The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School Read online

  “Huh?” said Ham.

  “My stamp collection,” translated Stanford.

  “Oh,” said Ham. “I get it.”

  Mr. Jupiter sighed. “Didn’t anyone study their history lesson last night?”

  No one raised a hand.

  “Then I guess there’s no reason to talk about these,” said Mr. Jupiter. He whisked a black cloth off his desk to reveal a set of big yellow teeth. A jumble of rusting wires and rotting springs held the teeth together.

  “Ewww, what’s that?” asked Missy.

  “George Washington’s dentures,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “They were given to me by the International Tooth and Gum Association for inventing floss-on-a-stick.”

  The children gathered around for a closer look.

  “I didn’t know George Washington wore dentures,” Ham finally said.

  Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Poor George had terrible teeth. They kept rotting and falling out, rotting and falling out. By the time he became president, he only had one tooth remaining in his mouth. That’s why he had to wear dentures.”

  “Is that true?” asked Lenny. He poked the teeth suspiciously. “These don’t look like my grandpa’s dentures.”

  “Of course they don’t,” said Mr. Jupiter. “There weren’t any modern dental methods back then, so people had to make dentures out of some pretty odd things. Washington’s dentures are made from cow and hippopotamus teeth.”

  Lenny rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me that George Washington walked around with hippo in his mouth? I don’t believe it.”

  Mr. Jupiter shrugged. “No? Then I guess there’s no reason to talk about this, either.” He pulled a long ivory toothbrush out of his desk drawer.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s George Washington’s toothbrush,” sniffed Lenny.

  “No,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “I’m going to tell you that this is George Washington’s horses’ toothbrush.”

  “Huh?” said Ham.

  “Our first president obviously learned from his dental mistakes,” explained Mr. Jupiter. “On his orders, each of his six white horses had its teeth brushed every morning. According to Martha Washington, the horses’ breath smelled better than her husband’s.”

  Everyone laughed but Lenny.

  “I don’t think that’s very funny, Mr. Jupiter!” he cried. “You shouldn’t make up historical facts.”

  “How do you know they’re made up?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

  “Because history is boring,” answered Lenny. “There’s no laughing in history.”

  “Sure there is,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “History is full of funny stories, as well as daring adventures and heroic deeds.” He sighed. “Of course, you won’t read your book.” He shook his head. “That’s so sad.”

  He let his words sink in a moment before clapping his hands. “Everyone return to your desks and take out your rock picks. It’s time for mineralogy.”

  Lenny shrugged and slid back into his chair. Opening the lid of his desk, he peered past his spitball collection and rubber tarantula to the never-opened history book in back.

  “Funny stories, huh?” he muttered to himself.

  Using his rock pick to excavate the book, he slipped it into his backpack.

  MORAL: Incentive spurs effort.

  NOTES TO YOU

  MR. HALFNOTE WAS WORRIED. “Ever since they returned from winter break, the fifth graders simply refuse to take music class seriously,” he admitted to the other teachers during lunch one day. He told them about the previous week’s lesson, on breathing and posture.

  “Sit up straight and tall, but relaxed,” Mr. Halfnote had instructed the class.

  Instantly, the fifth graders had started giggling and wiggling and slip-sliding out of their chairs. Music stands toppled. Sheet music scattered. Brasses and woodwinds rolled across the floor.

  “Stop!” Mr. Halfnote had hollered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We’re trying to sit up straight and tall, butt relaxed,” replied Lenny.

  “But we just can’t seem to get to the bottom of it,” added Bruce.

  The rest of the students had shrieked with laughter.

  Mr. Halfnote had spent the rest of the hour trying to regain control of his class.

  “That is terrible,” Miss Turner agreed when he finished his story. She patted him sympathetically on the back.

  “It gets worse,” confessed Mr. Halfnote. And he described that morning’s lesson.

  “Today, as we accompany ourselves on our zithers, we’re going to learn the chorus from ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’” Mr. Halfnote had instructed the class. “Ready?”

  Lenny had grinned. “We’re always ready.”

