The Fabled Fourth Graders of Aesop Elementary School

by Candace Fleming

  Ashley knew he was in trouble.

  He turned to run.

  “Hey, kid,” called Tarantula in an attempt to stop him. “Come closer, huh?”

  Ashley vigorously shook his head.

  “C’mon, I won’t hurt ya. I need your help. Look.” Tarantula pointed to the seat of his nylon sweatpants. They were caught in a locker door.

  “Help me out, will ya, kid?” said Tarantula.

  Was this a trap? Ashley wondered. Some big joke to humiliate him even more? “Why should I?” he asked.

  “Because I’ll pound you if you don’t,” snarled Tarantula.

  With a squeak, Ashley backed away.

  “No, wait,” Tarantula called. “I was just kidding! I didn’t mean it, honest.”

  The desperate tone in the bully’s voice made Ashley stop.

  “Please, kid,” begged Tarantula. “I can’t let anybody see me like this.”

  Ashley kept his distance. “Why?” he asked.

  Tarantula suddenly looked sheepish. “If the other fifth graders catch me here, I’ll never hear the end of it,” he admitted. “See? I got hooked on Sandy Pepperdine’s locker.”

  “Huh?” said Ashley.

  Tarantula blushed. “Look, I snuck away from gym class so I could slip a love note into Sandy’s locker, and … well … this happened. If I don’t get unstuck before gym class ends, I’m going to be the laughingstock of my class.”

  “I know how that feels,” said Ashley. He took a few cautious steps forward.

  From down the hall came the shrill sound of Mrs. Gluteal’s whistle. “Fifth grade, line up,” she hollered.

  Tarantula tugged frantically at his pants. “They’re coming!” he cried.

  Ashley stepped a little closer.

  The gym door swooshed open.

  “Hurry,” begged Tarantula.

  Ashley stepped even closer.

  He could hear the fifth graders shuffling down the hall now.

  “Ah, man,” moaned Tarantula. “I’m going to get teased, and if I’m teased, I’ll end up pounding someone, and if I pound someone, I’ll end up in Mrs. Struggles’ office for who knows how long. I hate being teased.”

  “Me too,” agreed Ashley. And quicker than Mr. Jupiter’s light-year calculator (“Given to me by my friends at NASA,” he had explained), the boy reached forward and freed Tarantula’s pants from the locker door.

  At that moment, the fifth graders turned the corner and swarmed around them.

  “What’s going on here, Mr. Santangelo?” the fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Lipschitz, asked suspiciously.

  Tarantula plastered a smile onto his face. “Nothing, Mr. Lipschitz. I’m just have a chat with my good friend … um … uh …”

  “Ashley,” said Ashley.

  “Ashley?” repeated Tarantula.

  Ashley nodded.

  And Tarantula grinned. “I’ll see you later … Ashley,” he drawled.

  I’m doomed, thought the fourth grader. First my classmates, and now Tarantula. Life is so unfair.

  He shuffled back to his classroom.

  The next morning before school, Calvin tapped Ashley Z. on the back. “I found this mermaid barrette underneath the monkey bars,” he said, grinning. “Do you want it?”

  Ashley tried to keep his cool. “Come on, you guys,” he said. “You heard Mr. Jupiter. No teasing in the classroom.”

  “But this isn’t the classroom,” replied Lenny. “This is the playground.” He smirked. “Have you heard the one about the pigtailed Ashley who—”

  A sudden shadow blocked the sun.

  The boys looked up.

  They gulped, paled, gave a little groan.

  “H … h … hi, Tarantula,” stammered Ashley. He braced himself for the teasing that was sure to come.

  “Don’t call me Tarantula ever again,” snarled the fifth grader. “I’m using a new nickname now.”

  “You are?” Ashley squeaked. “Wh … wh … what is it?”

  “Ashley,” said the fifth grader.

  “Ashley?” repeated Humphrey.

  “Uh-huh,” said the fifth grader. His eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted into a sneer. “And from now on, anytime I hear someone making fun of the name Ashley, I’m gonna figure you’re teasing me.”

