The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School Page 9

  Amisha tripped. She stumbled. She careened—off balance and arms flailing—across the stage, knocking over the microphone …

  SQUEAK!

  The audience slapped their hands over their ears.…

  … bumping into the judges’ table …

  THUMP!

  Mrs. Struggles snatched at the dictionaries sliding onto the floor.

  … plowing into little Mikey Mapes …

  SMASH!

  “Mommy!” wailed the five-year-old.

  … before landing with a loud THUD! flat on her face.

  In the audience, kids laughed.

  Parents looked concerned.

  Teachers rushed forward to help.

  Stunned and red-faced, Amisha scrambled to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mr. Jupiter. He patted her shoulder. “Is anything bruised?”

  Just my pride, thought Amisha.

  But she shook her head and stammered, “I’m—I’m … fine.”

  Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Then take your seat, please.”

  Amisha hobbled over to her chair and took her place between Rex and Dorcas. Waves of humiliation crashed over her, washing away her confidence. She no longer felt like a spelling goddess. She felt like a sweaty-palmed contestant instead.

  She turned to Rex. “Are you nervous?”

  “M-e?” Rex snorted. “Never.”

  She turned to Dorcas. “Are you nervous?”

  “N-o,” said Dorcas with a roll of her eyes. “I’m the Great Wordini.”

  Amisha fidgeted in her chair. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her stomach fluttered faster than Mr. Jupiter’s motorized swim fins. To calm herself, she spelled crepuscule over and over in her head.

  The kid from Marcus Aurelius went first.

  “Your word is nonplussed,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Gus was nonplussed by the fuss made by Russ. Nonplussed.”

  The kid didn’t hesitate. “N-o-n-p-l-u-s-s-e-d,” he answered.

  “Correct,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  Smiling, the kid returned to his seat.

  Next up was little Mikey Mapes. He climbed onto a stool and leaned into the microphone.

  “Please spell nausea,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Spelling bees can cause nausea. Nausea.”

  Mikey thought a moment. “N-a-u-s-e-a,” he finally answered.

  Mr. Jupiter smiled and nodded.

  Hopping off his stool, Mikey skipped back to his seat.

  Rex was next.

  “Watch and learn,” he whispered to Amisha before stepping up to the microphone.

  “Your word is doodlesack,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Angus MacTavish refers to his bagpipes as a doodlesack. Doodlesack.”

  Rex puffed out his chest. “D-o-o-d-l-s-a-c-k,” he speed-spelled. He shot the judges a smug look.

  “No, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  “But … but …,” began Rex.

  “Please step off the stage,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  Looking like he had been slapped, Rex slumped away.

  Dorcas was next.

  “Now you’ll see how the great ones do it,” she whispered to Amisha. She approached the microphone.

  “Your word is flocculence,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Flocculence should never be confused with flatulence. Flocculence.”

  “That’s soooo easy,” drawled Dorcas. “I, the Great Wordini, spell words like that in my sleep.”

  “Then spell it, please,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  Dorcas rolled her eyes. “F-l-a-t-u-l-e-n-c-e.” She smirked at the judges. “See? I told you so. I don’t stink.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Jupiter. “That’s incorrect.”

  “What?” shrieked Dorcas.

  “Please step off the stage,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  “But I’m the Great Wordini!” cried Dorcas. “I always win the spelling bee.”

  “Not this year,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  Furious, Dorcas stomped offstage.

  It was Amisha’s turn.

  Gulping, she stepped up to the microphone and faced the judges.

  “Your word is orthographic,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Spelling bee contestants are very orthographic. Orthographic.”

  In the audience, Amisha’s friends grinned at one another.

  “She knows this one,” whispered Missy.

  “And watch her flaunt it,” Victoria whispered back.

  But Amisha didn’t flaunt it. Standing in the spotlight, her heart pounding and her stomach fluttering, she could barely contain her nervousness. Crossing her legs and bouncing from foot to foot, she slowly, carefully began to spell. “O-r-t … um … um … h-o-g-r … ah … ah … a-p-h-i … ummm … c?”

  “That’s correct,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  Relief washed over her.

  Mr. Jupiter grinned. “You may return to your seat.”

