The Fabled Fourth Graders of Aesop Elementary School

by Candace Fleming

  “I am,” said Mr. Jupiter. “But don’t worry. I have a substitute.”

  He plopped a human skull onto his desk.

  The children stared, wide-eyed.

  “This is Mrs. Yorick,” Mr. Jupiter explained. “I found her on an archaeological dig along the Solo River in Java.”

  The children kept staring.

  “Mrs. Yorick,” continued Mr. Jupiter, “is never absent. Can you guess why?”

  The children shook their heads.

  “Because,” he said, “she doesn’t have any body to go out with.”

  For one moment, the children sat in silence.

  Then Calvin chuckled.

  Victoria giggled.

  Soon all the children were rocking with laughter.

  “No body,” howled Lenny. “That’s a good one, Mr. Jupiter.”

  “Thank you, Leonard,” said Mr. Jupiter. “I thought it was pretty funny myself.” And he laughed until his sides ached and his eyes teared.

  Then they all got down to work.

  MORAL: He laughs best who laughs last.

  THE LIBRARIAN IN LOVE

  MISS PAIGE TURNER, THE SCHOOL

  librarian, was busily cataloging new materials and reshelving books. Already she had hung her favorite poster on the wall behind the circulation desk. It read:

  THERE IS A PLACE FOR EVERY BOOK,

  AND EVERY BOOK HAS ITS PLACE.

  Miss Turner considered this her motto. She loved nothing better than arranging her books neatly and numerically on the library shelves.

  “Ah, the Dewey decimal system,” she gushed as she stood back to admire her handiwork. “Humankind’s single greatest achievement.”

  Then she turned to other tasks, her sensible brown loafers making a satisfying shush-shush sound as she bustled around the library. An hour earlier, the place had been crawling with students looking for The Cat in the Hat, Ramona the Pest, and books about dinosaurs. But now the library was quiet as a museum again—just the way Miss Turner liked it.

  Then Mrs. Struggles walked in.

  “Paige,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Jupiter.”

  Annoyed at having her silence disturbed, Miss Turner frowned and looked up from the magazine rack she’d been arranging. She found herself looking into—

  —the most beautiful pair of brown eyes in the whole world!

  Instinctively, Miss Turner straightened her cardigan—the one with the apples appliquéd onto its pockets. She tucked back a strand of mouse-brown hair and pushed up her wire-rimmed glasses.

  Mr. Jupiter smiled a dazzling smile. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Mr. Jupiter’s our new fourth-grade teacher,” explained Mrs. Struggles.

  Miss Turner managed a weak “Hello.” She felt like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a hot summer’s day—all sweet and drippy.

  Mr. Jupiter leaned closer. “I look forward to working with you,” he said. His voice caressed Miss Turner’s pale skin like a soft spring breeze.

  “Oh, me too,” she breathed.

  Mr. Jupiter leaned even closer. He was so close, the librarian could see the gold flecks in his eyes. “One more thing,” he said.

  “Anything,” sighed Miss Turner.

  “I would like to check out a copy of Aesop’s Fables,” he said. “Do I need to fill out a card?”

  “What?” Miss Turner blinked. She felt blinded by his beauty. “No, no, take a copy, that’s fine.”

  Mrs. Struggles raised her eyebrows. Miss Turner was always such a stickler for proper checkout procedures. What was going on here?

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Jupiter. He touched the back of her hand. “And when, may I ask, is it due?”

  His touch jolted her senses. She felt confused. Dizzy. Electrified.

  “Due?” she managed to croak. “Whenever.”

  Mrs. Struggles shook her head in disbelief. Miss Turner detested overdue books. Why, any student who didn’t return a book within fourteen days was hunted down and fined.

  Mr. Jupiter smiled again. “That is very generous of you, Paige. May I call you Paige?”

  The sound of her name on his lips made her shiver.

  “Of course.”

  “Mr. Jupiter,” said Mrs. Struggles, “let me introduce you to our music teacher.” She led him out the door.

  Miss Turner stood there for a moment, dazed. Then she collapsed into her swivel chair. It rolled across the floor and crashed into a shelving cart.