  “Wh … wh … who’d make fun of the name Ashley?” sputtered Bruce.

  “N … n … not me,” added Lenny.

  “I think it’s a really c … c … cool name,” said Calvin.

  The boys scattered.

  Ashley watched them go and smiled. “Thanks, Tarantula,” he said.

  “No sweat, kid,” replied the bully. With a wink, he sauntered off to scare some third graders.

  And Ashley sauntered off to his classroom.

  MORAL: One good turn deserves another.

  PFFFT!

  RACHEL PIFFLE WAS THE QUIETEST GIRL

  in fourth grade. She spoke so softly that no one—not her teachers, her classmates, or even her parents—had ever really heard her voice. For this reason, she was often overlooked.

  On Tuesday morning, Mr. Jupiter asked, “Is anyone absent?”

  The students looked around.

  “Rachel is,” Missy finally said.

  Rachel, who was sitting at her desk, said softly, “Pffft!”

  No one heard her.

  “Anyone else?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  The students looked around again.

  “Just Rachel,” said Emberly.

  “Pffft!” Rachel said again.

  Mr. Jupiter wrote Rachel’s name on the attendance slip. “Ashleigh B.,” he said, “will you take this to the office?”

  Rachel tried one last time. “Pffft!”

  No one heard her.

  Mr. Jupiter clapped his hands. “Everyone line up, please. It’s time for music.”

  Rachel loved music. “Pffft!” she said joyfully.

  No one heard her.

  In the music room, Mr. Halfnote passed out instruments.

  A triangle for Ashley Z.

  A tambourine for Bernadette.

  A slide trombone for Stanford.

  “Pffft!” said Rachel.

  Mr. Halfnote didn’t hear her.

  Rachel helped herself to a pair of cymbals.

  “Today,” said the music teacher, “we will accompany ourselves as we sing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ ”

  In the back row, Rachel shivered in anticipation. Music time was the only time she felt free to raise her voice.

  Mr. Halfnote tapped his baton on his music stand. “Instruments up,” he said. He held his hands in the air like a conductor. “And a one … and a two … and a you-know-what-to-do.” He gave the downbeat.

  Calvin pumped his accordion.

  Victoria strummed her zither.

  Melvin rang his cowbell.

  The class sang out, “Mine eyes have seen the glory …”

  Confident that no one could hear her above all the racket, Rachel banged her cymbals together and bellowed, “HIS TRUTH IS MARCHING ON-N-N-N!” It felt marvelous.

  When they got to the song’s end, Mr. Halfnote hollered, “Big finish!” He waved his baton wildly in the air, then pointed it at Jackie, who was playing the kettledrum.

  Jackie put all her heart—and muscle—into it. She pounded the drum. She pummeled the drum. She—

  “Heads up!” she yelped as one of the clublike drumsticks flew from her grasp and whistled through the air.

  It bounced off Ham’s forehead—

  “Yeeeow!”

  bashed into Bruce’s upper lip—

  “Ouch!”

  ricocheted off Lil’s elbow—

  “Owie!”

  banged into Missy’s tummy—

  “Ooomph!”

  glanced off Rose’s knee—

  “Yowza!”

  bopped into Victoria’s backside—

  “Waaah!”

  smashed Bernadette’s pinkie—

  “Oooh-oooh! Aaah-aaah!”

&n
bsp; and rolled to a stop at Rachel’s feet.

  So lost in the music was Rachel that she didn’t notice the flying drumstick, her wounded classmates, or the fact that everyone else had stopped singing and playing their instrument. Instead, with eyes squeezed shut, she belted out, “GLORY! GLORY! HALLELUJAH!”

  The others couldn’t believe their ears. Rachel Piffle was—

  “Are you okay?” cried Amisha.

  “She must be hurt if she’s screaming like that,” Emberly said to Bernadette.

  Melvin shook his head in confusion. “When did Rachel get here?”

  The others ignored him.

  Dropping their instruments, everyone raced to her side.

  At that moment, Rachel opened her eyes … and turned as red as Mr. Jupiter’s Japanese kimono.

