Pennybaker School Is Revolting Read online

  Erma rolled her eyes and kicked the back of my right knee, causing it to buckle and me to fall.

  “Ugh. Grow up,” she said.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder and flounced upstairs, leaving me on the floor, rubbing the back of my knee. At least I got out of dancing.

  But maybe levitation wasn’t the answer.

  TRICK #6

  POOF! POPULARITY!

  The first thing I noticed when I woke up the next day was that I was freezing. I had wrapped my covers around me so tightly that I had a moment of panic, thinking I wouldn’t be able to get out of them without help. But I thrashed around until I was loose, and then found the source of the chill.

  The window was cracked open.

  Had I done that? I didn’t remember doing it. I had been really busy trying to perfect Grandpa Rudy’s broken-arm trick.

  I got up and shut the window, then got dressed.

  When I got to school, there was a whole crowd on the front lawn. Maybe there was news about Mr. Faboo. Maybe he had come back and was demonstrating how to make a rope or skin a bear or something. I jumped out of Mom’s car and headed straight over to find out what was going on.

  No Mr. Faboo.

  Instead, arms and legs and hands were flailing everywhere, and people were making weird noises and standing on one foot and counting. It was like they were all possessed. I was really creeped out until I saw the middle of the crowd and realized who was leading this nonsense.

  “Chip,” I said, pushing past Abigail Thew and her dance partner, Flea, who was at least a foot shorter than she was. “Where were you this morning? We stopped to pick you up.”

  “Oh, hi, Thomas,” Chip said. He twisted his body this way and that, and then snapped back into place, doing something weird with his arms. “I’m instructing. Have you come to join the class?”

  I spun around. Everyone was busy trying to twist their bodies into the same shape that Chip’s had been in. Some of them were humming. “What class?”

  “Dance class, of course. I found my ballroom dancing socks, and my instruction socks. I’m double-layered.” He held a leg up in front of me. I pushed it back down. “It’s a fine, chilly morning to be double-layered, don’t you think?”

  I remembered my window being open that morning. “It’s cold.”

  “Dance will warm you. Join us. We’re about to work on our dégagés.” He did something funny with his leg that looked like a cross between an ostrich stepping over a groundhog and Chip stepping onto a pile of garbage.

  My stomach twisted disagreeably with wedding memories. “No, thanks. I’m not dancing,” I said.

  Chip stopped and stared at me, wide-eyed. “You have to. It’s for an assignment.”

  “I’ll take the F,” I said.

  “What about Sissy?” he asked. “If you get an F, so will she.”

  I had already thought about that and had a brilliant plan. “They’ll get her another partner. They’ll have to, because I think I broke my arm.” I carefully placed my palm on the ground while surreptitiously sliding a plastic cup into my other armpit, then began spinning my hand around. Slowly, the crowd stopped moving and leaned in to see what I was doing. Perfect timing. I squeezed the cup, making a crunching sound. A girl squealed and fell backward into her dance partner’s arms.

  I moaned, rolled onto my back, and held my shoulder. “Oh. Ow. Ouch. Oh. Oh. Ooooh.”

  Chip began laughing, his glasses sliding down on his nose. “You’re so funny, Thomas.”

  I glared. “I’m not funny. I broke my arm. Didn’t you hear it? It was an awful crunching sound. I can’t dance with a broken arm.”

  Chip laughed harder. “That’s a really good trick, Thomas. You’re getting better every day. Imagine if you borrowed my magic socks.”

  I stood up and angrily brushed off my knees. “I don’t need your magic socks,” I said. “And I’m not dancing with you. I have to polish the head of horror anyway.”

  “I already did.”

  “What do you mean you already did?”

  “He got here early so he could help us,” Owen said. He had a tablet on his lap and was busy tapping in notes about pirouettes and chassés, whatever those were. “And he had extra time, so he shined the bust already.”

  “But that’s my job. They gave it to me. The hero.”

  “You’re welcome, Thomas,” Chip said, even though I definitely had not thanked him. “Anything to help a friend.”

