The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall Page 5

  So much was happening, Marthur’s mind was a jumble. That night she dreamed that Rufus was wearing a crown and roaring with laughter, watching his minions bury her in trash. And twelve tiny dragons (wearing construction-cone hats like Ferlin’s) were lolling on a lunch table, gobbling Jell-O from twelve weird old spoons.

  XIX

  Marthur woke up feeling as floppy as a sunstroked jellyfish. When she hadn’t been dreaming, she’d been wide awake, tossing and thinking stuff like: Is the spoon for real or just a prank? What if Klunk’s king? The kids at school will be really squashed. AGH! So will Daddy! Rufus’s father wants him to be smart. What can I do about that? AGH! AGH! AAAAGH!

  At breakfast she stared off and nibbled the last piece of bacon, savoring every tasty morsel. Suddenly she got a brain wave. Actually, she got two. Brain-bursting works of staggering genius. “That’s IT!” she cried. “Or do I mean those are it?” She spronged up and hustled off to class. She couldn’t wait to tell Ferlin. On her way, she passed the bathroom where the famous spoon was lodged.

  GOLLY! It was only 7:30 and already a line of would-be royalty was waiting to go into the already sardined bathroom. It was such a huge crush, Marthur could hardly get past. The line looked like it spooled through all the corridors and right around the whole entire school! Everybody was pushing and shoving, antsy to take a crack at yanking out the spoon. It seemed that everybody (even kindergartners) wanted to be king!

  The nurse, Ms. Quimper (rhymes with whimper), was first in line. (She’d left a sign on her door: OUT TO LUNCH INDEFINITELY. HEAL YOURSELVES.)

  The cafeteria staff was there, too. Those staffers probably believed they had special powers, working with utensils and all.

  Marthur was relieved. “Whew!” she breathed. “Klunk’s not king yet. Neither is Rufus.”

  Eager to spill her brain waves, Marthur rushed into the science room. “Hi, Ferlin. Hello, Griffin,” she said. It was a regal animal, she knew, so she gave it a little bow.

  There was nobody else in class.

  “You’ll be a teacher in a trice. Isn’t that nice?” Ferlin chortled. “With everybody at the bathroom acting like ninnies, I’ve got nothing to do but teach you.”

  This was Marthur’s chance. “You could teach somebody else—” she began.

  “Who?”

  “Rufus.” Marthur blabbled on like a broken hydrant. “His father wants him to be the brainiest. But he can’t do that, so he punches me. See? So, can Rufus be in our special class—so he can get smart fast and his father will like him and not me? Please? Please! PLEASE with pretty sugar?”

  Ferlin looked fondly at Marthur. “You are a very kindhearted girl. I wish that I could say yes. But my job is to teach you—and nobody else—how to teach. There isn’t much time left.”

  Who’d given her that job? Why only Marthur? Why Marthur at all? (Didn’t a No. 1 wizard have better things to do?) What did Ferlin mean about time? They had plenty—didn’t they? The whole thing was freaky.

  Tears shivered in Marthur’s eyes. “But Rufus is so unhappy. It’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair. But that’s how it is.”

  “But why can’t he be special, too?”

  “You’ll see,” said Ferlin mysteriously. “Now. Let’s proceed with the proceedings. Chalk, Lesson Two!” she ordered.

  “Wait,” Marthur said. “Just one more thing. I-”

  “Think that your father would make a good king?”

  Marthur shook herself to make sure this was really happening.

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m a top-notch wizard, remember?”

  “Well, Daddy would make a good king. A perfect one. He’s so gentle and honest and funny and kind. And he makes up words. And he knows a poem—sort of And he gets me bacon. All he needs is one chance at the spoon. If I could just get him to the front of the line—”

  “Marthur.” Ferlin put a hand on her shoulder. “Rufus can’t be my pupil. And your father, bless his sweet old heart, can’t be king. It is not written.”

  Marthur was so disappointed, she nearly broke down. But she was a Snapdragon. She stuck out her chin. “What is written?”

  “Look at the chalkboard,” said Ferlin.