  “Are you bleeding?” asked Victoria. She rubbed her bruised backside.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said softly.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” asked Bruce. He dabbed at his swollen lip.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said.

  “Speak to me,” begged Ham. “Speak to me.” He swiped a trickle of blood from his forehead.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said.

  “The nurse!” cried Mr. Halfnote. “We have to get her to the nurse!”

  Rachel’s cymbals crashed to the floor as the music teacher flung her over his shoulder and dashed down the hall to Nurse Betadine’s office. Bruised and bleeding, the others staggered behind.

  “Tell me where it hurts,” said Nurse Betadine after Rachel had been placed on the cot.

  “Pffft!” Rachel said.

  Nurse Betadine applied a compress to Rachel’s forehead, an ice pack to her knee, and a splint to her pinkie.

  “Will she be okay?” asked Lil, massaging her throbbing elbow.

  “I don’t know.” Nurse Betadine frowned with worry. Popping a thermometer into Rachel’s mouth, she shooed the others back to their classroom.

  Alone with her patient, the nurse began to fret. “Does she need an ambulance?” she asked herself.

  “Pffft!”

  “A hospital?”

  “PFFFT!”

  “A surgeon?”

  “PFFFT!”

  Finally, as a last resort, the nurse unwrapped a Band-Aid and stuck it on Rachel’s backside.

  “PFFFT! PFFFT! PFFF … FFF … FFF … FEEL GOOD! I FEEL GOOD!” Rachel sang out.

  Nurse Betadine looked startled, then smiled. “I knew you would,” she said. “Those Band-Aids work every time.” And she sent Rachel back to her classroom.

  Minutes later, Rachel took her seat behind Victoria.

  “I hope Rachel’s okay,” Victoria said. She pressed a wet paper towel to her bruised backside.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said.

  “I hope she doesn’t miss too much school,” said Bruce. He dabbed the blood from his lip with a tissue.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe we should send flowers,” said Rose. She wrapped an elastic bandage around her stiff knee.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said. “Daisies would be nice.”

  Ham looked up. “I think I’m hearing voices,” he said. Rubbing his bruised forehead, he added, “I think we should send her some daisies.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Lil.

  “Pffft,” Rachel said.

  MORAL: The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

  THERE ONCE A MAN FROM DANCART …

  LIL DITTY WAS THE MOST POETIC GIRL

  at Aesop Elementary School.

  “ ‘Ode to a Popsicle,’ ” Lil announced at recess one morning after finding a discarded stick on the tetherball court. And while Jackie and Calvin waited impatiently for her to move so that they could play, she recited:

  “O empty stick

  stained with orange memory,

  you lie abandoned.

  Once full of licks,

  now full of ants,

  you—”

  THUMP!

  “Oops,” said Jackie, grinning. “Sorry.”

  “Ignoramus,” huffed Lil, rubbing the side of her head.

  “Whatever,” said Jackie. And she served the ball.

  * * *

  That afternoon Mr. Jupiter made an exciting announcement.

  “Today we will be beginning our poetry unit. Everyone, please open your Language Arts for Dummies books to page eight hundred thirty-seven.”

  “Hooray!” clapped Lil.

  “Argh,” moaned the rest of the class.

  For the next half hour, Mr. Jupiter talked about haiku, sonnets, and limericks.

  “I know a limerick!” cried Lenny. He recited:

  “There once was a man from Dancart,

  Went to dinner with his dear sweetheart,

  At the table he burped,

  He belched and he slurped

  Even worse, he started to—”

  “Ahem!” Mr. Jupiter coughed loudly. “Thank you for that … ah … inspirational poem, Leonard.”

  Lenny grinned.

  “Now then, class,” said Mr. Jupiter. “We are going to have a contest.”

  “A contest?” cried Jackie. “What kind of contest? Baseball? Basketball? Tetherball?” She flexed a well-developed bicep.

  “Is it a beauty contest?” asked Victoria. She flipped her golden hair.

  “Or a pie-eating contest?” asked Ham. He smacked his lips. “Is it? Huh?”

