The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School Read online

  “Ba-looooga,” went Stanford’s shell joyfully. “Ba-loooga.”

  The music faded.

  And Lenny swiped away the tears coursing down his cheeks before anyone saw.

  Mr. Halfnote bowed to his students. “Bravo!” he cried. “Bravissimo.”

  “Grazie,” replied Ham. A look of wonder crossed his face. “Hey, I’m so musically inspired, I’m suddenly speaking Italian!”

  “And I’m so inspired, I am going to give each and every one of you ten notes,” said the music teacher. He passed out the money.

  Calvin stuffed his into his wallet.

  But the others barely glanced at their notes. Letting them flutter to the floor, they picked up their instruments once more.

  “Can we play again?” asked Humphrey.

  “We certainly can!” exclaimed Mr. Halfnote.

  “Wait a minute!” cried Calvin, pointing at the abandoned bills. “Are you just going to leave those?”

  His classmates nodded.

  “Then can I have them?”

  His classmates nodded again.

  Bolting over his bongo drums, Calvin eagerly snatched up the bills. His new and improved math skills told him there must be at least two hundred notes there.

  Two hundred!

  He couldn’t wait to stack them, count them, squirrel them away in his wallet.

  He looked around at his poor noteless classmates.

  Why did they all look so happy? Didn’t they know they were broke?

  “Now can we play?” Humphrey begged the music teacher.

  “Absolutely,” said Mr. Halfnote. Grinning widely, he gave the downbeat.

  Grinning just as widely, the fifth graders burst into music again.

  Calvin played along. Halfheartedly slapping at his drums, he waited impatiently for the song to end.

  The music swirled.

  It curled.

  It wound its way around the room until finally it found Calvin. Wrapping itself around him, it squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter still, until all he heard was the melody of the song. All he saw were the happy faces of his classmates. All he felt were the bongos beneath his fingers and the joyous thumping of his heart.

  I’m making music, he thought with sudden wonder. Really making music. And—

  He loved, loved, loved it!

  More than tetherball.

  More than number two pencils.

  More, even, than his pile of musical notes.

  “Bella! Bella!” whooped Calvin, unable to contain the Italian suddenly surging through him. “Bellissimo!”

  He banged his bongos with gusto.

  * * *

  The next morning, the fifth graders arrived to find—

  “Doughnuts!” exclaimed Ham. “Bellissimo times ten!”

  “Who brought the doughnuts?” asked Humphrey.

  Calvin stepped forward. “I did.” He blushed. “I wanted to do something nice after everyone gave me their notes yesterday.”

  “But these are real doughnuts,” said Humphrey. “They had to have been bought with real money.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been saving my allowance like I was saving my notes,” said Calvin.

  “Was?” repeated Humphrey.

  “Was,” said Calvin.

  Mr. Jupiter winked playfully. “Can you calculate how many weeks’ worth of allowance you had to save to pay for these doughnuts?”

  Calvin grinned. “Six,” he answered, “but who’s counting?”

  Mr. Jupiter grinned too.

  “Hold on a minute!” cried Humphrey. “What did you end up doing with all your notes? Did you finally change your mind about that calculator?”

  “Who needs a calculator?” replied Calvin. “No, I found a better use for them.” He pointed at the guinea pigs’ cage.

  Inside, the class pets were cuddled up in a cozy blanket of shredded treble clefs, breath notes, and Mr. Halfnote’s face.

  “Comfy,” said Humphrey.

  Then Calvin cried, “Let’s eat, and then …” He pulled out a set of bongo drums. “Anyone care for some music?”

  MORAL: The true value of money is not in its possession, but in its use.

  SUNNY DAY

  AFTER MR. JUPITER REFUSED TO LET them roast wieners over their Bunsen burners during science, the fifth graders stomped out into the cold February air for recess. They huddled together in a grumbling mass.

  “All Mr. Jupiter thinks about is schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork,” said Jackie.

  “‘Alphabetize these Latin verbs,’” muttered Rose.

  “‘Memorize the periodic table of elements,’” groused Missy.

  “‘Pasteurize your milk,’” added Ham.

  Rose nodded. “That was one involved science lesson.”

  Missy shrugged. “It got easier after we caught the cows.”

  The students fell silent, remembering.