  And so the bee went. Word after word. Contestant after contestant.

  The speller from Socrates went down in the second round.

  But not Amisha.

  The speller from Cicero went down in the fourth round.

  But not Amisha.

  The spellers from Homer, Petronius, and Caesar went down in the seventh round.

  But not Amisha.

  By the tenth round, only Amisha and little Mikey Mapes remained onstage.

  Mikey climbed onto his stool and leaned toward the microphone.

  “Your word is beriberi,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Strawberries are good, but beriberi is bad. Beriberi.”

  Mikey shot Amisha a triumphant look before spelling, “b-e-r-r-y-b-e-r-r-y.”

  “No, that’s incorrect,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  “Mommy!” wailed Mikey. He ran offstage.

  Mr. Jupiter turned to Amisha. “If you can spell this next word, you will be our new district-wide spelling champion. Are you ready?”

  Amisha took a deep, calming breath and nodded.

  “Your word is crepuscule,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Crepuscule is a word always used in spelling bees. Crepuscule.”

  Amisha wanted to laugh at the easiness of the word. She wanted to show off by speed-spelling. But then Miss Turner’s book bag caught her eye. Slowly, methodically—no flash, no sass—Amisha spelled, “C-r-e-p-u-s-c-u-l-e.”

  “That’s correct!” cried Mr. Jupiter. “Amisha Spelwadi, you are the new district-wide spelling champion!”

  The audience cheered.

  The superintendent presented Amisha with a bee-shaped medal, then posed for a few quick photographs before racing back to her office.

  And Amisha’s friends crowded onstage to congratulate her.

  “You are a spelling goddess,” squealed Missy. “You really are!”

  Amisha blushed. “Naw,” she said. “I’m just a fifth grader who can s-p-e-l-l.”

  MORAL: False confidence is the forerunner of misfortune.

  ANOTHER HISTORY LESSON

  TOWARD THE END OF MAY—AS HE HAD every single Friday morning since the beginning of the school year—Mr. Jupiter said, “Let’s begin by reviewing some American history. I trust everyone read last night’s assignment?”

  As always, Ashlee A. bit her lip.

  Ashley Z. tapped his pencil.

  Calvin quickly looked at Stanford.

  “Stop!” cried Stanford, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “I didn’t read it, okay? I was busy studying something else, so I didn’t read it. Geez!”

  Mr. Jupiter sighed. “Didn’t anyone read their American history last night?”

  Lenny’s hand shot into the air. “I did!”

  “You did?” said Mr. Jupiter. He waited for the punch line.

  It never came. Instead, Lenny said, “It’s taken me most of the school year, but I’ve read the whole book. And you know what? History isn’t half bad.”

  “It isn’t?” said Calvin.

  “Actually, it’s kind of exciting,” continued Lenny.

  Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Why don’t you tell us what you learned, Leo
nard.”

  “Well,” said Lenny, “it all began when the British put a tax on stamps. Boy, this made Americans so mad, they wanted to lick them. They were still steaming about that stamp tax when the British took away America’s favorite drink. ‘Give us liber-tea or give us death!’ cried the Americans. Even dogs took to the street in protest, an event we now call the Boston Flea Party.”

  “Wait a second, Leonard,” interrupted Mr. Jupiter.

  But Lenny was on a historic roll. “So the leaders of the American colonies—those guys in wigs and three-cornered hats—decided to declare themselves free from England and George the Third’s cruel rule.”

  “Very accurate,” complimented Mr. Jupiter.

  “Go on,” urged Calvin, leaning forward. “What happened next?”

  “England didn’t want the colonies to be free, so there was a war.”

  Bruce rubbed his hands together with glee. “I love war stories.”

  “Get this,” confided Lenny. “The whole American Revolution is a war story.”

  “Who knew?” said Bruce.

  “It’s all right here,” said Mr. Jupiter, tapping the history text.

  The fifth graders ignored him.

  “Tell the rest,” pleaded Calvin.

  “So the wigged guys said ‘Rats!’ to the British and called up George Washington at his house, Mount Vermin, and asked him to lead the American army.”

  “Mount Vernon,” corrected Mr. Jupiter.

