Kristy in Charge Page 3

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “Mary Anne too. We’ll make sure it goes all right.”

  That seemed to help. Mallory smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Now it was the look on Mary Anne’s face that worried me. She bit her lip and frowned at me as if to say, Why did you promise something we can’t do?

  That afternoon, while Abby was at the allergist, Jessi was at her ballet class, and the rest of us were at TOT training, Claudia sat for Vanessa (age nine), Margo (seven), and Claire Pike (five).

  The moment Mrs. Pike left, Vanessa swung into action. She popped up from the floor, where she’d been lying between Claire and Margo, watching TV. “Mallory may be a TOT. But all alone she is not,” Vanessa sang out dramatically. “I can be a teacher too, and” — she pointed to her younger sisters — “I am planning on teaching you!”

  “Nice poem,” Claudia said, laughing. Like Mallory, Vanessa also wants to be a writer. Her specialty is poetry.

  Claire leaped to her feet. “You’re teaching us?” she cried eagerly. “What are you teaching us?”

  “Poetry, of course,” Vanessa replied.

  Margo ducked her head and covered it with her hands. “Oh, no-o-o,” she mumbled.

  Vanessa straddled her sister and pulled her up by the shoulders. “No hiding. You need to learn about poetry.”

  Claire turned off the TV. “Come on, Margo, come on. It’s fun to play school.

  “Oh, all right,” Margo grumbled as she rolled away from Vanessa. “You’ll both bug me until I do it anyway.” She looked at Claudia. “Are you going to play?”

  “Sure,” Claudia agreed. Normally, school wouldn’t be a game she’d suggest, but she thought that maybe Vanessa’s version would be fun.

  Vanessa instructed her students to sit on the couch while she ran upstairs.

  “I’m learning to write in school,” Claire proudly told Claudia. “I can spell some words. Cat, C-A-T. Dog, D-O-G. House, H-O-S-E.”

  “Very good.” Claudia applauded.

  “Why did you say good?” Margo demanded. “She spelled house wrong.”

  “Did not!” Claire shot back.

  “Did too!”

  The girls looked to Claudia to solve the argument. “Well …” she began.

  “If you spell mouse, M-O-U-S-E, then house has to be spelled H-O-U-S-E because it rhymes with mouse,” Margo insisted.

  “Did someone say rhymes?” Vanessa asked as she scurried down the stairs. She was holding a piece of light blue poster board in one hand and a box of colored markers in the other.

  “I said house rhymes with mouse, so it must be spelled the same,” Margo explained. “Isn’t that right?”

  “No,” Vanessa said with a knowledgeable shake of her head. “I mean it might, but it doesn’t have to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Spelling is totally unimportant.”

  “It is?” Claire squinted her eyes at Vanessa. That wasn’t what she’d been told in kindergarten.

  “Well … that’s what I’ve always felt,” Claudia admitted. “But I’m not sure that —”

  “Absolutely unimportant!” Vanessa maintained, swooshing a red marker dramatically through the air. “In poetry, sound is what matters.”

  “Wait a minute, Vanessa,” Margo objected. “Won’t everyone who reads your poems think you’re dumb if they’re all spelled wrong?”

  “They won’t be spelled wrong because someone else will fix the misspellings,” Vanessa informed her.

  Margo wasn’t buying this. “Like who?”

  “Like a secretary or an editor or someone like that,” Vanessa replied. “Besides, spelling was made up by a bunch of crazy people who wrote words in the strangest ways they could think of, just to confuse everyone else.”

  “That’s the truth!” said Claudia. At last, someone who understands the problem, she thought. Vanessa might only be nine, but she was on to something. At least in Claudia’s opinion.

  “I can spell, but I think worrying about spelling gets in the way of making great poems,” Vanessa said. “The first thing you must know about a poem is that it has to rhyme.”

  “My teacher says it doesn’t,” Margo protested. “Haiku poems, written in Japan, don’t rhyme.”

  “That’s Japanese poetry,” Vanessa replied irritably. “The rules are different in America.”

