The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall (6 page)

Her father was right. It was a great poem.

“So,” a sneery voice said suddenly, “how was your
special
class—with your own
special
teacher?”

Rufus! (In jeans again.) She nearly fell down from fright. But then she thought:
Marthur, you've faced dragons and Klunk and a giant tongue (sort of). You can face brat-boy easily.
Quickly, she gathered herself. She looked at Rufus and imagined—a tub of popcorn, each Rufus-faced kernel oozing with butter. Marthur's fear melted. She wasn't scared. In fact, she was peeved, vexed, incensed, aggravated, exasperated, riled, wroth, and
totally
ticked off.

“You—you—you—
bully!
” she cried. “Why are you always picking on me?”

“I don't like you.”

“You don't
know
me.”

“I know you're
smart.
” Rufus spit that out like it was gopher poison. “Now you've got your own special teacher to make you smarter.” She could tell it infuriated him.

“Golly!” yelled Marthur. “What is your problem?”

Rufus glared at her. He balled up his fists. He dropped into a threatening crouch. “My dad thinks I'm brainless 'cause I do crummy in school,” he mumbled, whiffing a little jab close to her. “He wants me to belike you,” he snarled. (Jab, jab.) “Little miss
brain-o.
I'm gonna kronkle you!” (Jab. Jab, jab, jab.)

So. That was it! You could have knocked Marthur over with a baby's breath.

“Rufus Turk, you're CRAZY! Your father doesn't know me, either!”

Rufus put his arms down, but his fists were still ready. “He sees your stupid mug in the paper. Every time you win a stupid prize. For spelling. Or math. Or science. I'm sick of hearing ‘Be like that kid. She's going someplace.'”

“I STUDY,” Marthur said. “Did you ever try that?”

“I'm no good at it. The dancing eggs. They were gonna make me rich. Show my dad how smart I am. But you—you and that witch—”

“She's NOT a witch! She's a teacher. A magnificent one!”

“Magnificent,
magnificent
,” Rufus taunted. “You can't even use normal words!
Jeez!
”

“Well, she is.”

“Anyways, somehow you weirdos wrecked my dragon deal,” Rufus snarled. “But I don't need to study now. I've got another plan. A better one. I'M gonna be king.”

“Huh?”

“I'm gonna grab that old spoon,” Rufus said, “so's I can wear a crown, sit on a throne, and be boss of everything. Then my dad'll know I'm
somebody.
And you better not tell—or else.” He took one more fake jab at her and stalked off.

Gee-minnooties!
Everybody
was telling her not to tell stuff. Marthur couldn't tell, even if she'd wanted to. She was speechless.

 

The whole way back to the boiler room, Marthur thought about Rufus. She'd told him he didn't know her. But she didn't know him, either. Poor Rufus. He just wanted to please his father.

When she got home, Marthur stumbled into her pj's. Her belly was grumbling. She'd only had a piece of (stale) cheese for lunch. She looked around for something to eat. On an orange crate, she saw a greasy bag and a note:

 

My dearest darling dumpling,

Here's a little sumpling
. (Har! Har!)

Love, Daddy

 

Her father had left her three slices of bacon from the cafeteria.

“I love you, too, Daddy,” Marthur said into the air. Then, like a leaky pipe, she burst into tears.

 

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.

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!”

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.

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
.