  She barely noticed. Her heart raced, and a feeling of wild abandonment shot through her. Suddenly, she longed to kayak down the Congo River! Parachute off the Empire State Building! Read a trashy romance novel! With trembling hands, the librarian reached into her SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME book bag and pawed around until she found her compact. Snapping it open, she gazed at her reflection in the tiny mirror.

  Just as she suspected, nothing had changed. And yet … Miss Turner shook her head. How odd! On the outside she looked exactly the same. But on the inside?

  She felt like a brand-new woman.

  MORAL: You can’t judge a book by its cover.

  PICTURE DAY

  ROSE CLUTTERDORF HAD OVERSLEPT …

  again.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” her mother cried.

  Rose snatched yesterday’s clothes off the floor and flung them on. She raced downstairs and—grabbing her backpack and a cold Toaster Tart—raced out the door. She didn’t even take time to brush her teeth, or pee, or run a comb through her tangled hair.

  Minutes later, she screeched into the classroom and—

  Rose shook her head.

  Why did everyone look so weird?

  Ashlee A. was wearing a ruffled skirt and panty hose.

  Ashleigh B. was wearing a shimmery green party dress.

  And Ashley Z. was wearing dress pants and a collared shirt—and his shirt was tucked in!

  The truth hit Rose like a ton of social studies books.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped. “It’s Picture Day!”

  Victoria walked over to Rose and smirked. “You obviously forgot.”

  Victoria had dressed for Picture Day as if it were her wedding day. Her long blond hair had been swept up into a swirling mass of curls and hairpins. She was wearing a white velvet dress, white lace tights, and—

  “Nice pearl collar,” snickered Lenny.

  “It looks like something my grandmother would wear,” added Bruce.

  “Or my basset hound,” put in Emberly.

  “Humph,” snorted Victoria. “Boys don’t know anything about fashion.” And she flounced away.

  Any other day, Rose wouldn’t have cared what Victoria thought. She wouldn’t have worried about her clothes or her hair. But today was different. Today was Picture Day.

  Rose looked down at her wrinkled pink jeans and rumpled yellow T-shirt, which read MY GRANDMOTHER WENT TO BORNEO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS T-SHIRT. Tears pricked her eyes.

  Her best friend, Missy, tried to cheer her up. “I have some extra barrettes in my desk,” she said. “We can at least fix your hair.”

  Rose hesitated. Barrettes? She never wore barrettes. It just wasn’t her style. “No, thank you, I—” she began.

  But Missy cut her off. “Do you want to look special on Picture Day, or not?”

  Rose nodded.

  “Then come on,” said Missy. She pulled Rose into a corner of the room, right next to Mr. Jupiter’s suit of armor—“Found while exploring the underground tomb of the Knights Templar,” he had explained—and began pinning plastic butterflies all over Rose’s head.

  At that moment, Amisha walked over. “You need earrings, too,” she said, and she clipped a dangly pair onto Rose’s earlobes.

  Earrings? Rose never wore earrings. They weren’t her style either. Besides, they pinched. “I’d rather go without jewelry,” said Rose.

  “No jewelry on Picture Day?” gasped Amisha. She jangled her gold bracelets. “You wouldn’t look special enough.”

  Before Rose could re
ply, Victoria pushed her way into the corner. “You, girl, need some color,” she proclaimed. Whipping out a tube of Cha-Ching Cherry lip gloss, she aimed it at Rose’s mouth and said, “Pucker up.”

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” said Rose. “I’ve never worn makeup before.”

  “That’s obvious,” replied Victoria. “Still, you want to look special on Picture Day, don’t you?”

  Rose nodded.

  Victoria smeared a thick pink streak across Rose’s mouth, then touched up her own shimmering lips. “Now we both look special.”

  Rose longed to wipe away the sticky mess, but before she could grab a tissue, Emberly slipped a pair of rhinestone sunglasses over her eyes.

  “Now, that looks special,” he declared.

  Then Jackie draped a basketball jersey over her shoulders.

  “Really special,” she declared.

  And Ham tied a bow tie around her neck.