  Quickly the stubby white stick scrawled:

  Don’t talk down.

  “Watch your penmanship, for heaven snakes!” Ferlin snapped. The board erased itself and the chalk rewrote the sentence—neatly.

  Marthur read the lesson. “What does that mean?” she asked as enthusiastically as she could. She was glum about Ferlin turning both Rufus and her father down.

  “Talk to kids in a normal way. They’re not babies or slobbering spaniels. Just roll along. They’ll catch up with you.”

  “AND I’VE CAUGHT UP TO YOU, LITTLE MISSY!”

  Crikers! Klunk!

  “Pretty hard not to,” remarked Ferlin. “She’s sitting stone still.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” snapped Dr. Klunk. “Those Snapdragons blatted about the spoon. Just look what they’ve done!” He jabbed a fat finger at all the people crowding the corridor.

  “Marthur and her father didn’t peep,” Ferlin said.

  “Anyway, I’m having them arrested,” Klunk spluttered.

  “For talking about a spoon? Since when is that a crime?”

  All this time the line was getting longer.

  “OH, FORGET IT!” Klunk yelled.

  “Where are you going?” asked Marthur, worried about the law.

  “To butt in line!”

  XX

  Marthur Was sure that, one way or another, the slippery Klunk would get the spoon. Then he would be king. Or Rufus, maybe, if he had his way. Marthur and her father were going to jail. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t concentrate on Lesson Two.

  Ferlin looked right at her. “Marthur,” she said, “do you want to quit?”

  Marthur looked at Ferlin. She felt suddenly calm. She knew she could do this. Slowly she said, “No. No, I don’t want to quit. I’m going to be a teacher—no matter what.” She added, “Hold fast.”

  “Good girl!”

  Then Ferlin said, “Chalk, lie down! Marthur, you’re worn out. Go home. But tomorrow we romp through the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “The rest of the lessons. You’re going to need them all—soon.”

  “How do you know?”

  Ferlin’s eyes glowed. “I just DO.”

  Marthur felt strong. She could learn how to teach; she just knew it.

  She walked out of Ferlin’s room and into pandemonium. Every class had been canceled because of the spoon. Every kid (and every teacher) at Horace E. Bloggins School had poured into the halls, blathering about kings. Or they were shoving one another around in the ever-growing line, waiting to have a go at the fabulous spoon. (The minions had abandoned Rufus to take their best shot.)

  Marthur jostled her way through the milling masses, repeating all she knew about teaching; “You never know what you’re teaching.” “Don’t look down—no! Don’t talk down.”

  It was a lot to grasp. Could she ever learn it all? “Hold fast!” she exhorted herself. “Hold fast!”

  “Hold up!” hissed a voice.

  A holdup! Marthur thought. She nearly collapsed.

  It was Rufus. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. His face got red.

  “Huh?” said Marthur, stupefied.

  “I know what you did.”

  “Huh?”

  “Thanks for trying to get me into your stupid special class with your stupid special teacher.”

  A lightbulb flashed on in Marthur’s brain. A BIG one. Special teacher! It was the second time he’d said that. That was it! Marthur blurted, “You could have a teacher of your own.”

  “Who?”

  “Me. I could help you with school.”

  “I don’t need help,” Rufus snarled.

  “So be a dope.”

  “Well, maybe I could use a teensy bit,” Rufus admitted slowly.


  “Okay,” said Marthur. “I’ll tutor you—if you leave me and my father alone.”

  “Deal—if you keep your trap shut about it.”

  Marthur stuck her hand out. “Shake,” she said.

  “No way.” Rufus looked at her like she had cooties.

  “When do we start?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow night,” said Marthur. “At my place. Bring your math book.”

  For the time being Marthur could relax—as long as she helped Rufus. But as a teacher with only two lessons under her belt, she was pretty green. She was glad that the next day she’d learn the rest about teaching.

  XXI

  The next day Marthur raced to Ferlin’s room.

  “What are the rest?” she asked, dashing in.