  “I don’t think all American poems rhyme either,” Claudia said gently. She remembered learning this in English class.

  Vanessa stamped one foot. “My poems rhyme and that’s what I’m teaching — rhyming poems.”

  “I like rhyming poems,” Claire said. “I know one — ‘Little Miss Muffet/Sat on a tuffet/Eating her curds and whey …’” She stopped and made a confused face. “What’s a tuffet?”

  “And what’s curds and whey?” Margo asked.

  Claudia shrugged. “I’ve always wondered about that myself.”

  “A tuffet is something you sit on and curds and whey are something you eat,” Vanessa said in a patient voice.

  Margo scowled at her. “We knew that! What we wanted to know was —”

  “ ‘Miss Muffet’ is a nice poem, Claire,” Vanessa cut her off. “But it’s not a great poem. In my class, you will learn to make up great poems that express your true feelings.” She propped her poster board against the TV and used her marker to print the word fly. “Today we will make a poem by rhyming the word fly. Class, what rhymes with fly?”

  “Sky!” Claire shouted.

  “My,” Margo said.

  “Eskimo pie,” Claudia offered.

  “Very good,” Vanessa commended them. She wrote their suggestions on her poster board. “Now more suggestions.”

  After they filled the board with rhyming words, they worked together to compose a poem using them. Claudia told me she had a great time. If real school were as much fun as Vanessa’s school, Claudia might not mind attending.

  At five-thirty, Mrs. Pike returned with Mallory, whom she’d picked up at school. As they walked through the door, Mrs. Pike was saying to Mal, “You’re so good at English, I’m sure it won’t make a bit of difference to the eighth-graders that —”

  She was cut off by Claire, who hurled herself excitedly into her mother. “Mom, oh, Mom, how the time does fly/Just moments ago we said good-bye/Did you bring home an Eskimo pie?/Did you even try? I say with a sigh/I want to cry/No Eskimo pie/For poor little I.”

  Mrs. Pike stared at Claire, stunned.

  Mallory’s hand flew to her cheek. “Oh, no, Mom! She’s turned into another Vanessa!”

  Margo joined them and began to recite. “Why, oh, why do the songbirds fly?/Soaring so lovely up in the sky/Wish I could too — I try/I try/But no wings have I with which to fly.”

  Mallory turned to Claudia, who stood beside the very pleased-looking Vanessa. “Claudia, what did you do to them?” she cried.

  Claudia grinned as she replied, “To false conclusions do not fly/It ’twas Vanessa, but not I.”

  Friday afternoon, after school, my friends and I arrived at the auditorium, ready for our second day of training. We expected Mr. Zizmore to be there. Maybe Mrs. Amer too. What we didn’t expect was the fifty or more teachers who sat waiting for us.

  Mr. Zizmore quieted everyone down and then spoke. “Today you will meet with your master teacher to discuss the class you will be teaching,” he explained.

  I glanced at Ms. Walden. She sat with her arms folded, wearing a bland expression. She must have known, by now, that I was her student teacher. It would have been nice if she had nodded or smiled at me.

  After our unpleasant meeting in the hall the other day, I didn’t know what to expect. How would she feel about my teaching her seventh-grade gym class? Did she suspect that I’d take them all for a run down the hall?

  Of course she didn’t. But still … did she think I’d be a bad influence on the class?

  Yesterday, when I’d gotten the assignment, I’d told myself it didn’t matter. I could handle Ms. Walden. Now, though, looking at her f
ace, it seemed a little scarier.

  “All right, students please find your teachers,” Mr. Zizmore instructed.

  Seats creaked as everyone stood up. I noticed Mallory stepping from side to side nervously as she spoke to my English teacher, Mrs. Simon.

  “Thomas,” a voice barked from behind me. I knew it was Ms. Walden.

  “Hello, Ms. Walden,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “So, you’ll be teaching my class,” she said flatly, taking me in with her steely eyes. “Sit down. I’m going to give you a few tips you’ll find helpful.”

  I nodded and sat.

  “First of all, don’t expect much from these girls,” she advised. “This group isn’t especially athletic.”

