Jessi's Horrible Prank Page 3

  We all cheered.

  “And to start things off right, we’re going to show you a video with excerpts from last year’s show. Roll ’em!”

  Well, that video was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. One group of kids did a skit called “Gym for Teachers.” Wearing potbellies, fake mustaches, and clodhopper shoes, they imitated SMS teachers huffing and puffing in gym class.

  Kate Condos led a number called “The SMS Rap,” during which she pulled our principal, Mr. Taylor, from the audience, and made him dance along. Another kid did a comedy routine, and a group of four performed a great tap number.

  I was psyched.

  By the end of the video, the whole group was bubbling with excitement.

  Ms. Vandela took over then. “We have some special plans,” she announced. “For the first time, the Sixth-Grade Follies will be a benefit. We’ll be charging admission, and donating the profits to a worthy organization. This means we’ll need two important committees.

  “The performance committee will be in charge of planning the show,” Ms. Vandela continued. “That means deciding on a title and theme, figuring out the format, writing the material, helping to audition performers, and setting up subcommittees — like makeup and lighting. I must stress, though, that we want everyone to audition, even committee members.”

  A couple of kids groaned.

  “It’s just so we can get an idea of everyone’s talent, that’s all,” Ms. Bernhardt said. “Very low pressure. Now, the finance committee will choose the charity we’ll donate our proceeds to, plus organize the collection of money. May I have hands for the performance committee?”

  I raised mine.

  “Finance?”

  I raised it again.

  Ms. Bernhardt wrote me down for both.

  I could not wait to begin work.

  “After much consideration blah blah bell curve mumble mumble perhaps the difficulty level exceeded expectations blah blah.”

  That wasn’t exactly what Mr. Trout said. But it was something like that. I think he was trying to explain that we’d all flunked our first quiz.

  Yes, quiz.

  It had been a total surprise. Last Friday, he had passed out mimeographed sheets of computer gobbledygook. “A simple BASIC program,” he had called it. (Or was it a “basic SIMPLE program”?)

  Well, it wasn’t either — simple or basic. I didn’t understand a thing. I thought he’d made a mistake and given us a test in Ancient Greek.

  I was horrified. Afterward, I talked to some classmates. It turned out no one had known how to answer the problems.

  Now we were all facing the consequences.

  Mr. Trout fiddled with a mechanical pencil, then tucked it behind his left ear. “As a result of the low scores, I have decided to cancel everyone’s grades and devote a few days to rigorous review.”

  Big mistake. I mean, it didn’t sound like “wigowous weview” to me, but it must have to Maria Fazio, because she was having a cow in the back of the class.

  I turned and gave her a Look. So did Renee and a couple of others.

  Fortunately, a bunch of kids were cheering about the grade cancellation. Mr. Trout didn’t seem to hear Maria.

  Actually, he seemed preoccupied with something on his desk. Or something not on his desk. He looked under his grade book, which had all our quiz papers tucked into it. Then he bent down and scanned the floor.

  “That’s odd …” he said under his breath. “I just had it in my hand. …”

  He reached into his pants pocket, then into his shirt pocket protector (which was empty).

  He turned to the right, scratching his head. His mechanical pencil was facing us now, still nestled behind his ear.

  Oops.

  I began to raise my hand to tell him, but Janet reached from behind me and pulled it down.

  When I turned to face her, she was smiling. She put her finger to her lips to shush me.

  Around us, kids were catching on. Everyone was trying hard not to crack up.

  I faced forward again. Mr. Trout was sitting at his desk, rummaging through his drawer. A box of paper clips fell out onto the floor.

  “Oh, dear …” he said.

  He pushed the drawer closed and dropped to his knees.

  Rrrrrrrip.

  His tie had gotten caught in the drawer. It must have been old, because it tore right off at the collar.

  “Oh!” Mr. Trout exclaimed.

  This was too much. No one could hold it in. The whole class was whooping. It sounded like a laugh track on a sitcom.

