs, ands, or buts.”
TWENTY-TWO
Furtles
A very quiet hour later, the school bus passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Furtles Potato Chip Factory. A watchman emerged from a small wooden gatehouse and flagged down the bus.
Mr. Sparks cranked open the door. “Good morning!”
“You the group from Classical?” the watchman asked.
“We are,” said Mr. Sparks.
“Been a bit of a hiccup in the plans. Mr. Furtles is sick with the influenza. So Mr. Furtles will be showing you around.”
The statement confused Mr. Sparks, but before he could ask for an explanation, the watchman said, “Drive around the back. Mr. Furtles will meet you at the loading dock.”
“Because Mr. Furtles is out sick?” said Mr. Sparks.
“That’s right,” the watchman confirmed.
The class assembled on the loading dock, underneath a sign that said FURTLES … FRIED WITH PRIDE ON THE LOWER EAST SIDE.
Leon spotted a short man in a crisp white lab coat approaching. “Geez, get a load of that guy.”
“His head’s almost as big as Professor Spud’s,” said P.W.
Lily-Matisse laughed. “All that’s missing is the pipe.”
“That’s enough out of you three,” Miss Hagmeyer warned.
The man with
the big head approached Mr. Sparks. “Idaho Furtles,” he said gruffly. “Vice president in charge of quality control.” He patted the pocket of his lab coat, which had the words “Chip Master” stitched in yellow thread.
“Franklin Sparks. Science teacher in charge of fifth graders. And these are Miss Hagmeyer, Mr. Groot, and my eighteen chip-loving co-researchers.”
Idaho Furtles scowled. “I’ll tell you right off the bat, I’m not supposed to be showing you around. My brother, Russet, was the one who gave the okay—which, if you ask me, he should never, ever have done. But did Russet ask my opinion? Of course not. Never has, never will. And since Russet is the president of the company and I’m only the vice president, what he says goes. Now follow me.”
As Idaho Furtles turned toward the entrance, Leon heard Mr. Sparks whisper to Miss Hagmeyer, “Seems our Mr. Furtles has a chip on his shoulder.”
“Very amusing,” said Miss Hagmeyer, clearly not all that amused.
Idaho Furtles moved everyone up a metal staircase and down a long corridor. As the smell of chips grew stronger, so did the group’s excitement.
“Where to first?” Mr. Sparks asked. “The peelers? The kettles? Maybe the salting station?”
“We will visit the factory floor in due course,” said Idaho Furtles. “I think it advisable to begin the tour where all the most important work takes place—my testing room.”
“That sounds promising!” said Mr. Sparks. “I could do with a little snack.”
“Then you had better leave and go to the store,” Idaho Furtles said curtly. “We haven’t stayed in business for over eighty years by giving away free samples.” He guided the group to a door that said TASTING ROOM. Only someone had crossed out the letter “a” and replaced it with an “e.”
The testing room was a vast space filled with racks of trays containing thousands of chips. All along the wall, a variety of signs issued exclamatory warnings. ALL TESTERS MUST WEAR HAIRNETS! Said One. NO UNAUTHORIZED CHIP CONSUMPTION! said another.
Leon and the Champion Chip Page 10