  “No,” answered Mr. Jupiter, “it’s a poetry contest. If everyone memorizes at least twenty lines of poetry, we will have a class pizza party.”

  Ham smacked his lips again. “Make mine pepperoni.”

  Mr. Jupiter laughed. “You know, when I taught at the Botswana Middle School, my students’ favorite topping was ostrich and mushroom, but …” He shook his head. “I digress. What was I talking about?”

  “Poetry,” said Bernadette.

  “And pizza,” added Ham.

  “Right,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Everyone has a chance to win pizza, but the student who memorizes the most lines of poetry wins …” He held up a book. “This.”

  In the front row, Lil squealed. “It’s Emily Dickinson! The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson!”

  “Emily who?” asked Rose.

  “You know,” said Lil. “ ‘I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too?’ ”

  “I’m somebody,” said Rose. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Actually,” said Mr. Jupiter, “Lil was reciting a poem written by Emily Dickinson.”

  “The world’s greatest poet,” Lil gushed.

  Jackie’s hand shot into the air. “Mr. Jupiter,” she said, “this contest isn’t fair.”

  “Why not?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  “Because Lil already knows lots of poems. She has an advantage.”

  “But when we run relay races, or play kickball, you have the advantage,” Mr. Jupiter pointed out.

  “That’s different,” said Jackie.

  “How?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  Before Jackie could answer, Miss Turner stuck her curly blond head into the classroom.

  Curly? Blond?

  The fourth graders gasped. Miss Turner had gotten a new hairdo and—

  “She looks fabulous,” said Victoria under her breath.

  “Mr. Jupiter, may I speak with you in the hall for a moment?” Miss Turner asked in a breathy voice.

  “But of course,” replied Mr. Jupiter. He stepped out into the hallway.

  The moment he was gone, Lil turned around in her seat. She stuck out her tongue at Jackie. “You’re just mad because you know I’m going to win,” she said. “And you can’t stand to lose anything, not even a poetry contest.”

  Jackie felt her cheeks turning hot. “Who cares about winning a poetry contest anyway?” she asked. “Poetry’s stupid.”

  “Maybe it’s not the poetry that’s stupid,” Lil shot back.

  “Ooooh,” whistled Emberly. “That stings.”

  Jackie’s cheeks burned.

  “Ignoramus,” hi
ssed Lil.

  “Come on, Jackie,” urged Bernadette. “You can’t let Little Miss Sonnet get away with that.”

  Jackie’s cheeks were positively on fire.

  “You might be able to dribble a ball,” Lil went on, “but you can’t memorize a ballad.”

  Jackie erupted. “Yes, I can!” She pointed her finger at Lil. “I challenge you to a race—a poetry race!”

  “You’re on,” said Lil.

  For the rest of the afternoon, the fourth graders worked on the thermometer graphs they would use to record the number of lines they memorized and recited.

  Lil cut and pasted and hummed.

  Jackie cut and pasted and moaned. What had she been thinking? How could she ever beat Lil?

  The next afternoon, Mr. Jupiter asked, “Does anyone have a poem they would like to recite?”

  “I do!” cried Lil. “It’s called ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,’ and it was written by William Wordsworth, and”—she smirked at Jackie—“it’s twenty-four lines long.” Then, crossing her hands over her stomach, she recited:

  “I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils …”

  The poem went on and on.

  At her desk, Jackie groaned. She didn’t get it. What was the point? Why was a cloud lonely? Why was poetry so hard to understand?

  “Word perfect,” said Mr. Jupiter when Lil finished. “Does anyone else have a poem today?” He looked straight at Jackie.

  Jackie slipped down in her chair. She had meant to have one, but the words refused to stick in her head. All those lines! All those stanzas! Jackie hadn’t known where to start memorizing.

  It would help if poems were written about something interesting, she thought. But no. They all had to be about stupid stuff—clouds and loneliness and things that didn’t make any sense.

  “Anyone else?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  A few kids raised their hands.

  As they recited, Lil turned to look at Jackie. “Loser,” she mouthed.

  Not if I can help it, vowed Jackie.

  Jackie rushed to the library after school.