Read My Teacher Is an Alien Online
Authors: Bruce Coville
Tags: #Humorous Stories, #Action & Adventure, #Extraterrestrial beings, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #General, #Science Fiction, #Substitute teachers, #Education, #Teachers, #Life on other planets, #Schools, #Fiction, #School & Education, #Professional Development
My Teacher Is an Alien (2 page)
"Cut it out, Duncan," said Peter.
"Cut it out, Duncan," mimicked Duncan in a whiny, singsong voice.
Anyone who knew Duncan could see he was gearing up for a fight. But it wasn't necessarily going to be with Peter, since Peter usually just took whatever Duncan dished out. I figured Duncan was using him as a warm-up. So I was a little surprised when he tossed Peter's book into the puddle.
Even Duncan should have known that was something you just don't do to Peter.
"Oops!" he said maliciously. "I
dropped
it."
I heard Stacy gasp as Peter launched himself off the wall and bas
hed his head into Duncan's stom
ach. Within seconds the two of them were rolling around on the ground.
"I hate it when this happens," said Stacy as the
boys surrounded Peter and Duncan in a shouting, cheering circle.
The fight hadn't gone on more than ten seconds when a tall blond man came pushing through the crowd. Without saying anything, he grabbed the two fighters and hauled them to their feet.
Wow!
I thought when I saw him lift the two of them right off the ground.
That guy is really strong.
"Stop!" he said. Then he gave them each a shake and set them back down on their feet.
"Peter started it," said Duncan.
He's such a creep he probably didn't even know he was lying.
Peter wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "I did not," he said sullenly.
I could see that his hand was trembling.
"No more," said the tall man, as if he really didn't care who started it. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," mumbled Peter. I wanted to shake him. He made it sound as if the whole thing had been his fault.
"Do you understand?" said the tall man again, looking directly at Duncan.
"Sure," said Duncan. "I got it."
"Good," said the tall man. Then he turned on his heel and marched back into the school.
Duncan made a face at the man's back, then wandered off to find someone else to pick on.
"Who was that?" asked Peter as I handed him his soggy book.
"Who knows? I never saw him before. He's probably a new sub. Come on—let's go inside."
Peter and I were usually the first ones into school—but not by much. Our whole class went in early. That's because our teacher, Ms. Marie Schwartz, was so totally great. The thing I liked best about having her was that she was the only teacher in Kennituck Falls Elementary who always did a play with her class. I've always wanted to be an actress when I grow up. But until sixth grade, I had never had a chance to find out what it was like to be onstage. The play would be our last major project, and we had planned to start rehearsals right after spring vacation.
Unfortunately, when we got to our room, Ms. Schwartz was nowhere to be seen. The tall blond man was standing beside her desk, talking to a short, red-faced man who had almost no hair—our school principal, Dr. Bleekman.
Where was Ms. Schwartz?
Peter and I went to our desks. I wasn't happy. I had a bad feeling about this whole thing.
"The sub is handsome," whispered Stacy, who had come in behind us.
"I suppose so," I said grudgingly. "Where do you suppose Ms. Schwartz is?"
Stacy shrugged. "Maybe she's sick. Or maybe her plane didn't make it back on time. That happened to my third grade teacher once."
I nodded. That was OK. It was disappointing to come back to someone besides Ms. Schwartz, but I could cope with it for a day or two.
The other kids came into the room. Because Dr. Bleekman was there, everyone was super quiet. The bell rang, and we took our places.
"Good morning, class," said Dr. Bleekman. "I want to introduce Mr. John Smith. Mr. Smith will be your teacher for the rest of the year."
The rest of the year! I couldn't believe my ears!
What happened to Ms. Schwartz*
Without intending to, I asked the question out loud.
CHAPTER TWO
-
Note of Doom
Dr. Bleekman glared at me. "Susan, if you have something to say, I expect you to raise your hand."
Well, ex
cuuuuse me!
I thought. But there was no sense in making things worse than they already were, so I raised my hand. When Dr. Bleekman pointed at me I said—as politely as I could—"What happened to Ms. Schwartz?"
"That is a private matter," replied Dr. Bleekman.
What was that
supposed to mean? Was she preg
nant? Did she have some horrible disease? Did she get fired? And
whatever
it was, why hadn't she warned us? Why hadn't she said goodbye?
Without thinking about what I was doing, I stood up and said, "I want to know where she is!"
Dr. Bleekman looked at me in surprise. His cheeks got redder. "Do you know the meaning of the word
private,
Miss Simmons?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," I said quietly and slipped back into my seat. While I sat there, fuming, Dr. Bleekman blathered on about how he expected us to behave for our new teacher. Then he turned us over to Mr. Smith and left the room.
As I watched him go, I wondered if Dr. Bleekman had secretly fired
Ms. Schwartz. I had always sus
pected he didn't like her—mostly because she didn't do things "by the book." I had heard them arguing about it once when I came back to school to get some papers I had left behind.
"Ms. Schwartz, I must ask you to show more respect for the curriculum," Dr. Bleekman had been saying when I walked into the room.