  “I bet other fifth graders aren’t forced to work so hard,” Jackie went on. “I bet other fifth graders are allowed to roast wieners over their Bunsen burners.”

  The others murmured in agreement.

  And Lil waxed poetic:

  “I wonder as I wander

  Across the playground lawn,

  What delight might school be like

  With Mr. Jupiter gone?”

  The next morning, Mr. Jupiter could not come to class. Overnight he had developed a rash, a sore throat, a ringing in his ears, and smelly feet.

  “Scarlet macaw fever,” he explained to Mrs. Struggles when he called to report his absence, “probably caught during last weekend’s trek across the Osa Peninsula … well … except for the smelly feet. I get those from my mother’s side of the family.”

  “You poor thing,” sympathized the principal.

  “Yes, stinky feet are a burden,” agreed Mr. Jupiter. “But have no fear, it’s just a touch of the bug. I should be back in the classroom tomorrow.”

  “But what about today?” cried the principal.

  “I can’t today, although I wish I could,” said Mr. Jupiter. “I really don’t like leaving my class in the hands of a substitute.”

  Substitute?

  Mrs. Struggles hastily said goodbye, then whipped out her substitute teacher list. She started dialing.

  “Oh … um … uh … I’m … uh … busy today.… I’m … uh … uh … shampooing my … uh … uh … horse,” stammered the first sub on the list.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m allergic,” fibbed the second sub.

  “Allergic to what?” asked Mrs. Struggles.

  “To all things fifth grade,” replied the second sub.

  The third sub didn’t even bother with an excuse. As soon as he heard the words fifth grade, he hung up.

  “What will I do?” wailed Mrs. Struggles. She flipped to the end of the list and read the last name. Beside it, the former principal had made a notation. It read, “Use only in emergency.”

  Was this an emergency?

  Mrs. Struggles pictured the fifth graders alone in their classroom.

  “Ye gods!” she shrieked. Crossing her fingers, she dialed.

  By the time the fifth graders filed into the classroom, their substitute teacher was waiting. Her braided hair was covered with sparkly barrettes shaped like bunnies, ponies, and kittens. On her right thumb she wore a purple plastic butterfly ring. And with every step, her light-up tennis shoes flashed a brilliant pink.

  “Good glorious morning, my bright-faced chickie-wickies,” she chirped. “Oooh, aren’t you all sooooo cute!” She swept Emberly into a hug.

  “Who are you?” he demanded between twists and wiggles. “And what have you done with Mr. Jupiter?”

  The substitute released Emberly and giggled. “Mr. Jupie-Wupie is playing hooky today, so I’m filling in for him. Isn’t that fun?” She scrawled her name on the blackboard. “That’s me, Miss Day.” Over the i she put a smiley face instead of a dot, then beamed at the class. “But you can call me by my first name if you like—Sunny.”


  “Sunny?” repeated Humphrey.

  “Sunny Day?” snickered Lenny.

  “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” Miss Day giggled.

  “Hey,” cried Bruce, “that’s my line!”

  Lenny patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s just as lame no matter who says it.”

  They headed to their seats just as Missy shrieked, “My desk! I’ve lost my desk.”

  “Get serious,” snorted Stanford. “You can’t lose a desk.”

  “But I did,” wailed Missy. “Yesterday it was here and today it’s gone.” She swiped at her eyes. “I lost everything.”

  Miss Day giggled again. “You didn’t lose your desk, silly-willy. I moved it. As a matter of fact, I moved all the desks. I thought it would be fun to mix things up a bit.”

  Missy took a deep, shuddering breath. “Mr. Jupiter never moves anything,” she explained. “He knows I have trouble keeping track of things, so—”

  “So? So? Sew buttons on your underwear!” interrupted Miss Day. “Mr. Jupie-Wupie isn’t here. I am. And today I want to have some fun.” She hopped up and down and clapped her hands. “Oooh, oooh, I know. Let’s play a game. First chickie-wickie to find his desk wins. Ready? On your mark … get set … GO!”

  The fifth graders just stood there, stunned.

  Then Ham pointed. “There’s my desk, over there behind the Hibernian ceremonial canoe. I’d recognize that choco-roach smudge anywhere.”