  “Really, really special,” he declared.

  “I don’t know—” began Rose.

  But her classmates paid no attention to her. They were too busy adding:

  Knee pads.

  A nose ring.

  Tube socks.

  Snow boots.

  Press-on fingernails.

  A cowboy hat.

  A charm bracelet.

  Temporary tattoos.

  A sequined belt.

  A silk scarf.

  And a plastic Hawaiian lei.

  At last they stepped back to admire their work.

  “What do you think?” they asked Rose. They turned her so she could see her reflection in the suit of armor’s shiny breastplate.

  Rose gasped. None of it—not the tattoos or the boots or the nose ring—was her style. She looked—

  “So, so special,” sighed Missy.

  The others nodded their agreement.

  Rose looked from her ridiculous reflection to her smiling classmates. How could she tell them she thought she looked stupid?

  She couldn’t.

  At that moment, Mr. Jupiter, dressed for the occasion in a Mayan ceremonial robe—“A gift from the President of Mexico,” he had explained—clapped his hands. “Line up, please. It’s time for pictures.”

  Everyone hurried to the door.

  Miserably, Rose followed.

  In the lunchroom, Miss Turner was already in front of the camera. Or at least the fourth graders thought it was Miss Turner. In place of her usual shapeless jumper and bulky sweater, however, the librarian was wearing an attractive blue dress that showed off curves no one had ever known she had.

  “Say ‘cheese,’ ” said the photographer.

  “Cheeeese,” said Miss Turner, smiling.

  Flash!

  She wiggled her fingers at Mr. Jupiter before hurrying back to the library, her sensible loafers making their faint shush-shush sound.

  Then it was Victoria’s turn. Pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to make them redder, she smiled a dazzling smile.

  Flash!

  Emberly grinned from ear to ear.

  Flash!

  Lenny stuck out his tongue.

  Flash!

  Finally, Rose stepped gloomily in front of the camera.

  “Smile,” said the photographer.

  “How can I?” she sighed. “Look what I’m wearing!”

  The photographer shrugged.

  Flash!

  Rose couldn’t smile for the class photo either. As she knelt in the front row—earrings pinching, tube socks falling down—she crossed her fingers. Please, oh, please, let the camera break. Let the photographer accidentally cover the lens with his thumb. Let the photography studio lose the pictures.…

  Three weeks later, Mr. Jupiter announced, “Wonderful news, children. Your pictures are here.” He began handing out envelopes.

  Victoria ripped hers open. “Lovely, as usual,” she purred.

  “I look good too,” said Bernadette.

  “Boy, I’m handsome,” said Melvin.

  The others ignored him.

  As for Rose, she held the envelope in her trembling hand. She couldn’t bring herself to open it.

  “Yowza!” yelped Humphrey. “Look at the class picture. Look at Rose.”

  Everyone but Rose pulled their class picture out of the envelope. She braced herself.

  “Man, your hair looks like a bees’ nest,” snickered Ham.

  “Like a butterflies’ nest, actually,” corrected Stanford.

  “What’s with the knee pads?” giggled Amisha.

  “And the bow tie?” tittered Lil.

  Then Mr. Jupiter shouted, “Stop!”

  Everyone looked toward the teacher.

  “I can’t believe it!” he cried as he peered at the class picture. “How could this have happened? How? It simply will not do.”

  “What won’t do?” asked Bernadette. “Rose’s tattoo?”

  “My outfit,” explained Mr. Jupiter. “Don’t you see? I wore a Mayan ceremonial robe without holding the matching canary-head scepter.” He slapped his forehead. “In the tribal world, it’s a complete fashion nono. Well, there’s nothing else to do. We’ll have to retake the class photo.”

  “We will?” said Rose hopefully.

  “Absolutely,” replied Mr. Jupiter.

  Rose smiled with relief.

  “Want to borrow my butterfly barrettes again?” asked Missy.

  “No, thanks,” said Rose. And she smiled at her ordinary, everyday reflection in the breastplate of Mr. Jupiter’s suit of armor.

  MORAL: Try to please all, and you end by pleasing none.