  Mr. Trout quickly took off what was left of his tie and began picking up the paper clips. I felt so bad for him. But my stomach was in knots from laughing. If only he would say something — chuckle, anything — this whole thing wouldn’t be so embarrassing. Or so funny.

  While Mr. Trout was kneeling, Jimmy Bouloukos sneaked up to the desk and swiped the grade book. He rushed back to his own desk and stuffed it inside.

  When Mr. Trout finally stood up, his pencil was back in his pocket protector. Beads of sweat had formed just beneath his strange, thick hair. He dumped the paper clips back in his desk and said, “Now we can settle down to …”

  His voice drifted off. He was staring at the desk again. No one said a word about Jimmy.

  He opened his desk drawer again, looked inside, and closed it.

  “Hmmm … um …” You could tell he was about to ask about the book, but thought better of it. He probably figured he’d left it somewhere obvious and didn’t want to humiliate himself again.

  I wanted to laugh. My stomach was convulsing.

  Turning to the blackboard, Mr. Trout said, “Now then, let me write out the first problem. …”

  Someone piped up, “Twout!” in the back of the class, more like a strange animal noise than a word.

  Mr. Trout looked over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon? Does someone have a question?”

  “Just had something between my teeth,” George Weiss said (whatever that meant).

  If I were George’s teacher, I would have smacked him. Mr. Trout just nodded and turned back around.

  Then someone else chimed in, “Twout!”

  “You see,” Mr. Trout said, either ignoring or not hearing the sound effects, “at this step, we must ensure the program does not result in an endless loop —”

  “Twout!”

  “Twout!”

  Great. The class had turned into a pool of barking seals.

  This kind of stuff continued the rest of the hour. At one point, when Mr. Trout was busy writing on the board, Jimmy returned the grade book.

  If Mr. Trout was surprised, he didn’t show it. He just kept trying to teach, as if nothing was wrong.

  He never did give back those quizzes, which was probably just as well.

  As I left class, I had a thought. Mr. Trout knew exactly what he was doing. He actually had a good sense of humor, and he was putting on an act. He figured that would make class less boring. He probably practiced that pencil-behind-the-ear routine in the teachers’ lounge. Dollies One and Two coached him.

  That had to be it. Why else would anyone act so strange?

  I believed that theory for about one and a half minutes. Then I let myself forget about Mr. Trout and think about more important things.

  Like the Sixth-Grade Follies finance committee. We were scheduled to meet after school, to talk about which charitable organizations we might want to donate our proceeds to. I was going to suggest this theater group in Stamford that trains hearing-impaired actors and puts on plays with sign-language accompaniment. (I had learned about them from the family of one of my favorite charges, Matt Braddock, who is profoundly deaf.)

  I ended up seeing Mr. Trout twice more that day. The first time, I was rushing to lunch after gym. As I raced around a corner, I spotted him a few feet in front of me.

  I slowed waaaay down. No way would I let him see me. What could I possibly say to him — “Duh, nice class today”?

  H
ere’s what I noticed, walking behind Mr. Trout. He stayed close to the wall. He had no bounce in his step at all. His hair sat on his head like a helmet. (I wondered if he used hair spray.)

  At the cafeteria door, a group of three teachers was gabbing away. One of them, Mr. Dougherty, smiled at Mr. Trout as he passed, and nodded hello.

  Mr. Trout must not have noticed. He walked right by without even looking in the teacher’s direction. Mr. Dougherty just shrugged and plunged back into the conversation.

  I guess Mr. Trout needed to learn some manners. Oh, well. He was new. And shy, maybe. No big deal.

  I slipped into the cafeteria and hit the lunch line.

  The second time I saw Mr. Trout was right before last period. I happened to pass by the teachers’ lounge when I heard a laughing fit. I glanced inside to see four or five teachers sitting at a table, doubling over at something Mr. Williams was saying. I was dying to listen. They all looked as if they were having a great time.

  That was when I noticed Mr. Trout. He was at another table, reading a book, facing away from the other teachers. As Mr. Williams went on, Mr. Trout hunched tighter over his book.

