The Fabled Fourth Graders of Aesop Elementary School

by Candace Fleming

  “You have to help me,” she begged Miss Turner. “I feel like it’s the ninth inning, I’m down ten runs, and I already have two outs.”

  The librarian nodded her understanding. “I think I have just the poem for you.” Pulling a thick book off the shelf, she opened it to the last page.

  Jackie looked at the poem and gasped. “It must be fifty lines long!”

  “Fifty-eight, to be exact,” replied Miss Turner.

  Fifty-eight? A poem that long might just beat Lil’s total. All she had to do was—

  Jackie glanced at the poem again, and her heart sank. “How am I going to memorize all that?” she sighed.

  “You can’t win with no one on base,” replied Miss Turner. “You have to take it one hit at a time.”

  “Or,” said Jackie with dawning understanding, “one line at a time.”

  All week, Jackie worked on the poem—slowly, steadily.

  By Wednesday she’d memorized six lines.

  By Thursday she’d memorized ten lines.

  By Friday she was a nervous wreck.

  Everyone was racking up lines of poetry—everyone but her.

  Victoria recited “Pippa’s Song,” by Robert Browning:

  “The year’s at the spring

  and day’s at the morn …”

  Amisha recited “Louder Than a Clap of Thunder,” by Jack Prelutsky:

  “Louder than a clap of thunder,

  louder than an eagle screams …”

  Bruce recited the Blasto Bubble Gum jingle:

  “Very chewy berry,

  Pop!

  Sticky in your hairy,

  Glop!”

  But Mr. Jupiter said that didn’t count.

  And every afternoon, Lil stood and recited a poem.

  “Roses,” by George Eliot.

  “You love the roses—so do I. I wish

  the sky would rain down roses …”

  “The Eclipse,” by Richard Eberhart.

  “I stood out in the open cold

  To see the essence of the eclipse …”

  And “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” by Dylan Thomas:

  “Do not go gentle into that good night,

  Old age should burn and rave at close of day …”

  “What’s that about, huh?” said Ham.

  “Death,” replied Stanford. “What else?”

  “Blech,” gagged Ham.

  By Friday, Lil’s poetry score stood at fifty-six lines.

  Jackie’s was zero.

  After school, Lil loudly announced, “This contest is soooo booooring! There’s just no competition.”

  Her friends, Ashlee A. and Ashleigh B., glanced at Jackie and giggled. Jackie’s jaw tightened.

  “After all,” Lil went on, “everyone knows I can run rings around you-know-who when it comes to poetry.”

  The girls giggled again.

  Jackie’s fists clenched.

  “Why, I’m so much better, I could win this race without reciting another line of poetry,” declared Lil.

  The Ashleys giggled a third time.

  And Jackie exploded. “Try it!” she cried.

  “I will,” said Lil, and smiling smugly, she sauntered away.

  All weekend, Jackie worked on the poem—slowly, steadily.

  She skipped bowling practice and memorized six lines.

  She skipped a gymnastics meet and memorized seven more lines.

  She even skipped watching Wrestle-Dementia on television and memorized ten more lines.

  By Monday morning, she knew half the poem by heart.

  But she still had a long way to go.

  The shot clock’s ticking, she told herself. I need to score.…

  She stole peeks at the poem during social studies.

  She muttered snatches of it during spelling.

  She recited it in her head during hula dancing.

  By Friday afternoon, she was still seven lines short.

  “Any poems?” Mr. Jupiter asked.

  Hands around the room shot up.

  But not Lil’s. All week she had lounged confidently in her chair, smiling and picking purple polish off her thumbnail.

  The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson lay on Mr. Jupiter’s desk. It seemed to glitter in the sunlight.

  Jackie didn’t raise her hand either. Instead, she mumbled to herself while Bernadette recited Karla Kuskin’s “Me” (fourteen lines); Emberly recited Kenn Nesbitt’s “The Amusement Park” (eight lines); and Lenny recited Ogden Nash’s “The Eel” (two lines).

  “Anyone else?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  Everyone looked at Jackie.

