The Wednesday Wars

by Gary D. Schmidt

  And that was it. Really. That was all she said.

  I was about to climb down off my desk, but first I looked around to be sure that nothing was lurking on the floor.

  "Mr. Hoodhood," said Mrs. Baker impatiently.

  I wanted to point out that she was still standing on her own desk, but since Hoodhood and Associates was suddenly okay again, I didn't. But when Mrs. Baker saw me hesitate, she looked around, then climbed down from the desk to the chair to the floor. She hesitated a bit herself before she put her feet on the floor. "Now go sit down," she said. She opened the lowest drawer of her desk. She pulled out an ancient black book to match the ancient green book, and blew away cobwebs from it. Then she brought the black book to my desk and thumped it down. It smelled of must and dust.

  "The plays of William Shakespeare," said Mrs. Baker, "which can never be boring to the true soul. Open it to The Merchant of Venice"

  I did.

  The rest of that afternoon, we both held our feet up off the floor and took turns reading parts from The Merchant of Venice— even though the print was made for tiny insects with multiple eyes and all the pictures in the book were ridiculous. I mean, no one really stands as if they're posing to be a flower, and no one would wear the stuff they were wearing and dare to go outside.

  But it turned out that Mrs. Baker's strategy didn't work after all! She had wanted to bore me to death, even though she said that she didn't—which was all part of the strategy. But The Merchant of Venice was okay.

  There's no Jim Hawkins. And the stuff about Shylock was slow at first. But it picks up with him in the courtroom, ready to cut out a pound of Antonio's flesh because Antonio hasn't been able to pay—which is exactly what Long John Silver would have done. And then Portia comes in and gives this speech that turns everything upside down.

  But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

  It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.

  When Mrs. Baker read that, I had shivers running up and down me.

  But Shylock didn't. He was ready to get to work with his knife, when Portia turns everything upside down again and the judge ends up freeing Antonio.

  The quality of mercy is not strained,

  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

  Upon the place beneath.

  Those are words to make you shiver.

  So, another nefarious Mrs. Baker plot foiled.

  That night, I dreamed about Doug Swieteck's brother as Shylock, and him bending over me with a soccer ball in his hand, about to smash it into my face because I had taken him out. And then Meryl Lee comes up, and Doug Swieteck's brother looks at her, and I look at her, and I'm waiting for the quality-of-mercy-dropping-like-a-gentle-rain-upon-the-place-beneath speech, and Meryl Lee opens her mouth and says to Doug Swieteck's brother,

  Go thou ahead.

  Droppeth thine soccer ball as thunder from the clouds

  Upon his head beneath thee.

  Those are words to make you shiver, too.

  And then I look over at Mrs. Baker, who is the judge standing by, and she is smiling because she's wearing a yellow flower on her cheek. And then I look around the courtroom, and there's my father, and I'm thinking, Maybe he can bribe the judge, and he says, "Is everything all right with Mrs. Baker?" and I say, "Just swell" and he says, "Then what did you do?" And Mrs. Baker keeps smiling.

  Let me tell you, if Shakespeare had known about me and Meryl Lee and Doug Swieteck's brother and Mrs. Baker, he really would have had something to write about.

  We read The Merchant of Venice the next Wednesday, too, and finished it on the last Wednesday of October. After we closed our books, Mrs. Baker asked me to discuss the character of Shylock.

  "He isn't really a villain," I said, "is he?"

  "No," said Mrs. Baker, "he isn't."

  "He's more like someone who wants..."

  "Who wants what, Mr. Hoodhood?"

  "Someone who wants to become who he's supposed to be," I said.

  Mrs. Baker considered that. "And why couldn't he?" she asked.

  "Because they wouldn't let him. They decided he had to be a certain way, and he was trapped. He couldn't be anything except for what he was," I said.

  "And that is why the play is called a tragedy," said Mrs. Baker.