Boy, did that set Ms. Schwartz off. "Can't you respect the fact that the kids are learning?" she asked angrily. She grabbed the sides of her head in frustration. Clumps of her frizzy black hair stuck out between her fingers. "Listen, Horace. The kids will get more out of six weeks of doing a play than six months of dittos and workbooks."
Suddenly I wondered if having Mr. Smith meant that we wouldn't be doing our play.
I began waving my hand in the air again.
"Yes, Miss Simmons?" asked Mr. Smith.
Miss
Simmons again. Were we going to have to talk like that for the rest of the year?
"Are we still going to do our play?" I asked.
Mr. Smith li
fted one blond eyebrow in aston
ishment. "Play?" he said. "Of course we're not going to do a play. We're here to work!"
I sank back into my seat. Sixth grade was going bad faster than a dead fish on a hot day.
I could hear the other kids start to murmur their protests. Mr. Smith slapped his ruler against his desk.
"Dr. Bleekman hired me to straighten this class out. I can see now that what he told me about you was correct. Things have gotten completely out of control in this room."
Actually, that was only half true. Our room wasn't out of control; it just wasn't under Dr. Bleekman's thumb. Since most of us had already spent five years in rooms where the teachers did things Dr. Bleekman's way, we knew very well what he wanted a room to be like.
No question about it: Ms. Schwartz's room didn't fit the bill. But as far as we were concerned, things were going just fine. And not just because we were having a good time. We were also
learning
more than we ever had before.
My father claimed we were learning and having a good time for the same reason—Ms. Schwartz knew how to make things interesting.
For example, on the first day of school Ms. Schwartz stood at the front of the room and held
up the sixth grade reading book,
Rockets and Flags
(popularly known as
Rodents and Fleas).
"This," she said, "is not a good book." She held it away from her with two fingers, like a soggy tissue, and dropped it into the bottom drawer of her desk. "I know a better one," she said. "In fact, I know hundreds." Then she pulled a huge cardboard box from under her desk and started passing around stacks of paperback novels for us to choose from.
We spent the rest of the year reading
real
books. Sometimes we all read the same one, sometimes we all read something different. I remember mornings when we spent the entire reading period arguing about what some character should have done. Kids who had never liked reading before were really getting into it.
Unfortunately, Mr. Smith didn't believe in that kind of thing. In fact, the first thing he did after taking attendance that morning was pass out copies of
Rockets and Flags.
Ms. Schwartz always read out loud to us, sometimes twice a day. She read wonderful books like
The Hobbit
and
The Sword in the Stone.
When someone asked Mr. Smith if he was going to read out loud, he gave him a funny look and said it was "a waste of time."
Well, you get the picture. Over the next few
weeks Mr. Smith straightened us out all right. But you know how boring a straight line is. We had no more surprises. We pretty much stopped laughing in school. Things weren't terrible— just awfully grim.
Even the playground wasn't so much fun as it had been. Oh, Mr. Smith did keep Duncan Dougal from beating kids up. But he almost went nuts the first time he caught one of us playing a radio. Radios and tape players were banned from the playground. Mr. Smith didn't just hate rock music; he hated all music! I could see him shiver every time I picked up my piccolo and left the room for my music lesson.
After the third week of this I said something about it to my music teacher, Mr. Bam-Boom Bamwick. (Actually, his first name is Milton. But everyone calls him B
am-Boom because of his pref
erence for thundering marches.)
Mr. Bamwick
sighed. "Susan, you have to un
derstand that not everyone appreciates the finer things in life," he said.
I guess that wa
s as much support as I could ex
pect. You know how teachers stick together.
When I got back to the room that day, it was time for our math test. I finished the test early. I was
still
feeling cranky about Mr. Smith's reaction to my piccolo, so I decided to write a note about it to Stacy.
"Mr. Smith is a total creepazo
id!
' I wrote. That felt so good I decided to keep going. "He has totally ruined this class. Our whole year has gone down the tubes. The man is a total philistine!"
Philistine
was a word I had just learned from my father. It means someone who has no appreciation for art and beauty. I thought it was a neat word, and I was using it every chance I could get.
A few more sentences and I was really wound up. This note was turning into a humdinger! At the bottom I drew an extra-tall, extra-skinny Mr. Smith holding his ears while I played the piccolo.
It wasn't a very nice picture. But when I was all done I felt better. I slipped the note under my test and waited for a chance to pass it to Stacy. I began thinking about how she'd react to my picture. I imagined her laughing so hard she fell off her chair.
Unfortunately, while I was daydreaming, Mr. Smith started collecting our papers. By the time I saw him walking up my row, it was too late to move the note. As I watched in horror, he snatched up my test—and my note along with it.
A wave of terror washed over me. I watched Mr. Smith walk away with my nasty note.
I closed my eyes and swallowed.
I was doomed.
CHAPTER THREE
-
An Unearthly Noise
The only thing I could think about for the rest of the day was how I was going to get that note back!
When we went outside for recess, I pulled Stacy aside to tell her what had happened.