  Now, I’m sorry, but that was weird in a major way. It wasn’t just shy. It wasn’t just bad manners, either.

  I think Mr. Trout needed his own Short Takes course. In Human Relations.

  * * *

  After school I raced to my locker. I threw my books in and began pulling out what I needed to take home.

  I was so wrapped up in thinking about the Follies, I almost didn’t notice the conversation next to me.

  Sanjita, Maria, and Sandra were at their lockers, not far from mine. They were giggling about something.

  Before I closed my locker, I heard Maria say, “Of course it is! It’s the most obvious one in the world!”

  “You think so?” Sandra asked.

  “I know so!” Maria insisted. “My uncle wears a toupee just like the Trout’s. Haven’t you noticed the gray hairs just along the bottom, where his real hair begins?”

  “And how it never, ever bounces or falls across his face?” Sanjita added. “It’s totally unnatural.”

  “I don’t know,” Sandra said. “It’s a weird style and all, but it looks real to me.”

  “When was your last eye examination?” Maria asked.

  “Ha ha,” Sandra replied.

  “There’s got to be some way we can find out,” Sanji said.

  “We could ask him,” Maria suggested.

  I didn’t stay to hear the rest. But they got me thinking.

  I’d figured it was just hair spray. But they could have been right.

  Poor Mr. Trout. Next thing you know, he’d turn out to have false teeth.

  When I got to the auditorium, Ms. Vandela was about to close the door. “Wait!” I shouted.

  I ran in. I took my seat. And all thoughts of toupees and weird teachers vanished from my mind.

  “Where are the pretzels?” I called out.

  “I’ll get them!” Becca replied.

  She ran out of the kitchen. I dumped some potato chips into a bowl and reached into the refrigerator for a bunch of grapes. I added them to a fruit bowl that already had apples, oranges, and bananas.

  I looked at the spread on the kitchen counter — potato chips, tortilla chips, fruit, M & M’s, Triscuits, Goldfish, and (soon) pretzels. “Do you think this’ll be enough?” I asked Mama.

  “For seven sixth-graders?” Mama said. “I’ll give it a half hour. But don’t worry. Daddy’s out back cleaning the barbecue.”

  It was 9:45 on Saturday morning, fifteen minutes before a meeting of the Follies performance committee. We’d already begun working on the script at school. Our title was Hooray for Stoneywood! In our “plot,” SMS is really a school for celebrities in disguise.

  This was our first meeting at my house. I was petrified. I wanted so badly to make a good impression.

  Becca came rushing into the kitchen with a huge, open bag of pretzels. “Here!”

  “Where were they?” Mama asked her.

  “Oh … in my bedroom.” She quickly added, “Squirt brought them there!”

  “Uh-huh. Young lady, what are you going to do when your brother is old enough to defend himself?”

  Becca ignored Mama’s comment. “Jessi, do you want me to tape the meeting?”

  “Tape it? Why?” I said.

  “So you won’t forget your ideas!” she replied. “Or I could just, like, listen and help out if you forget stuff.”

  Oh, boy. Becca Ramsey, show-biz brat in the making. “You can listen if you help me set up.”

  “Yeeeeaaaa!” Becca grabbed two bowls and ran into the living room.

  We were ready by 9:57. At 10:03, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Becca screamed.

  We both got there at the same time. Becca pulled the door open and said, “Hi! I’m Jessi’s sister!”

  It was Randy Rademacher, a guy I didn’t know too well. His dad was standing with him.

  “Hi,” Randy said.

  Randy’s dad was looking around the living room, barely noticing my sister and me. “Are your parents home?” was the first thing he said.

  Luckily, Mom came walking in at that moment. “Hello, there,” she said sweetly. “I’m Jessi and Becca’s mother. Nice to meet you.”

  Mr. Rademacher smiled and extended his hand. He looked relieved. “Hello, I’m Bill Rademacher. You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you,” Mama replied. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like. My husband’s in the back preparing the grill.”

  “Oh, the kids’ll be having lunch?” Mr. Rademacher asked.