  November

  November dripped onto Long Island, as it did every year. The days turned gray and damp, and a hovering mist licked everything. The perfect white cement sidewalk in front of the Perfect House was always wet. The azaleas lost the remnants of their white and pink blossoms, and then many of their leaves, and since they were half-naked and embarrassed, my father wrapped them in tight burlap—which also got wet. On the first Saturday, I cut the lawn for the last time, and then my father cut the lawn again to get it right, since it was going to look this way until spring, he said, and it had better look good. The next Saturday we climbed up to the roof and cleaned out the gutters, since they were overflowing now every time it rained and the dirty water was staining the corners of the Perfect House. Which made my father really mad.

  But not as mad as the stain on the ceiling of the Perfect Living Room made him. No one knew how long water had been dripping down onto it, because no one ever went in there. So by the time my mother discovered it while vacuuming, the stain was as wide as a garbage can lid, and dark with mold. That night, when my father reached up to feel it, a handful of plaster came down on his face. Some of the moldy stuff got into his mouth.

  It was a very quiet supper.

  But that's November. It's the kind of month where you're grateful for every single glimpse of the sun, or any sign of blue sky above the clouds, because you're not sure that they're there anymore. And if you can't have sun or blue sky, then you wish it would snow and cover all the gray world with a sparkling white so bright that your eye can't take it in.

  But it doesn't snow on Long Island in November. It rains. And rains and rains.

  Which is how, I think, Mrs. Baker got the idea of assigning me The Tempest.

  But her nefarious plot to bore me to death failed again, because The Tempest was even better than The Merchant of Venice. In fact, it almost beat out Treasure Island—which is saying something.

  It was surprising how much good stuff there was. A storm, attempted murders, witches, wizards, invisible spirits, revolutions, characters drinking until they're dead drunk, an angry monster named Caliban—can you believe it? I was amazed that Mrs. Baker was letting me read this. It's got to be censored all over the place. I figured that she hadn't read it herself, otherwise she would never have let me at it.

  Caliban—the monster in the play, not the escaped rat—he knew cuss words. I mean, he really knew cuss words. What Mr. Vendleri said while standing on Danny Hupfer's desk didn't come close. Even Doug Swieteck's brother couldn't cuss like that—and he could cuss the yellow off a school bus.

  I decided to learn them all by heart—even if I didn't know exactly what they meant. I didn't know what most of Doug Swieteck's brother's cusses meant, either, and it didn't make all that much difference. It's all in the delivery anyway. So I practiced in my bedroom, thinking of my sister.

  A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er!

  I know, it doesn't sound like much. But if you say it slow and menacing, especially when you get to "blister," it'll do. Keep your eyes half-closed, and it will really do. But for the rest of the Caliban curses, it's a lot better to say them loud and fast, like:

  The red plague rid you!

  and:

  Toads, beetles, bats, light on you!

  and:

  As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed with raven's feather from unwholesome fen drop on you.

  I'm not exactly sure what that last one means, but if you really hit the last three words hard, it will do its stuff.

  I told you that Mrs. Baker wouldn't have let me read this if she'd read it herself.

  Every night after supper, I practiced in front of the dresser mirror—without my shirt, because I could
look more menacing that way. I decided to perfect the "Toads, beetles, bats" one first, since that was the one I understood the best and because when I said it, a little bit of spit came out with the "beetles."

  By the second Tuesday night, I had gotten it about down and could say "toads" with a bloodcurdling croak when my mother knocked on my bedroom door.

  "Holling?" she said. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," I called.

  "It sounds like you're talking to someone."

  "I'm practicing for a speech," I said, which was sort of true.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh. Then I'll leave you to finish."

  I worked on the "red plague" for a bit, because that one is all in the timing.

  Then my father knocked on the door. There must have been a commercial on.

  "I can hear you all the way down in the den. What are you doing?"

  "Practicing Shakespeare," I said.

  "What do you need Shakespeare for?"

  "For Mrs. Baker."

  "For Mrs. Baker?"

  "Yes."