  She looked down at the poem on her desk.

  “Then it’s time to declare the winner in our class poetry contest,” said Mr. Jupiter. He moved toward the prize book.

  Lil moved to stand.

  And Jackie gulped. It was now or never.

  “Mr. Jupiter,” she said, “I have a poem.”

  “Humph,” snorted Lil. “It’ll have to be a really long one to beat me.”

  “It is,” said Jackie. “It’s ‘Casey at the Bat’ by Ernest L. Thayer.”

  For the first time in two weeks, Lil looked worried. “But that’s fifty-eight lines long,” she gasped. She glanced at her poetry thermometer. If Jackie really had memorized that poem, she’d win! Lil shook her head. “It’s too long. You’ll never remember it all.”

  Jackie began:

  “The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

  The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.…”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Jackie recited and recited and recited … one line at a time. It was as nerve-wracking as playing in the tetherball championships. As exhausting as running a marathon. And just as exhilarating.

  Jackie sprinted toward the finish line:

  “And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

  But there is no joy in Mudville—”

  She took a last, deep breath.

  “—mighty Casey has struck out.”

  For a moment the room fell silent; then—

  “Home run!” whooped Calvin.

  “Grand slam!” cried Rose.

  “The winner and still class champion …,” shouted Emberly, “Jackie Jumpbaugh!”

  Everyone but Lil cheered as Mr. Jupiter presented Jackie with the book. Lil blinked back a tear.

  Jackie noticed. “Here,” she said, holding out The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson. “You take it.”

  “Really?” said Lil. Her eyes shone. “You want me to have it?”

  “Well, I don’t want it,” replied Jackie. “It’s a book of poetry, for gosh sake.”

  Lil pressed the book to her chest for a few seconds, then waxed poetic:

  “She tackled a ballad,

  She shot and she scored,

  She rounded the bases,

  I’m totally floored!”

  Jackie blushed.

  And Ham smacked his lips. “Enough with the poetry, huh? When do we order pizza?”

  MORAL: Slow and steady wins the race.

  THE BAD, THE BEAUTIFUL, AND THE STINKY

  VICTORIA SOVAINE WAS THE MOST

  beautiful girl in Mr. Jupiter’s class … at least she thought so.

  “I have the silkiest hair,” she often said. “The bluest eyes. The most dazzling smile. Why, I’d be Miss America if I wasn’t in the fourth grade.”

  Yes, Victoria had good looks. But she also had … a bad temper. When angry, she threw tantrums, hurled insults, screamed, kicked, and spat.

  “She erupts like a volcano,” said Missy.

  “And then she’s not so lava-ly,” joked Lenny.

  One morning, Mr. Jupiter clapped his hands. “Class,” he said, “a skunk has forced the fifth graders to evacuate their classroom. Since they will be attending school at Mooseheart Lodge 186 until their room has been fumigated, we have been asked to take over their safety patrol positions.” He picked up
a sheet of paper. “I have a list of jobs. If you would like to volunteer for one, please raise your hand.”

  Mr. Jupiter read the list.

  “I’ll take playground duty,” said Rose.

  “I’ll take hallway duty,” said Stanford.

  “But who wants bathroom doody?” snickered Lenny.

  Mr. Jupiter shot him a warning look, then continued with the list.

  Soon everyone but Victoria had volunteered for a job.

  “What would you like to do, Victoria?” asked Mr. Jupiter. “Would you like to be a crossing guard? You could stop traffic.”

  “I certainly could,” Victoria replied. “But the wind would muss my hair.” She flipped a carefully curled lock over her shoulder.

  “Then perhaps you would like to help in the lunchroom,” suggested Mr. Jupiter. “That’s an inside job.”

  Victoria cringed. “And scrape trays? I’d ruin my manicure.” She blew on her perfectly sculpted nails, then buffed them on the sleeve of her blue satin blouse.

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Jupiter, “you would like to be the kindergarten monitor. The little ones line up inside, where the wind won’t blow your hair. And since there aren’t any lunch trays to scrape, your nails will remain impeccable. What do you say?”