  Lenny was too absorbed in his story to hear. “George Washington was one fierce army dude, even if he did have hippo teeth. He power-slammed the entire British army—sometimes called Tories—straight into the Atlantic Ocean. He was helped by some Massachusetts Minutemaids.”

  “I believe you mean minutemen,” said Mr. Jupiter.

  “In one famous battle, George Washington crossed the Delaware River,” Lenny went on.

  “Why did he cross the river?” asked Bruce.

  “To get to the other side,” answered Lenny.

  “Actually,” began Mr. Jupiter, “the Battle of Trenton was important because—”

  Lenny cut him off. “And you want to hear the weirdest part?”

  Heads around the room nodded eagerly.

  “Birds—lots and lots of them—took part in the Revolution.”

  “What?” exclaimed Mr. Jupiter.

  “It’s true,” said Lenny. “I read it on Chickipedia.”

  Mr. Jupiter waved his hands. “No, no, no!” he cried. “That’s completely untrue. How many times have I told you not to trust online sources? Believe me, birds took no part in the Revolution.”

  “What about Patrick Hen-ry, John Jay, Benjamin Frank-loon?” said Lenny.

  Mr. Jupiter looked at him, bewildered.

  “So then what happened?” said Calvin.

  “The Patriots (that’s us) trounced the Redcoats (that’s them) in a close war. The Patriots almost lost a couple times, but after a last-minute surge, they beat the Redcoats. The final score was eighty-nine battles to eighty-seven battles.”

  The fifth graders whooped triumphantly.

  And Ashlee A. and Ashleigh B. leaped to their feet.

  “Ready?” cheered Ashlee A.

  “Okay!” cheered Ashleigh B.

  Then, stomping and clapping, they cried:

  “Don’tcha know?

  Can’tcha guess?

  Patriots are the very best!

  Go back, Redcoats, go back home

  And leave our USA alone!

  Gooo, Patriots!”

  “I’m thrilled by your enthusiasm,” Mr. Jupiter shouted above the cheering, “but I’d like to redirect the lesson to—”

  Lenny cut him off again. “Let me teach you a song I learned last night,” he told the others. “It’s from the Revolution.”

  Minutes later the students—and guinea pigs—were singing:

  “I’m a stinky poodle, Randy, stinky poodle do or die …

  Stinky poodle went to town, just to find a hydrant …”

  Mr. Jupiter shrugged. “They may not have the full scope of history yet,” he said to himself, “but it’s a start. Yes, it’s definitely a start.”

  MORAL: Little by little does the trick.

  HAPPY GRADUATION

  MAY TURNED TO JUNE, AND AESOP Elementary School buzzed with excitement. Fifth-grade graduation was just a day away, and everyone wanted to celebrate.

  In honor of the occasion, Mr. Halfnote composed a special arrangement of “Happy Days Are Here Again” for armpit, washboard, and Burmese spectacled guinea pig.

  Cook baked a triple-layer chocolate crawfish cake with the words OH, JOY! piped across the top in red frosting.

  And Mrs. Gluteal, along with Mr. Frost and Mrs. Chen, performed a “happy dance” every day in the teachers’ lounge for two straight weeks.

  “We can’t wait …” Tap-tip-tap.

  “For them to graduate.” Tippity-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  “You know,” said Miss Turner, “I’m actually going to miss them.”

  Mrs. Gluteal quit tapping.

  “In fact,” Miss Turner continued, “I’m going to miss all of you.”

  “What are you talking about, Paige?” asked Ms. Bozzetto.

  Miss Turner turned to Mr. Jupiter. “Shall we tell them, Harry?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Harry was told by scientists that chimpanzees can’t dance, so he’s off to Tanzania to prove them wrong,” she said in an excited rush. “And I’m going with him. After all, chimps need the Dewey decimal system just as much as they need the rhumba.”

  “You mean you’re leaving Aesop Elementary?” gasped Mr. Frost.

  “After tomorrow, my work here is done,” explained Mr. Jupiter. “It’s time to move on.”

  “That’s right,” enthused Miss Turner, pumping her fist in the air. “Full steam ahead!”

  For a moment, there was stunned silence as the teachers took in the news.