  Maybe if they had a teacher who believed in them they’d do better, I thought. What an attitude — the girls can’t do anything so don’t even try. How awful!

  “Second,” she continued, “some of them will try to fool you. They’ll say they feel sick or they hurt their ankle. Things like that. Don’t believe them. It’s just a con job.”

  If the class was fun they might not be so desperate to escape.

  “I don’t think it will be a big problem,” I commented.

  Ms. Walden’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be so sure,” was all she said.

  “Third,” she went on, “keep firm discipline at all times. The moment you let the class get out of control, it’s all over. Gym isn’t like other classes, where students are confined to their desks. There’s room to move in a gym, and that inspires kids to act up. Don’t let them. Keep them busy and keep them in line.”

  With her attitude, it was no wonder she had problems with the class. Hopefully, she’d learn a better way to deal with the students after she watched me. No matter what I did, it had to be better than the way she was conducting this class.

  “We’re working on the soccer unit,” she told me. “As I recall, you’re a good player.”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Don’t expect the same of them,” she said. “There are one or two decent players. I suspect some of them may be more athletic than they let on. I heard that a few of them take karate.”

  Things would be different once I was teaching. I was used to helping kids along. You should see some of the Krushers. Bad didn’t even begin to describe them, at least in the beginning. But I’ve learned that even bad players have a lot of potential. You just need some patience and an upbeat attitude.

  For the next half hour, Ms. Walden told me exactly how she wanted the class run — every last detail. She insisted I make sure the students were wearing the proper gym suit and sneakers. She told me exactly when she required them lined up to go out to the field. She told me what indoor soccer exercises to do if it rained. And on and on.

  About halfway through I stopped listening. I had no intention of doing things Ms. Walden’s way. Her way was the way that caused students to pretend to be sick. My way would show them they were better than they knew, and that gym could be fun and rewarding.

  “Are you getting this?” Ms. Walden asked sharply, snapping me back to attention.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Definitely.”

  “Good. There’s something else you should be aware of. For this unit we’re working with Mr. De Young’s class.” (He’s one of the boys’ gym teachers — a pretty nice guy.) “That means you’ll have to coordinate your lesson plan with the student teacher for that class.”

  “No problem,” I assured her. “Who’s that?”

  “Cary Retlin.”

  Cary Retlin! I hoped I’d heard her wrong.

  I glanced over Ms. Walden’s shoulder. Cary was talking with Mr. De Young.

  No, I hadn’t heard wrong.

  At that moment, Mr. De Young must have told Cary I’d be his partner. Cary looked around the auditorium and spotted me gaping at him in horror.

  In response, he grinned the most obnoxious, self-satisfied, irritating grin I’ve ever seen in my life.

  * * *

  “What’s the matter, Kristy?” Mary Anne asked me at our BSC meeting that afternoon. “Are you still upset about teaching with Cary Retlin?”

  “I think I’m in shock,” I told her. “My hands are cold. I’m not thinking clearly. Those are symptoms of shock, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Stacey said, “but don’t worry, Kristy. Let Cary know who’s boss. You can handle him.”

  “I’m the one who should be in shock,” Mallory insisted. “Mrs. Simon told me not to worry, but I don’t know. What if they think I’m a total dweeb?”

  “You’re not a total dweeb, so don’t worry about it,” I told her.

  “It’ll be fine,” Mary Anne said. “I’m excited about this. Mr. Redmont was so nice. I’m not half as nervous as I was before I spoke to him.”

  “Mr. Peters was great too,” Stacey said. “This is going to be a blast.”

  “Even though I didn’t want to teach, I’m looking forward to being the student of a student,” Abby put in. “It’ll be a change, anyway.”

  “It has to be better than regular class,” Claudia said as she bit into a Ring-Ding. “Alan Gray is teaching my social studies class. Can you imagine what a circus that’s going to be? I can’t wait.”

  “You want Alan to teach the class?” I asked.

  “It beats working,” Claudia replied.

  Mallory let out a long, sick moan.

  “What?” Jessi asked.