  “You win!” cried Miss Day. Grabbing Ham’s hand, she dragged him around the room in a victory lap.

  “Stop!” panted Ham. He clutched his side. “Slow down!”

  “Wait a second,” grumbled Jackie. “That wasn’t a fair game. You didn’t explain the rules. You didn’t give everyone a fair chance. Mr. Jupiter always gives everyone a fair chance.”

  Miss Day dropped Ham’s hand and stuck out her tongue. “Stop being such a party pooper!” she cried. Then she clapped and hopped up and down. “Ooh, ooh, we need a prize. What fun is a game without a prize?” She pawed around in her Pretty Pretty Princess backpack a moment, then beamed at Ham. “Come forward and receive your prize.”

  “Prize?” said Ham, momentarily suspicious. Then he remembered Mr. Jupiter’s prizes. “What is it? Is it a handful of jelly beans? Mr. Jupiter sometimes has jelly beans.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing as boring as that,” giggled Miss Day. She dug around in her bag again and pulled out a tube of …

  “Lip gloss!” she exclaimed. “You win a slightly used tube of Poodle’s Breath Pink lip gloss. Isn’t that fun?”

  Ham shook his head and backed away.

  “That particular color will go great with your complexion,” said Lenny.

  “And your purse,” quipped Miss Day.

  “Hey, she stole my line again!” cried Bruce.

  Lenny shook his head. “Mr. Jupiter would never give a prize like that,” he said.

  Victoria raised her hand. “Miss Day,” she said with a flip of her hair. “If Ham doesn’t want his prize, can I have it? Poodle’s Breath Pink is the perfect shade for my strawberries-and-cream complexion.”

  Miss Day squinted at Victoria. “Strawberries-and-cream?” she giggled. “I’d call it tad-yellow-and-smidge-green.”

  “Hey,” bellowed Lenny, “I’m the smart-aleck around here.”

  “Apparently, I’m just a little smarter and aleckier,” joked Miss Day.

  “She did it again!” hollered Bruce. “This substitute is a thief—a punch line thief.”

  “And a know-nothing when it comes to makeup,” huffed Victoria.

  Miss Day slapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t heeear you,” she sang out.

  The children stared.

  And Miss Day grinned. “That’s better,” she said. She held up their American history textbook. “Mr. Jupie-Wupie wants me to review chapter eighty-six, then introduce fractions, give an organic geochemistry quiz, and go over the steps of the Polynesian commona-wanna-boogie dance, but …” She smiled so widely, her back teeth showed. “I thought it would be more fun for me—and you—to have a free day.”

  “Free day?” repeated Humphrey. “Free day?”

  Miss Day suddenly squawked like a parrot. “Polly want a cracker?” She burst into laughter. “Free day. Free day.”

  “Now she’s stealing my lines,” grumbled Lenny.

  “Now, time for more fun!” cried Miss Day. She skipped around the room and up and down the aisles, her tennis shoes blinking. “So, class, what else do you want to do today? Should we put on this suit of armor and joust with brooms? How’s about we build a racetrack out of all these old bones and fossils and have guinea pig races? Or maybe …” She picked up the skull on Mr. Jupiter’s desk. “Bowling!”

  “Noooo!” cried the children.

  “Well, aren’t you all just a bunch of old fuddy-duddies,” said Miss Day. “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s learn about American history,” suggested Lenny. He gulped. Had he really said that?

  “And wasn’t there supposed to be an organic geochemistry quiz?” added Melvin. Shocked by the words coming out of his mouth, he clapped his foot over it.

  Miss Day crossed her arms across her chest. “But none of that is any fun,” she pouted.

  “It would be if Mr. Jupiter was here,” said Jackie.

  At that moment the door flew open.

  “Good morning, children,” said Mr. Jupiter. He strode to the front of the room wearing an overcoat over his footie pajamas. In his arms he carried a grocery bag.

  “We thought you were sick!” exclaimed Lil.

  “I did feel a bit under the weather earlier,” explained Mr. Jupiter, “but I’m much improved now.” He turned to Miss Day. “Have they behaved themselves?”

  “To tell you the truth, they’re kind of dull,” replied Miss Day. “All they wanted to do was study history and take science quizzes.”

  “Science quizzes?” repeated Mr. Jupiter.