  DANCE, STANFORD, DANCE

  TEACHERS CALLED STANFORD BINET

  conscientious. This meant he did all his homework, studied for every test, kept the inside of his desk tidy, and always returned his library books on time.

  This also meant he annoyed his classmates.

  “Why can’t you act like a regular kid?” Calvin asked during Friday free time.

  Stanford—who was alphabetizing next month’s vocabulary words—snorted. “You mean waste my time like everyone else?” He rolled his eyes. “Get serious.”

  “I am serious,” said Calvin. “You should play more games, have more fun, laugh once in a while.”

  Stanford snorted again. “Playing games won’t earn me an A in spelling. Having fun won’t make me the best student in the class. Laughing won’t get me into a top-notch college.”

  “Geez,” said Calvin, “who cares about stupid stuff like that?”

  “I do,” snapped Stanford. He went back to his alphabetizing.

  Calvin went back to his finger paints.

  Just then Mr. Jupiter clapped his hands. “Put away your things and line up at the door, please. It’s time to rehearse for this year’s fall musical.”

  “I hate the fall musical,” Lenny grumbled as the children headed down the hall. “I always end up wearing a squirrel costume.”

  “Leonard,” corrected Mr. Jupiter, “you know I don’t allow that word. There is no hating in my classroom.”

  Lenny looked around. “I’m not hating in the classroom,” he said. “I’m hating in the hallway.”

  “There is no hating in the hallway, either,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  The children walked into the auditorium.

  “Can I hate in here?” asked Lenny.

  Mr. Jupiter shook his head.

  “I hate that,” Lenny muttered under his breath. He followed the others onto the stage.

  Mrs. Playwright, the traveling drama teacher, was waiting for them. Until this year, every elementary school had always had its own drama teacher. But the district had run out of money. Now all sixty-four elementary schools shared Mrs. Playwright.

  She smiled. “I’m so excited about this year’s fall musical at Marcus Aurelius Elementary School.”

  “Marcus Aurelius?” repeated Humphrey.

  The children looked at one another.

  “You mean Aesop Elementary School,” said Amisha
.

  “What?” said Mrs. Playwright.

  “This is Aesop School,” said Bernadette.

  “It is?” said Mrs. Playwright. She flipped open her calendar. “Let’s see, Marcus Aurelius School on the sixth … Caesar School on the sixteenth … Ovid School on the twenty-sixth … Aesop School on the—” She turned back to the children. “I’m so excited about this year’s fall musical at Aesop Elementary School.”

  She handed out sheets of music.

  “Now then, children,” she said, “this is the song you will be performing. Let’s sing just the first verse so I know what you sound like. Ready?”

  She tooted her pitch pipe, and the children squawked:

  “Up on the treetops, I see leaves,

  They are swaying in the breeze,

  First they are green, but when it turns cold,

  They change to red and orange and gold.”

  “Gag,” said Calvin.

  “Gross,” said Emberly.

  “Barf,” said Mrs. Playwright. “That was awful. This class is going to need lots of singing practice. Now let’s see your dancing skills. Your routine goes like this.” She demonstrated:

  “Side-together, clap!

  Side-together, clap!

  Shimmy, shuffle, hop, turn, kick!

  Cha-cha-cha!

  Now you try,” she said.

  The children hopped, shuffled, kicked …

  “Omph!”

  Amisha bumped into Ham.

  Rachel tripped over Melvin.

  Bruce accidentally grabbed Bernadette’s hand.

  “Cooties!” he cried.

  “Get serious,” snorted Stanford. “It’s a scientific fact that girls don’t have cooties.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I do this,” said Bruce. He wiped his hand on Stanford’s Theory of Relativity T-shirt.

  “Disgusting!” cried Stanford.

  “I agree,” said Mrs. Playwright. “Your dancing skills are disgusting. This class is going to need lots of dancing practice, too.”

  “How long do we have to learn it all?” Stanford asked.

  “Just six weeks,” answered Mrs. Playwright. “That means all of you will need to—”

  “Get serious,” said Stanford.

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Playwright. She smiled at Stanford. “The fourth graders at Cicero Elementary School are certainly conscientious.”