  Ferlin’s eyebrows shot up. “Could you be a bit more vague?”

  Marthur blushed. “The rest of the lessons,” she said timidly. “I could use them. I’m—er—uh—teaching somebody.”

  “Good grief, you’re an eager beaver!” Ferlin said. She sounded peeved, but her eyes twinkled. In a swirl, she turned to face the chalkboard. “Let’s have them all!” she commanded.

  The chalk levitated, then feverishly wrote (in cursive):

  Ferlin’s Perfect Rules of Teaching

  1. You never know what you’re teaching.

  “You already know that one,” Ferlin said.

  2. Don’t talk down.

  “Ditto.”

  3. Homework should not be synonymous with torture.

  “Easy,” said Marthur.

  4. Make lessons MAGNIFICENT.

  “You mean wild?”

  “I mean unforgettable.”

  “Like the dancing eggs?”

  “Precisely.” Ferlin smiled. “You’re doing nicely.”

  5. Keep alive.

  “Don’t die in class?” Marthur asked.

  “Try not to do that, heaven knows. But embrace learning. Soak it up. So will your pupils.”

  6. Humiliation is highly unaccaptable.

  “Teachers hold places of power,” said Ferlin. “To make pupils feel small is despicable.”

  “Like bullying?”

  “Bravo, my Marthur!”

  7. Every pupil is of value.

  “Self-explanatory.”

  8. Every pupil is of equal value.

  “Like Rufus?”

  “Everybody.”

  9. Learn from your pupils.

  “Yeah,” Marthur agreed. “Kids know a ton of stuff.”

  10. Mercy is highly acceptable.

  “When you get a chance to be kind, grab it,” said Ferlin.

  Marthur said, “I like that one.”

  11. One to grow on: Laugh a lot.

  “I just tossed that in.” Ferlin laughed her head off.

  Marthur suddenly panicked. “What if I mess up?” She worried about Rufus. Maybe she’d ruin him.

  “You have tomorrow—and tomorrow and tomorrow—to do better.”

  Throughout the lesson it had been weirdly quiet. No sign of Rufus. No sniggers. No snorts. No stones hitting the windows. Marthur wondered if Ferlin had cast a spell around her room—to keep him away for once.

  It was very strange. Marthur’s mind was so riveted on the lessons, she never once thought about the coming of the king or the spoon.

  Ferlin clapped like a firecracker. A copy of “Ferlin’s Perfect Rules of Teaching” flew into Marthur’s hands.

  “Well, there you have it, dear Marthur,” said Ferlin. “All you need to know about teaching.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep. Study them well and you’ll be ready—for anything.”

  Funny. It sounded like Ferlin meant more than teaching.

  “By the way,” Ferlin said as Marthur was leaving, “I’ve decided to relent about Rufus.”

  “Golly day! Thanks!”

  “If you can help him, I can, too. He won’t be my pupil. Not like you. But I’ll give him some dragon work to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t be so nosy.” Then Ferlin added mysteriously, “You’ll see.”

  XXII

  Porta Potties had sprung up at school like bright blue mushrooms.

  “What’re those doing here?” Marthur asked Rufus. She’d been tutoring him in the boiler room. Day after day, whenever she could. On fractions and stuff like that. Using Ferlin’s Rules to keep on track. Nobody went to class anymore (and nobody cared) but Rufus and her. Who would’ve believed it?

  Rufus was doing okay. He was actually trying. (So hard sometimes, he even got headaches.) He’d pretty much dumped his thuggy friends. He was still gruff, but with less huff and puff. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Ferlin was giving him dragon work (whatever that was). Because of it, he always smelled like smoke. And sometimes his eyebrows—or his clothes—were singed. Funny thing, he wasn’t after the spoon anymore.

  Now they were outside taking a break. Rufus told Marthur, “Klunk hired a wrestler, Slam-Bam Sammy” (rhymes with whammy).

  “How come?”

  “To loosen the spoon for him. Sammy sweated and grunted and strained like crazy. But the spoon didn’t budge. Slam-Bam Sammy got so mad, he stamped his feet and blubbered like a baby.”