  “He’s really great like that,” Wesley added in a cartoon tiger voice, stretching out the R in “great.”

  “Yeah. He’s so great,” I said sourly. I didn’t know why exactly, but Chip’s quick rise to stardom at Pennybaker was kind of bugging me. We were all uniquely gifted at something, but he seemed to be gifted at everything—including friend stealing and job stealing. “I’m going to go and …” I trailed off as I pushed through the crowd, mostly because I had no idea what I was going to go and do. All my best friends were busy dancing, and both my levitation and broken-arm tricks had failed. The bust had been polished. And it was too early to go to class.

  I was just about to pull open the front door when a movement behind the bushes caught my eye. I let my hand fall away from the door handle and bent to get a look. I was pretty sure I knew what was moving around inside.

  “Reap?”

  “Hey, Thomas.”

  I scooted so that my back was against the wall and crouched down. “I thought Harriett moved away.”

  Harriett was a mother hedgehog Reap had been feeding. As soon as her babies were big enough, they had moved on.

  “She did. There’s something new under here. It’s a baby.”

  I crouched lower, ducking my head to see under the bush where Reap was tossing bread crumbs. All I could see was a pair of eyes, which looked like two shiny black beads.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Reap said. “I can’t get it to come out. I’ve been trying for days. I’ve spoken to it in every language I know, and it doesn’t answer.” Reap’s unique gift was hanging out with, talking to, and just generally being friends with animals. But he kept that a secret, because his entire family’s unique gift was taxidermy, and he didn’t want his animal friends to find out.

  I grabbed a slice of bread and started ripping and tossing, too. The bread piled up. The eyes never moved.

  “What if it’s dangerous?” I asked, whispering, because that seemed like the right thing to do when you were within bread-tossing distance from something that might be dangerous.

  Reap shrugged. “I guess I’ll be in big trouble, then.”

  “What if it jumps out of the bush and chews your face right off?”

  (Things That Could Happen 12. You could have your face chewed off by that stray. And then you could get rabies.)

  Reap laughed. “It wouldn’t do that.” But when he laughed, the animal startled. There was movement inside the bush, and the beady eyes were gone.

  “Darn it,” Reap said softly. He closed the bag of bread and stood up. “Hey, Chip!” he called, waving over the bushes. “Thanks for getting the bread.” He paused, listening. “Nope, not today. Maybe tomorrow.” He turned toward me. “Man, Chip is such a great guy,” he said. He sidestepped past me and made his way to the front door just in time for the warning bell to ring.

  “Yeah. Really great,” I said, remembering when I was the only one at Pennybaker who knew Reap’s secret spot behind the bushes. And the only one at Pennybaker who knew Chip. “Everybody loves him. He must be wearing his popularity socks.”

  TRICK #7

  THE FRIEND FORCE

  “I kind of miss my costume,” Wesley said as we walked into school after the warning bell rang.

  “But you’re always wearing a costume of some kind. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen you in normal clothes.”

  He beamed. “Aw, thanks, buddy. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  Actors can be weird sometimes.

  “Don’t you
wonder a little bit where Mr. Faboo might be?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m sure he’ll be back. Maybe he just needed a break. This is a crazy school, after all.”

  Wesley stopped and looked at me with his eyebrows pushed together. “How so?”

  “You mean you don’t notice … You think this is … Never mind. I just mean school in general is crazy.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like Mr. Faboo to be gone. Ever.”

  “Maybe he took a vacation to somewhere historical. Like Boston. Or Egypt.”

  Wesley shook his head forcefully as I pulled open the big metal door for him. “Not during Act After the Fact Month. No way. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.” He gave a dramatic shiver, saying the last part in the kind of frightened voice you might hear in a scary movie.

  I didn’t want to say anything, but I could kind of feel it in my bones, too. Something was weird about the way the sub had acted. Like he owned the place. Like he was in charge forever. Like we were going to have to memorize dates and take tests and read things from photocopied packets.