  Then Mr. Halfnote pounded Mr. Jupiter on the back.

  Miss Fairchild pecked Miss Turner’s cheek.

  And Mrs. Gluteal cried, “Brownies for everyone!”

  At the far end of the table, Mrs. Shorthand, the school secretary, whispered into Mrs. Bunz’s ear, “After these monkeys, teaching chimps should be a breeze.”

  “I’ve said it all along,” replied Mrs. Bunz, “weird.”

  That afternoon, the fifth graders cleaned out their desks and turned in their textbooks. Already Mr. Jupiter had packed up his smilodon teeth and shrunken heads; his Lungunga pig masks and his owl pellets. He had hauled away his mastodon skeleton, his Byzantine funeral urn, and his Venus flytrap. He had even given the guinea pigs to Mr. Halfnote. “I’m sure the three of you will be very happy together,” he had said.

  Now teacher and students looked around at the bare walls and empty shelves.

  “That’s it. The room’s clear,” Lenny declared. “All that’s left to do is graduate.”

  “Then it’s adiós, Aesop Elementary, and hola, Aristophanes Middle School!” cried Bruce.

  The fifth graders cheered and high-fived each other.

  “Aren’t you excited too, Mr. Jupiter?” asked Rose, noticing his glum expression.

  “I think the word bittersweet better describes my emotions,” replied Mr. Jupiter.

  “Huh?” said Ham.

  Stanford rolled his eyes. “Bittersweet,” he translated, “means bitter and sweet at the same time.”

  “Like choco-roaches?” said Ham. “Mmm … bittersweet.”

  Mr. Jupiter smiled. “Something like that.”

  The next morning, Mr. Jupiter and his fifth graders—along with their happy parents and even happier former teachers—assembled in the auditorium.

  Proudly, the children took their places onstage.

  Mr. Jupiter smiled at Emberly’s shirt and tie, Amisha’s high-heeled sandals, and Bruce’s slicked-down hair. “Don’t you all look nice,” he said.

  “You look nice too,” said Rose, who
had managed to get to school that morning without smearing strawberry jam on her sleeve.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Jupiter said, looking down at his brightly colored Akkadian ceremonial tunic. “A special occasion does deserve a special outfit.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Victoria as she adjusted her tiara.

  Mr. Jupiter turned to the audience. “Parents and teachers,” he said, “thank you for attending this very special ceremony in honor of our children’s years at Aesop Elementary School.”

  In her seat, Mrs. Bunz giggled.

  “This ceremony, however, is not an ending, but a beginning,” continued Mr. Jupiter. “While our fledglings may be flapping away from this nest, they are soaring toward bright and glorious futures.”

  Mrs. Bunz giggled again.

  “And so,” said Mr. Jupiter, “to commemorate this remarkable occasion, I want to present each of our graduates with a special award—a token, if you will, of my admiration and esteem.”

  Mr. Jupiter moved to a table covered with papyrus scrolls. “These are made from scraps that I excavated during my last trip to the sacred Temple of Philae.” He coughed, trying to clear the lump that was growing in his throat, then added, “I crafted them with my own two hands especially for my students.”

  Mr. Jupiter looked at Miss Turner. “Paige, will you help me?”

  “Certainly, Harry,” she said.

  Standing behind the table, she handed him the first scroll.

  “Hamilton Samitch,” Mr. Jupiter called out.

  Ham stepped forward.

  “Ham, I present you with the Gastronomic Philosophy Award,” said Mr. Jupiter, giving him the scroll.

  Ham turned to Stanford.

  “The science of good eating,” translated Stanford. “You’ve just received the Science of Good Eating Award.”

  “Oh,” said Ham. “Mmmm.”

  From the audience, Mr. Samitch shouted, “Can you hold your scroll a bit higher, Hammy?”

  FLASH!

  “Now can you and Mr. Jupiter shake hands?”

  FLASH!

  “Cheese,” Mrs. Samitch hollered out.

  Ham pulled a round of cheddar from his pocket.

  FLASH!

  Then, glowing with pride and blinking rapidly, Ham groped his way back to his seat.

  Miss Turner handed over the next scroll.

  “Rachel Piffle,” called out Mr. Jupiter.