  “Will I get to wear one of those orange safety patrol vests?” she asked. “Orange sets off the highlights in my hair.”

  Mr. Jupiter thought a moment. “Those vests are usually reserved for the crossing guards, but I suppose we can arrange something.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” said Victoria.

  By the end of her first week, Victoria knew kindergarten patrol had been the right choice. Not only were the kindergartners easy to boss, but they showered her with tokens of their affection—animal crackers, crayon drawings, fistfuls of dandelions.

  Even better, they complimented her all the time.

  “I like your skirt,” one of them would say with a shy smile.

  Or “I think you’re nice.”

  Or—best of all—“You’re so pretty.”

  Then Victoria would bend down so the adoring tots could give her a hug—a quick one that wouldn’t wrinkle her outfit.

  “Kindergartners,” Victoria told Bernadette, “are very honest.”

  One day, Victoria hurried to kindergarten patrol. She was wearing a pair of sparkly new unicorn earrings that complemented her creamy complexion and brightened her eyes.

  But when she leaned down so the little ones could get a better look, Mikey pinched his nose.

  “Ick!” he squealed. “Your breath is stinky. Stinky like my dog, Moe’s. He licks his butt.”

  “Butt breath,” giggled Emily, who was in line behind him. “Victoria’s got butt breath.”

  “Butt breath,” the other kindergartners repeated like parrots. “Butt breath! Butt breath!”

  Victoria felt herself steaming.…

  “Butt breath!”

  Boiling.…

  “Butt breath!”

  The bell rang.

  Victoria stormed down the hall and into the school office.

  “Is my breath bad?” she demanded. She huffed a big puff at Mrs. Struggles. “HAAAA!”

  The principal staggered backward, knocking into a parent volunteer carrying a tray of cupcakes. Chocolate sprinkles flew everywhere.

  “Your breath is so bad it deserves five days’ detention,” gasped Mrs. Struggles.

  Victoria clenched her fists. “No, it’s not! It’s not!” she yelled.

  She raged into the nurse’s office.

  “Is my breath bad?” she demanded. She huffed a big huff at Nurse Betadine. “HAAAA!”

  Nurse Betadine squashed a surgical mask over her nose. “That’s sick!” she gagged. “You should go home for the day. Let me call your mother.”

  Victoria raised her fists above her head. “Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?” she shrieked.

  She roared into the library.

  “Is my breath bad?” she demanded. She huffed a big puff at Miss Turner. “HAAAA!”

  The mascara on Miss Turner’s false eyelashes melted, and her hair uncurled. “Your breath is not pretty,” she croaked.

  “Not pretty?” screamed Victoria. “Me? Not pretty?”

  She pounded the air with her fists, stomped her feet, and hurled herself down the hall and into the fourth-grade classroom.

  “She’s blown her top!” shouted Amisha as Victoria banged doors and kicked over chairs.

  “Victoria,” Mr. Jupiter said firmly. “Stop this behavior at once.”

  But Victoria couldn’t stop. Whirling like a blond tornado, she ripped the book reports off the bulletin board and flung them to the ground.

  Calvin began chewing the eraser off his pencil.

  Lil began reciting a poem about death.

  And Ham ducked behind the desks and tried to crawl away.

  Like a snake, Victoria whipped around. She grabbed him by his collar.

  Fear filled Ham’s eyes as Victoria pulled him closer and closer until their noses touched.

  “Tell me the truth,” she hissed. “Do I have bad breath?”

  “HAAAAA!”

  Ham’s mouth puckered. His stomach lurched. “Y … y … yes,” he stammered.

  “Why is everyone lying!” shrieked Victoria. Pushing Ham away, she advanced on her classmates.

  They quickly huddled behind Mr. Jupiter.

  “Victoria,” the teacher said calmly, “you need to control yourself. Let me teach you a few relaxation techniques I learned while cat-sitting for the Dalai Lama.”

  But Victoria was beyond control. Her maniacally glittering eyes alighted on Lenny. With measured steps, she approached.