  “Then instruments up,” said Mr. Halfnote. “Annnd begin.”

  The fifth graders had plucked and bowed. Above the screeching racket, Mr. Halfnote could just make out the chorus’s lyrics:

  “Glory, glory hallelujah!

  Don’t let the teachers try to fool ya.

  There’s a dungeon ’neath the floor

  With a padlock on the door

  And you won’t see the kids no more.”

  The “Battle Hymn” had three verses. By the time the students had finished singing, Mr. Halfnote’s head was throbbing.

  “Awful, just awful,” said Mrs. Gluteal. She handed him a caramel drop cookie as consolation.

  Mr. Halfnote took a sad little bite. “It is,” he sighed. “It truly is. After all, music is a universal language. It allows children to express themselves. But most importantly, playing together, creating music as a group, is transformative. It can change their lives.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Miss Turner.

  “So what can I do to motivate them?” asked Mr. Halfnote.

  “Have you tried a gold star chart?” chirped Miss Fairchild. “My kindergartners love gold stars.”

  “Or the promise of a pizza party,” suggested Mrs. Chen. “Kids can’t resist pepperoni.”

  “What about a field trip?” said Mr. Jupiter. “Who wouldn’t fall in love with music after hearing the Blinkendorf Symphony Orchestra performing the overture from Der Wienerdog?”

  “Ah, the BSO,” said Miss Turner with a sigh. “It brings back memories, doesn’t it, Harry?”

  Mr. Jupiter smiled and touched the librarian’s hand.

  “Money,” blurted out Mr. Swill, who had been mopping around the coffee machine. “Money’s the best motivator. You think I’d clean one square foot of this place if I didn’t get a paycheck?”

  The others laughed.

  But Mr. Halfnote leaped to his feet. “Cornelius!” he exclaimed, grabbing the janitor’s mop and dancing it around the room. “You’re brilliant!” He dashed out the door.

  For the next week—with the help of Ms. Bozzetto’s printing press—Mr. Halfnote made money. Each bill was decorated with musical symbols—treble clefs, breath marks, bar lines. And in the center, each sported a smiling likeness of the music teacher.

  “I call them musical notes,” Mr. Halfnote told the fifth graders at their next lesson. “You can earn them by participating in class and exhibiting good behavior.”

  “Why would we want to do that?” asked Lenny. “What can we do with fake money?”

  “You can shop at my emporium,” replied Mr. Halfnote.

  “Huh?” said Ham.

  “Store,” translated Stanford, rolling his eyes. “Emporium means store.”

  “And here it is,” said Mr. Halfnote. He pushed into the center of the room a long table loaded with Chinese yo-yos, flashing finger lights, temporary tattoos, rubber spiders, McFardy Boys notebooks, and much, much more. Some of the items on the table, like the jawbreakers, cost only one note. Other items, like the stuffed toy unicorn, cost a whopping twenty notes.

  “I want that,” Ashlee A. whispered to Ashleigh B.

  Mr. Halfnote went on with his explanation. “Every few weeks, I will open the emporium. At that time, those of you who have
earned musical notes may spend them.”

  Calvin raised his hand. “Do we have to spend our notes right away, or can we save them?”

  “You may spend as little or as much as you like,” replied Mr. Halfnote. “You can save up for more expensive items.”

  He paused, allowing the students to admire his wares. Then he handed each of them a wallet made of brown construction paper. Each wallet contained one musical note. “To start you off,” explained Mr. Halfnote.

  “Can I buy something now?” begged Ham. He eyed the chocolate insects. “Mmmm … choco-roaches.”

  “Not today,” said Mr. Halfnote.

  “When can we shop?” asked Ham.

  Mr. Halfnote grinned. “Whenever I decide to open the emporium.”

  “But doesn’t your store have set business hours?” said Victoria. “All stores have set business hours.”

  “Not this one,” said Mr. Halfnote. “You’ll just have to earn and wait.”

  Lenny thought a moment, then hurried to his chair. “Look at me, Mr. Halfnote,” he sang out. “I’m sitting up straight and tall … but relaxed.”