  I wasn’t the biggest fan of Pennybaker’s uniqueness. I wasn’t the biggest fan of scary head statues or a principal who pantomimed, and I definitely wasn’t the biggest fan of costumes. But I had become Mr. Faboo’s fan, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it was true that he was gone forever.

  We walked into the vestibule, and the first thing I saw was Miss Munch, hands on hips, beaming as she admired Chip’s polishing job.

  I let my backpack drop to the floor and marched over.

  “Oh, hello, Thomas,” Chip said. “I was just showing Miss Munch the new polishing paste I’ve concocted for the esteemed artwork in our fine school. Here, want a taste?” He held up a plastic bowl full of mucky white gunk. I jumped back.

  “Gross! No.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. He leaned over and took a lick, then smacked his lips. “It’s simply flour, salt, and vinegar. Nothing that can harm you. Some say that vinegar has been around since as far back as five thousand BC. Can you imagine? They even used it to clean wounds. Do you have any wounds, Thomas? I’m certain I’ll have some paste left over.”

  “That’s my statue,” I said, crossing my arms. I knew I looked like a baby standing there, but I couldn’t help it. I was the Helen Heirmauser Head Hero. I was the one who got to polish her every day. Sure, I forgot to do it a lot. And, sure, I complained a super lot. But still.

  “Now, Thomas,” Miss Munch said, placing her hand on my back, “Chip is only trying to help. Look how wonderfully his paste is working. Why, I haven’t seen Helen’s forehead shine so much since the heat wave of 1992.”

  “But that’s my job. I’m the one who gets to shine her forehead.” I couldn’t believe those words had just come out of my mouth.

  “Oh, here, Thomas. You can shine her tomorrow. I don’t mind.” Chip held out the rag he was using. It stunk like Easter eggs. He leaned in and whispered, “I’ve nibbled it only a little.”

  I held the rag between my thumb and forefinger, totally grossed out. “Thanks, I …” I leaned in closer. “I …” I leaned in closer still. “Hey! What happened to my name?”

  He tapped his chin. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that for some time now, so I’m glad you brought it up. Thomas, of course, means ‘twin.’ That’s easy. But Fallgrout is a bit of an enigma. It’s not really Faulkner, which would have Scottish origins meaning Falconer, as in one who trains predatory birds. But it’s not really Fa—”

  “No, I mean my name on the statue.” I pointed to the slightly lighter spot where a nameplate had been, bearing my name as the hero and rescuer of the Heirmauser memory. “You polished my name off!”

  Chip leaned in closely and examined the bare spot over the top of his glasses. “Huh,” he said. “I didn’t notice. It must have fallen.” He glanced around the floor, looking for it. “Maybe Mr. Crumbs swept it up. I’m sorry, Thomas. It was an accident.”

  I poked my finger into his chest. “It was not. You did it on purpose. Just like you stole my job on purpose, and started teaching dance on purpose, and—”

  The bell rang, and everyone started scurrying toward their classrooms. Including Chip.

  “I wasn’t finished yelling at you,” I called after him.

  He turned, came back to me, smiled, and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Thomas. You’ll have lots of yelling-at-me time later. Maybe at tomorrow morning’s dance practice? Everyone will be there.”

  He walked briskly into the crowd and was soon swept away.

  “Never!” I called toward his back, my stomach clenching at the word “dance” again. Wesley, Flea, and Owen wandered by. “Hey, you guys aren’t going to do that stupid dancing thing in the morning, are you?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, uh …” Flea said, looking over his shoulder.

  “We were,” Owen said. “You should, too, Thomas. It’s not so bad.”

  Just like pantyhose weren’t so bad and bow ties weren’t so bad and penny loafers with shiny pennies in the toes to look cute weren’t so bad. All those things were bad! I would bet that Mom would call the dance a Ballroom Dance Adventure. And you knew that when Mom put the word “adventure” after something, it was bad.

  They started to walk away. I caught Wesley by the sleeve.

  “Dude,” I said, trying to convey the rest of the sentence with my eyebrows.

  Eyebrow Conversation 101

  The single raised eyebrow: What are you doing, dude?

  The double raised eyebrow: I can’t believe you did that, dude.