  "Then get it right," he said, and walked away.

  I went back to the "toads, beetles, bats" until my sister knocked on the door.

  "Holling?"

  "Yeah."

  "Shut up."

  "A southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er," I said.

  She threw open my door. "What did you say to me?"

  In the face of a sixteen-year-old sister who's about to drop something on you from heaven, even Shakespeare fails. "Nothing," I said.

  "Keep it that way," she said, "and put your shirt on, you weirdo." She slammed the door shut.

  I decided I was done with practicing for the night.

  I went to school early the next day, since I needed some private place to practice the curses. When I reached the third floor, I found Mr. Vendleri holding a ladder steady in the middle of the hall. He had half a dozen spring traps in his hand, which he was holding up toward Mr. Guareschi. I could see only Mr. Guareschi's legs, since the rest of him was poked up through an opening where he'd removed some asbestos tiles.

  "Hand me the rest," Mr. Guareschi called down, and Mr. Vendleri did.

  "Now the cheese."

  Mr. Vendleri reached into his bib overalls and pulled out a plastic bag with cubes of yellow cheese.

  "Now, I'll just pull this spring back," Mr. Guareschi said, "and set the bait right beneath—"

  There was a sudden loud snap, and then it wasn't mercy dropping down as the gentle rain on the place beneath. It was Mr. Guareschi.

  "Oh," he said.

  (Not really "Oh," but it wasn't as good as Shakespeare. Not even as good as Mrs. Baker.)

  Mr. Guareschi looked up from the floor. His face was red, and his fingers redder. He shook them wildly, as if he wanted them to separate from the rest of him. "Oh," he said again.

  (Not really.)

  "You could try 'The red plague rid you!'" I said.

  Mr. Guareschi, still on the ground, looked up at me. "What are you doing in school so early?" he said.

  "Or 'Scurvy patch!'" I said.

  Mr. Guareschi shook his fingers again. "You're not supposed to be here this early," he said.

  "He saw us putting up the cages," said Mr. Vendleri.

  Mr. Guareschi stared at him. "This is the student who let the rats go," he said. "He already knows."

  Mr. Vendleri looked hard at me. Then he put his finger up to his lips. "Not a word," he said.

  "Toads, beetles, bats light on me if I let it out," I said, and I got the timing just right—even the little bit of spit on the "beetles."

  Mr. Guareschi looked at me strangely, and then he slowly stood, picked up the spring traps that had fallen around him, and turned to climb back up the ladder. Considering the condition of his red fingers, I thought it was pretty brave of him.

  "Go to class, Holling Hood," he said.

  Mrs. Baker was already in her classroom. She was looking up at the ceiling when I came in, listening to the scrambling and pattering of feet scurrying across the asbestos tiles overhead. We listened together for a moment until the scurrying stopped.

  "Not a word, Mr. Hoodhood," she said.

  "Not a word," I said, and went to my desk.

  "Did you finish The Tempest?" asked Mrs. Baker.

  "Yes," I said.

  "We'll see this afternoon," she said, and she turned back to a pile of essays on her desk, spreading a red plague over them with her pen.

  Even though I didn't have the private place to practice that I wanted, I figured I could work on the Caliban curses to see if I could get them down just right in a pressure situation. So I whispered into my desk, "Strange stuff, the dropsy drown you"—which was cheating a little, because I put two together. But I thought it sounded right. I tried it again, thinking about Caliban and Sycorax—the rats, not the monsters in the play—because I wanted to make the "strange stuff" come out more like a hiss.

  "Strange stuff, the dropsy drown you," I whispered.

  "Is there something you have to say?" asked Mrs. Baker.

  I sat up. "No," I said.

  "Are you speaking to someone hiding in your desk?"

  I shook my head.

  She put her red pen down. "Since there are only two of us in the room—a situation which has become very familiar to us these past months—and since you were speaking, I assumed that you must be addressing me. What did you say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Mr. Hoodhood, what did you say?"