  “Yes, and we have plenty of burgers and hot dogs, so don’t be shy.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I’ve got some errands.” He backed out the door. “Call me when you’re ready, son.”

  Randy sank into the living room couch. He seemed a little nervous. Just as his father had seemed.

  I offered Randy some chips and sat across from him.

  “Am I the first one?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “But everyone’s coming.”

  “Except Mara,” Randy said. “I saw her in front of her house.”

  “Oh? Is she feeling all right?”

  He shrugged. “She looked fine. She said she had to go to the mall with her mom.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I didn’t ask any questions. Mara Semple’s okay, but her parents were awfully cold to us when we moved in.

  I mean, I know it’s not right to judge, and maybe Mara really did have something important to do. But people can be weird. It’s hard to believe, but some people are very uncomfortable about being in African-Americans’ houses. Uncomfortable? Scared is more like it sometimes.

  Like Mr. Rademacher. He was being so wary when he was at the door. What did he expect to see?

  I don’t know. The whole thing is very unfair and very confusing.

  Luckily, kids are usually much looser than parents. Randy, his mouth full of pretzels, was reaching into his backpack. “I have this great idea,” he said.

  Ding-dong!

  “I’ll get it!” Becca yelled.

  During the next few minutes the rest of the committee arrived (minus Mara). Each one was greeted by our honorary mascot, my sister.

  Randy was dying to show us something. He pulled some sunglasses, a comb, a small pillow, a toy microphone, and a box of raisins out of his pack. “Can I use your bathroom?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I showed him where it was, and he disappeared inside for about five minutes.

  When he came out, his hair was slicked back and he was wearing the sunglasses. He’d tucked the pillow under his shirt, and he was holding the toy mike. He flashed us a smile.

  Between his front teeth was a huge gap. It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was part of a raisin, smushed into the crack.

  “Mr. Williams … as Elvis!” he shouted. Then he began wiggling and singing an off-pi
tch version of “Jailhouse Rock.”

  Well, we screamed. Mr. Williams does have slick hair, a pot belly, and a tooth gap. And he has that smooth, Elvis-style voice.

  Next Bobby Gustavson gave me a script he’d been working on, based on Wayne’s World. He played Wayne — and guess who volunteered to play Garth?

  Me.

  Okay, it wasn’t typecasting. But it was hilarious.

  We tried out a couple of other ideas, and pretty soon we were rolling on the floor. Aunt Cecelia came in at one point and asked us if we’d lost our minds.

  Randy took her hand and sang “I’m All Shook Up” as Elvis — and she actually danced! Whoa. I have never seen Aunt Cecelia loosen up that much.

  Then, at noon, Daddy came in and said, “Barbecue’s ready! Come and get it!”

  You never saw a bunch of kids stand up so fast.

  On our way to the back door, Randy said, “Ms. Bernhardt and Ms. Vandela are going to die when we show them this.”

  Then it hit me. The Perfect Idea. I didn’t know why no one had thought of it before. I stopped right in the kitchen.

  “The two Dollies!” I exclaimed. “We have to get some Dolly Parton wigs!”

  “Yeah! And some, like, gigantic bras,” suggested another committee member, Jamie Sperling, her face turning red.

  “Here’s the main plot: The Dollies are trying to put on the Sixth-Grade Follies,” Randy said, “just like in real life — only the school is full of celebrities.”

  “The Folly Dollies!” exclaimed Justine Moss, who was also on the committee.

  “Elvis darlin’, y’all just have to tra out fuh the show,” I drawled.

  “Jessi, you’ve got to be one of them,” Jamie said. “That would be so hilarious.”

  A black Dolly Parton? I guess that would be funny. Did I want to be laughed at because of that? Well …

  “Maybe,” I replied. “Unless they insist on playing themselves.”

  We gabbed away as we walked out to the backyard. Becca tagged along behind us, grinning like crazy.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think she wanted to be in the show.

  Well, she had three years to prepare. No harm in starting early.

  Daddy’s barbecue was amazing. We ate till we could hardly move.