  “Beats working! That’s what the eighth-graders are going to say when they see me walk in. They’ll destroy me. They’ll goof off. They won’t listen. I’ll be so embarrassed, I’ll want to disappear.”

  “Mallory, you’re a great baby-sitter,” I reminded her. “The kids you sit for always listen to you. This isn’t going to be so different.”

  “Of course it’s going to be different,” Mallory disagreed. Her voice was becoming more shrill by the moment. “These aren’t eight-year-olds — they’re eighth-graders!”

  I said a few more things, trying to sound encouraging. It seemed the right thing to do. But I wasn’t being completely honest. If I were in her shoes, I’d have been just as panicked.

  “Are you ready for your big day?” Abby asked as she slid into the seat beside me on the bus Monday morning.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “You’ve got your lesson plan and everything all mapped out?”

  “Not on paper, exactly.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to submit a lesson plan? That’s what Anna was doing all weekend — writing up this lesson plan like she was concocting blueprints for a nuclear reactor. Hers is incredibly detailed.”

  “Anna is teaching music. Gym is totally different,” I replied.

  “If you say so.”

  “Well, it is. There’s too much movement in sports to chart it all down on paper. You can’t know what’s going to happen until it gets going. Ms. Walden knows that. I bet she never makes a lesson plan. If she really wants something on paper, I’ll do it at lunch and hand it in afterward. At least by then I’ll know what happened and how long it all took.”

  “I don’t think that’s the idea,” Abby replied. “You’re supposed to use it to control how long everything takes. That’s what Anna says.”

  “I told you, Anna is teaching music.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Abby wasn’t even in the program. Why was she giving me such a hard time? I liked the idea of lesson plans, just not for gym class.

  Besides, I had other things on my mind. On Sunday afternoon, I’d finally called Cary. It was a chore and I’d kept putting off.

  As if she were reading my mind, Abby asked, “Have you talked to Cary about this yet?”

  “I tried to. But he’s so weird. He actually asked me what the goalie does in soccer.”

  Abby’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then she smiled. “He was busting your chops.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Sure he was. Who doesn’t know what a goalie is? We’ve all played soccer in gym. Even if
you don’t know any other position, you know the goalie. He just wanted to make you crazy.”

  “He succeeded,” I muttered. “He thinks TOT is a big goof!”

  “He treats a lot of things that way,” Abby reminded me. “Sometimes he’s kind of funny.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not stuck with him. I am.”

  “Just keep a sense of humor about him and you’ll be all right,” she advised. I decided she was probably right. If I led the way and didn’t take him too seriously, I could survive this.

  When I reached my locker, I found Mallory waiting there, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. “Hi,” I said.

  She spoke in a shaky, nervous voice. “Kristy, what can you tell me about the class? I need to know what the kids are like. Maybe if I know I’ll be prepared.”

  “They’re the usual mix,” I told her. “Some jerks, some angels, most in the middle.”

  “It’s the middle kids that make me nervous,” Mallory said tensely. “They could go either way. If I start to stumble or forget something, they’ll band together with the jerks. Then I’ll be faced with a majority of jerks, all united against me.” As she spoke, she actually grew pale. For a second, I worried that she might faint.

  I grabbed her shoulders. “Hold on, Mallory. Calm down. You’re prepared, aren’t you?”

  She flipped open her three-ring binder. “I … I think so.” She turned the binder around so that I could see what she had. “Twenty-four photocopies of ‘The Jumblies’ by Edward Lear. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but Mrs. Simon wanted to cover story poems, and this one is a story poem.”

  “It sounds interesting,” I said.

  Mallory shot me a twitchy half smile, then continued showing me her papers. “I also made twenty-four copies of my notes about the poem. And here are pages of biographical information on Lear, and some limericks Lear wrote. Do you think I have enough?”

  I laughed. “Mallory, the class is only forty-five minutes long. Of course you have enough. Don’t worry. Mary Anne and I will ask questions. We’ll be helpful.”

  “Okay. All right,” she said, trying desperately to reassure herself. “It will be fine. It will.”