  Marthur grinned at that.

  “After Slam-Bam’s failure, Klunk gave a big fat order,” Rufus said. “KEEP YOUR STINKING HANDS OFF THE SPOON! Nobody’s allowed in the boys’ bathroom but him.”

  “So it’s Porta Potties or bushes?”

  “You got it,” said Rufus. “The kids and teachers planned to swarm the bathroom today. Take over. But Klunk outsmarted them.”

  “How?”

  “He’s called in Grease-ball Burgers. Free burgers all around. He can work away at the spoon while everybody eats.”

  “Aim for the stomach,” joked Marthur.

  A roar filled the Horace E. Bloggins parking lot. Three Grease-ball Burgers trucks rolled up. Cheers erupted from students and teachers as guys in white caps began doling out free eats.

  “Gotta go,” said Rufus.

  “What about fractions?”

  “Burgers first.” He cracked a crooked smile and ran.

  Marthur didn’t feel like a burger. Or anything. Not even bacon.

  All she could think of was Dr. Klunk somehow jimmying the spoon from the bathroom wall. Somehow becoming king. She scuffed along the halls lost in those dark thoughts.

  Then, by chance (or was it?), Marthur found herself outside the boys’ bathroom. The door was blocked by barbed wire and lots of prickery cactus. Everything was still.

  Then a bloodcurdling yell came from inside. Dr. Klunk!

  “HELP! IT’S GOING TO EAT ME ALIVE!”

  What was going to eat him? The spoon? How could a spoon eat anything? Marthur didn’t ponder that long. Dodging the prickers, she just rocketed in.

  XXIII

  Marthur skidded in and found Dr. Klunk cowering in a corner. He was shrieking the tiles off the walls. “It’s gonna eat me alive! It’s gonna eat me alive!”

  Ferlin’s grimly griffin loomed beside Klunk, booming a ditty as if it were a hymn:

  “Forsooth I shall eat thee, thou wretched foul man.

  I’ll devour thee so sweetly—and SLOW as I can.

  First I’ll rip off thine head, then rend thine black heart.

  O’ hey, nonny nonny, the feast will be bonny.

  O’ hey, nonny nonny, is’t thou ready to start?”

  Its tawny eyes glowed. Its razor beak gleamed. Its sickle claws glinted. The fig-loving beast was about to seize him (and squeeze him) like a great big fig and devour him, wraparounds and all! Poor Dr. Klunk! Marthur didn’t like him, but she didn’t want him eaten!

  “STOP!” she yelped. She looked around wildly for something to fend off the griffin—but not injure him. And so it was, in a mad lunge, that Marthur grabbed for the spoon.

  “Spoon,” she cried in a frazzle, “I really need you! Not for me! But for my principal!”

  The room grew
oddly quiet. So did Klunk. Marthur could almost feel the silence. Like light. Time hung suspended. Marthur felt strange. And wistful, holding this fistful of mysterious spoon. Then an eerie humming—a silvery tintinnabulation—began spooling through the boys’ bathroom, so beautiful it wrenched her heart. It sounded like music from afar—like the lovely thrumming of a star.

  “Please, spoon, come out,” Marthur pleaded, her eyes brimming. “Dr. Klunk is about to be eaten.” She thought of her father’s worthy poem, and she held fast. Marthur closed her eyes. She tugged on the handle with all she could muster. The spoon slipped out, as though it had been stuck in butter.

  The spell was broken. The griffin sniffed Klunk’s coat. Then, as delicately as a lady tasting tea cakes at a party, it plucked a fig from Klunk’s lumpy pocket, ate the sweet fruit, and ambled out.

  Marthur stared at the beautiful spoon glittering and glowing in her hand. She was absolutely and utterly mystified. Slam-Bam Sammy (and everybody else) must have loosened it up.

  Klunk suddenly came to himself. “I HATE figs!” he snarled. “My pockets are stuffed with the rotten things! Who planted that beast bait on me? I bet it was that infernal Ferlin woman!”