  "'Strange stuff, the dropsy drown you.'"

  Mrs. Baker considered me for a moment. "Was that what you said?"

  "Yes."

  "A curious line to recite, especially since the combination never occurs in the play. Are you trying to improve on Shakespeare?"

  "I like the rhythm of it," I said.

  "The rhythm of it."

  "Yes."

  Mrs. Baker considered this for a moment. Then she nodded. "So do I," she said, and turned back to spreading the red plague.

  That had been close.

  But I watched her with something like amazement.

  She had known the curses! Both of them!

  She had read the play!

  And she had still let me read it!

  Whatever she was plotting, it was a whole lot more devious than I had given her credit for.

  I decided to ease into things more naturally, to let Caliban curses come where they might fit in without any fuss.

  At lunch, I found that my mother had given me a bologna sandwich with no mayonnaise, a stalk of celery that had been wilting since the weekend, and a cookie with something growing on it that wasn't supposed to be there.

  "Strange stuff," I whispered.

  At lunch recess, Doug Swieteck's brother lurched across the field, sixth graders scurrying out of his way as if he was a southwest wind about to blister them all over.

  "Thou jesting monkey thou," I said.

  Not so that he could hear it.

  Right after recess, I found that the eighth graders had filled the boys' restroom with smoke so thick you couldn't even smell the disinfectant.

  "Apes with foreheads villainous low," I said.

  Not so that they could hear it.

  In Geography, Mr. Petrelli announced a unit project: "The Mississippi River and You." I raised my hand and told Mr. Petrelli that I had never been to the Mississippi River and had no plans to go soon. I didn't feel any kind of personal stake in it at all, so I didn't understand the "You" part.

  "Must all history center around your own personal experience, Hoodhood?" Mr. Petrelli asked.

  It did seem that since we were talking about the Mississippi River and You—or in this case, Me—one possible answer to his question would be yes. But in Camillo Junior High, and especially in Mr. Petrelli's class, the right answer is usually just shutting up.

  "Your report," Mr. Petrelli continued to the class, "can be on..."

  I whispered the "Toads, beetles, bats" one here and got it j
ust right.

  In Chorus, Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels—the "Very Spiky Heels" line isn't in Shakespeare, it's from Danny Hupfer—Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels figured we had way too many altos, and she told me to move forward to sing the melody with the sopranos.

  "Me?" I said.

  "You have a lovely, clear voice, Holling."

  "I can't sing soprano."

  "Of course you can," said Miss Violet. "Just reach for the high notes."

  I gave my music—my tenor music—to Danny Hupfer. "You have a lovely, clear voice, Holling," he said.

  "Pied ninny," I said.

  Meryl Lee made room for me on her music stand. "You didn't know you could sing like a girl, did you?" she said.

  "Blind mole, a wicked dew from unwholesome fen drop you," I said. I was getting good at making combinations.

  Meryl Lee grabbed my arm. "What did you say?"

  Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels tapped her baton for silence. Then she raised her hands and waved them grandly, and we began a medley of American folk songs—which are supposed to make your heart swell patriotically. I tried to look like I cared a whole lot about reaching for the high notes, of which there were more than enough.

  Meryl Lee still held my arm. "What did you say?" she asked again.

  "I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger..."

  "That's not what you said," she said.

  "A-trav'ling through this world of woe..."

  Meryl Lee moved her hand up toward my throat.

  Then Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels tapped her baton again.

  Everyone went quiet.

  "Meryl Lee?" Miss Violet said.

  Meryl Lee dropped her hand and looked at Miss Violet. Her cheeks flushed into a color you only see in television cartoons.

  "Meryl Lee," said Miss Violet, "I didn't send Holling up there so that you could flirt with him."

  Well, the look that came over Meryl Lee's face was the look you'd have if you wanted the earth to open up so that you could jump in and no one would see you again forever and ever. Her mouth opened, and her eyes opened, and her nostrils opened. Even the freckles across her nose got a whole lot bigger.