  Lenny gulped. If there was ever a time for quick thinking, this was it.

  She stopped in front of him. “You tell me,” she snarled.

  Lenny looked frantically around. What could he do? “HAAAAA!”

  He had to save himself …

  “HAAAAAAAA!”

  … before her bad breath knocked him unconscious.

  “HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  His survival instinct kicked in.

  And Lenny gave a dry little cough and dramatically cleared his throat. “Gee, Victoria,” he said in a fake croaking voice, “I’ve got such a bad cold, I can’t smell a thing.”

  The others pretended to sneeze, wheeze, and sniffle too.

  “It looks like we’ve all caught a cold,” announced Stanford.

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed.

  But before she could erupt again, Mr. Jupiter said, “That’s not a problem. It just so happens I know the cure for the common cold. An ancient shaman told it to me while we were rafting up the Ganges River. Can you guess what it is?”

  The children shook their heads.

  “Spearmint!” cried Mr. Jupiter. He flipped open a tin of breath mints.

  “Oooh,” squealed Ham. “Goody.”

  He pushed his way toward the teacher, but Mr. Jupiter stopped him. “I think Victoria should have the first mint. After all, we don’t want her to catch a cold like the rest of us.” He turned to the still-glowering Victoria. “Have one,” he urged. “On second thought … have two.”

  MORAL: In times of dire need, clever thinking is the key.

  DEWEY OR DON’T WE?

  MR. JUPITER’S STUDENTS LOVED THEIR

  Thursday-morning library visits. They checked out books, listened to stories on tape, and learned about—

  “The Dewey decimal system!” gushed Miss Turner. “Not only is it an ingenious way of organizing all human knowledge, but it’s fun, too!”

  Lenny Wittier and Bruce Vanderbanter, however, had another reason for loving library time—INTERNATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC!

  Plucking the latest issue from the magazine rack, they huddled in the Easy-to-Read section and pored over its pages.

  Thrilling!

  Titillating!

  Downright naughty!

  The boys had discovered the magazine last year. For
weeks they had hidden behind bookshelves and tittered over photographs of Tahitian men in grass skirts, tattooed dogs, and Bavarian dooglehorns. Too soon, however, the school year—and their magazine time—had ended. Impatiently, the boys had waited for fall and the new issues.

  Now they turned to a photograph of topless tribal women.

  Lenny snickered.

  Bruce giggled.

  Miss Turner cleared her throat. “What are you boys doing back here?”

  Lenny tried to cover the picture with his arm. “Nnothing,” he stammered.

  “Yeah,” added Bruce. “Nothing.”

  Miss Turner put out her hand.

  The boys couldn’t help noticing the magenta polish on her well-sculpted nails. They glanced at each other. Since when did Miss Turner do her nails?

  “Hand me that magazine,” said the librarian.

  Reluctantly, Lenny surrendered it.

  Miss Turner looked from the photograph to the red-faced boys. She rolled her eyes. “If you two aren’t old enough to appreciate the infinite beauty of our world and its varied cultures, then you’re not old enough to read this magazine.”

  “But we weren’t reading it,” said Lenny.

  “We were just looking at the pictures,” said Bruce.

  Miss Turner bit her lip and put on her stern librarian’s face. “Now come and join the rest of the class in the reading nook. We’re having our lesson on the Dewey decimal system.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Miss Turner chirped and bubbled about the Dewey decimal system. “The system was invented by the brilliant librarian Melvil Dewey. It is based on ten broad categories, such as 100 to 199, Philosophy and Psychology; 200 to 299, Religion; 300 to 399, Social Sciences; and so on. Each broad category divides into nine subcategories spanning a range from ten to ninety. Each subcategory is further divided into nine specialized topics ranging from one to nine. Decimals are added to break the topics down even further. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  The children yawned.

  “But don’t take my word for it,” she continued. “Take theirs.”

  Up popped a hand puppet wearing flowered bathing trunks and carrying a surfboard. “Cowabunga, dudes,” said the puppet in a voice that sounded very much like Mr. Jupiter’s.

  The children blinked.