  Mr. Halfnote grinned again. “Leonard,” he said, “your exemplary behavior has just earned you a musical note.”

  Lenny preened as the others, too, sat straight and tall in their chairs.

  For the rest of the hour the class learned about melody and harmony. No one fell on the floor or sang funny song lyrics.

  Over the next few weeks, Missy stopped losing her music book and instead came to class with it tucked securely under her arm.

  She earned two notes and learned to read music.

  Rose volunteered to play the broken triangle—the one nobody wanted because it was missing the little metal piece to play it with (Mr. Halfnote used an old spoon from the lunchroom).

  She earned three notes and discovered a natural talent for percussion.

  Humphrey took it upon himself to empty all the trumpets’ spit valves.

  He earned seven notes …

  Mr. Halfnote noticed Humphrey’s saliva-speckled shirt.

  “Make that eight notes,” said the music teacher.

  … and increased his finger dexterity.

  “Who knew music could be so much fun?” Missy said to Rose one afternoon as they headed back to their classroom.

  “It is the universal language,” replied Rose.

  “YES!” Mr. Halfnote whispered victoriously to himself.

  By the time the music teacher finally opened the emporium for business, the students’ wallets, as well as their minds, were full.

  “What to buy?” Ernest asked himself. He walked around and around the table, picking up an item, examining it, putting it down, picking up an item, examining it, putting it down, picking up an item …

  Ham made a decisive purchase.

  CRUNCH!

  “OWWW!

  “Mmmm,” he sighed happily, “jawbreakers.”

  Lenny and Bruce combined their earnings and bought a whoopee cushion.

  “We consider it an investment in our comedic futures,” explained Lenny.

  “Yeah, we’re starting with the classics,” added Bruce, eyeing the puddle of rubber vomit.

  For a few minutes, the music room bubbled with excitement as the fifth graders made their choices and handed over their notes.

  Only Calvin remained seated.

  “Aren’t you going to buy anything?” asked Ashlee A. She hugged her new stuffed unicorn.

  “Nope,” replied Calvin. “I’m just going to earn and save.”

  And that was exactly what he did.

  Over the next weeks, Calvin earned:

  Two notes for passing out sheet music.

  Four notes for attempting to play “Lady of Spain” on the accordion.

  Three notes for attempting to play “Yellow Bird” on the accordion.

  Ten notes for promising not to play anything on the accordion.

  His construction-paper wallet grew so thick with notes, he had to ask Mr. Halfnote for another.

  “Wow,” commented Humphrey. “You must really love music.”

  “Who cares about music?” replied Calvin. “It’s the notes I love.”

  And he kept earning:

  Three notes for waxing the xylophone.

  Eight notes for learning the correct verses to “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  Sixteen notes for tutoring Lenny on the kazoo.

  By the time Mr. Halfnote’s emporium opened for business again, Calvin had—

  “A hundred notes!” exclaimed Humphrey. “I bet you have a hundred notes.”

  Calvin, who had retired to a corner of the music room so he could be alone with his money, nodded proudly.

  “What are you going to buy?” asked Humphrey.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But you could buy a glow-in-the-dark calculator, or a carton of number two pencils, or … or …”

  Calvin shuddered. He didn’t want any of that stuff. All he wanted was notes—lots and lots of notes. He desired them. He craved them. His greatest joy was to earn them so he could watch his stack grow … and grow … and grow.

  “You do know that it’s fake money,” Humphrey reminded him.

  “Uh-huh,” said Calvin vaguely. He arranged his notes into stacks of ten.

  “You can’t do anything with it except shop at Mr. Halfnote’s store,” persisted Humphrey.

  “Uh-huh,” said Calvin again. He rearranged his notes into stacks of twenty.

  “So what’s the point of saving it?” asked Humphrey.

  Calvin stopped stacking. He looked up. “It makes me happy,” he said.

  “Happy?” repeated Humphrey.

  “Happy,” said Calvin.

  “Uh-huh,” said Humphrey. Rolling his eyes, he walked away.

  Calvin went back to stacking, counting, and sorting his notes.