  The double raised eyebrow with head tilted to one side: You better be with me on this, dude.

  The frowning eyebrows: Fine, have it your way, dude.

  I went through all the eyebrow configurations with Wesley. He responded with his own addition:

  The raised and bunched-together eyebrows: Sorry, dude.

  Wesley drifted away with the others, and I was left alone in the vestibule, staring at the faded spot where my name used to be.

  Mr. Smith was writing a bunch of packet page numbers on Mr. Faboo’s vintage blackboard when I got to class that afternoon. Mr. Faboo always used a piece of chalk with a quill taped to one end to write on the blackboard, but Mr. Smith was using a plain old piece of chalk. The quill was nowhere in sight. My heart sank. I liked the quill. It made history seem more alive, somehow. And I’d never seen Mr. Faboo without it. If it was gone, maybe he really was, too.

  Wesley, Flea, Owen, and Chip were already seated. I was still kind of irritated about the dance lessons, so I tried to act like I didn’t notice and instead sat in the front row, making Tabitha Rattlebag pause when she came into the room. Tabitha Rattlebag earned the top score in all her classes, and always had, ever since the day she was born. She probably cried the best in the hospital nursery. Tabitha Rattlebag always sat front and center.

  Tabitha Rattlebag was just going to have to deal with it.

  She harrumphed and sat behind me.

  “Homework,” Mr. Smith announced, putting down the chalk and brushing off his hands.

  There was silence in the room, and then Clara spoke up. “You mean we’re supposed to just, like, read it?”

  Mr. Smith nodded.

  “We’re not supposed to make a rap song out of it?” Patrice Pillow asked.

  “No; why would I have you do that?”

  “A poem, maybe?” Samara Lee interjected. “Or a one-act play?”

  “No, just read it and be ready for a quiz tomorrow.”

  “A quiz?” Buckley was incredulous.

  “Yes. Ten points is all. Just over tonight’s reading.”

  “A quiz,” Buckley said again.

  “Yes, Mr. Manor, a quiz.” Mr. Smith was getting irritated. Again.

  “It’s just that we’ve never taken a quiz in this class before,” Clara said.

  “Or a test,” Tabitha added sourly. “In my opinion, it’s about time.”

&nbs
p; Mr. Smith was taken aback. “No quizzes? How does Mr. Faboo know whether you understand the lessons?”

  “Role-play, mostly,” I said. “Sometimes with costumes.”

  “Costumes are silly and a distraction,” Mr. Smith said again. “We’ll have no more of that in this class. From here on out, we read the material, discuss it in class—in an appropriate manner—and take tests to make sure everyone understands. Now, open your packets to the final page.”

  There was a lot of unhappy mumbling as people tugged their packets out of their backpacks—the ones who hadn’t used theirs to make paper airplanes or save a trapped bug or play trash-can basketball, that is.

  I felt a poke in my back. Wesley was giving me an eyebrow look.

  Eyebrows lifted and lips pooched together: You still think Mr. Faboo might come back, dude?

  “Come on, Mr. Fallgrout, the class is waiting.”

  I opened my packet and spread it out on my desk.

  Mr. Faboo was going to come back, even if I had to find him and haul him back to Pennybaker myself.

  I waited outside the office bathroom for Principal Rooster. He came through the door, humming the Pennybaker alma mater, and almost ran into me. He jumped back. “Oh! Thomas. You startled me. You know students aren’t allowed to use the office bathroom, right?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Faboo,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It’s about … It’s about my costume. I’m not sure if Philadelphus Philadelphia would have worn white stockings or another color. Maybe blue. Or red. His name sounds pretty patriotic. I can buy another color. I like shopping for pantyhose.” Sometimes, when my brain accidentally lets my mouth off its leash, my mouth hops over the fence and runs all around the neighborhood before I can catch it. I blushed. “I mean, I want to make sure I get an A on the Act After the Fact assignment, so I just need to make sure my panty—leggings are right. That’s all.” I flicked some imaginary lint off my shirt, trying to look bored.