  “Science quizzes,” said Miss Day.

  “Polly want a cracker?” squawked Lenny.

  The class burst into laughter.

  Lenny and Bruce high-fived. “We’re back!” they whooped.

  “And I’m off,” said Miss Day. “Farewell, plucky duckies.” Picking up her backpack, she skipped out the door.

  Mr. Jupiter turned to his class. “You’ve all been working so hard that I thought you deserved a surprise.”

  “A surprise?” repeated Humphrey. “What is it?”

  Mr. Jupiter reached into his grocery bag and pulled out a package of hot dogs. “Fifth graders,” he said with a grin, “fire up your Bunsen burners.”

  MORAL: Things are never as bad as they seem.

  THE CASE OF THE FUGITIVE FELINE

  ON THE TUESDAY AFTERNOON BEFORE spring break, there was a knock on the classroom door and Ms. Bozzetto entered, pulling her art cart behind her. Up until this year, art had always had its own room. But overcrowding had forced the school to add a second kindergarten, so art had become mobile.

  “Not unlike the nomadic Xiongnu tribe of the Gobi desert,” Mr. Jupiter had said when he’d heard about the change. “Wonderful people, the Xiongnu.”

  Now Mr. Jupiter clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Time for art,” he said. “P-u-t away your spelling books, please.”

  “Hey!” said Amisha.

  As the students cleared their desks, Ms. Bozzetto reached into the bottom shelf of her cart and pulled out several large reproductions of famous paintings.

  “Today,” she said, “we are going to discuss the role of the cat in art history.”

  She held up the first print. “This is a painting by Mr. Pierre-Auguste Renoir called ‘Sleeping Girl with a Cat.’ Notice the intense blue of the cat’s fur, and how much cuter it is than the sleeping girl.”

  She held up the next print. “Here is ‘Geraniums and Cats,’” also by Mr. Renoir. Aren’t those tiger-striped kittens adorable? Obviously, Mr. Renoir a
dored cats as much as I do.”

  She held up the last print. “And here is one of my all-time favorites. It’s called ‘Kitten on a Clothesline,’ by Mrs. Sylvia Renoir.”

  “Was that Pierre-Auguste’s wife?” asked Ashlee A.

  “No, that’s my landlady,” replied Ms. Bozzetto. “But art is art, no matter who creates it.”

  Ms. Bozzetto stowed the prints, then reached into the middle shelf of her cart. She pulled out a purple velvet pillow with gold fringe …

  “Lovely,” commented Victoria.

  … and a fluffy white cat with green eyes.

  “Yeeeks!” chirped the guinea pigs from their cage. They poked themselves, wiggling, between the bars, sniffing and staring.

  In Ms. Bozzetto’s hands, the cat hung limp as cooked spaghetti.

  “Is that a live cat?” asked Emberly.

  In reply, the cat blinked. Then it lolled onto the purple pillow, which Ms. Bozzetto had placed on top of her art cart, yawned so widely the students could see down its pink throat, and closed its eyes.

  “Just a little catnap,” snickered Lenny.

  In answer, the cat snored, “ZZZZZZ.”

  Ms. Bozzetto wiped away a string of drool forming under the cat’s chin. “Did you know that cats sleep seventeen hours a day? But Mr. Pickles is a particularly heavy sleeper. That’s why I chose him for today’s art project.”

  “Today’s art project?” repeated Humphrey.

  Ms. Bozzetto nodded. “Like the Renoirs, we are going to paint the feline form in all its adorable, sinuous, furry detail. Mr. Pickles will be our model.” Reaching into her cart again, she pulled out a stack of paper, some brushes, and several bottles of blue tempera paint. “And like Mr. Renoir, we will be working in this lovely ultramarine blue.”

  She passed out the supplies.

  “Rats,” grumbled Rose, having accidentally smeared blue paint on her skirt. The stain blended in with that morning’s glue-stick smudge and chocolate-pudding print.

  “Now then, boys and girls,” instructed Ms. Bozzetto. “I want you to look very closely at Mr. Pickles.”

  Emberly whipped out his magnifying glass.

  Ms. Bozzetto continued. “All objects have shape, or form. Try visualizing Mr. Pickles’s form by peeling away all the details and leaving only his framework, or skeletal structure.”