  That afternoon, after music, Mr. Jupiter worked with the children on word problems. “Let’s see how many of you can solve this one,” he said.

  At the word solve, Calvin stuck a pencil in his mouth and started gnawing. He couldn’t help it. When he was nervous, he chewed. And math—his very worst subject—made him very, very nervous.

  At the front of the room, Mr. Jupiter continued. “A troll named Igor bought his sister, Griselda, three bottles of Wart-Away costing twenty-four dollars each, and his other sister, Esmeralda, five bottles of Hair-Today-Gone-Tomorrow at eighteen dollars each. How much money did Igor spend on beauty aids for his sisters?”

  At his desk, Calvin chomped and chewed and thought about his notes. He saw himself stacking, sorting, counting … twenty-four dollars … eighteen dollars …

  The pencil dropped from his mouth and his hand shot into the air. “One hundred and sixty-two dollars!” he blurted. “The answer is one hundred and sixty-two dollars!”

  The other students gaped.

  “Th … th … that’s right,” stammered Mr. Jupiter, hardly able to believe his ears. “That’s absolutely right!”

  “It is?” asked Calvin in amazement.

  “It certainly is!” exclaimed Mr. Jupiter. “Would you like to try another?”

  Calvin nodded and put the pencil back in his mouth.

  “For the Needy Kitty Cat Food Drive, Ms. Bozzetto collected three hundred twenty cans of Seafood Frenzy,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Each cat gets forty cans. How many hungry cats will benefit from Ms. Bozzetto’s charity?”

  The room fell silent. All eyes watched as Calvin did the calculation.

  Just like before, he chewed, chomped, and thought about his notes. He saw himself stacking them into piles of forty … two piles, four piles, six piles …

  “Eight!” cried Calvin. “Eight needy kitties.”

  “Eureka, he’s got it!” shouted Mr. Jupiter, flinging his arms into the air.

  “I’ve got it!” whooped Calvin. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  “It’s about time,” sniffed Stanford.

  The next w
eek, during music, Mr. Halfnote organized the class into the four parts of an orchestra. “Woodwinds sit here,” he instructed.

  Recorders at the ready, Missy, Emberly, and Melvin sat where the music teacher pointed.

  “And Melvin,” added Mr. Halfnote, “please play your instrument with your hands this time.”

  Melvin nodded.

  “Brass is here,” continued Mr. Halfnote.

  Trumpet in hand, Humphrey took up his position. Ham sat next to him, groaning under the weight of his tuba, while Stanford settled beside him.

  “What’s that?” asked Ham. He pointed to Stanford’s instrument.

  “A conch shell,” replied Stanford.

  “A conch shell?” repeated Humphrey.

  In reply, Stanford raised the shell to his lips and blew.

  Ba-looooga!

  “Nice breath tones,” complimented Mr. Halfnote. He pointed to the next section. “Here’s where percussion plays.”

  Jackie made her way toward her chair, carrying her wood block. She was followed by Rose and her triangle, Lenny with his cymbals, Bruce with his glockenspiel, and Calvin with his bongo drums.

  “I wonder how many notes we’ll earn for this?” Calvin whispered to Bruce.

  But Bruce was too busy tuning his instrument to answer.

  “Last, but not least, will the string section please take their seats?” said Mr. Halfnote.

  Carrying zithers and pushing harps, the rest of the class took up their positions.

  Mr. Halfnote rapped his baton on the edge of his music stand for attention.

  The fifth graders fell silent. They trained their eyes on their teacher.

  There was a suspense-filled pause. Then Mr. Halfnote gave the downbeat, and instantly the orchestra burst into life.

  Screeching!

  Squawking!

  Banging!

  Honking!

  The woodwinds, brass, percussion, and strings came together in an earsplitting, head-thumping crescendo that filled the room with—

  “Music!” said Jackie in a wonder-filled voice. “We’re making music.” She banged even harder on her wood block.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Ashlee A. whispered to Ashleigh B. Ashlee A. paused in bowing to point out the goose bumps on her arm.