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Authors: Elissa Brent Weissman

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BOOK: The Trouble with Mark Hopper
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Mark narrowed his freckled forehead. “We'll see what your boss says about that.”
He wrote a letter to the superintendent:
Dear Superintendent Griswold,
My name is Mark Hopper and I am in fifth grade at Farrow Park Elementary School. I am in Miss Kelly's class. I have gotten a score of 100 percent on every spelling test this year. But then on our last spelling test, I got a 95 because I used the correct British spelling of co-operate. Miss Kelly said it would have to be spelled cooperate. Principal Graham agreed for some dumb reason. This is not fair. I am the smartest person in Miss Kelly's class and probably in the whole fifth grade at Farrow Park Elementary School. Actually I am probably the smartest person in the whole fifth grade in all of Greenburgh. Why should the smartest fifth grader in all of Greenburgh (and maybe in all of Maryland but probably not the whole country, but who knows) lose points on a spelling test because my teacher does not accept things that are different? What can you do about this? It is an outrage.
Your friend,
Mark Geoffrey Hopper
When the superintendent did not respond to the letter in three days, Mark called his office and left a message with his secretary. And when the superintendent did not return the call within twenty-four hours, Mark rode his bicycle to his office and sat in the waiting room until he saw him.
“I used the right British spelling,” Mark explained, his arms crossed and his voice hostile.
The superintendent scratched his head. “You don't sound British,” he said.
“I'm not British,” said Mark impatiently. “But I am accepting of other cultures. I got one hundred percent on my diorama about Sweden.”
“Are you Swedish?” asked the superintendent, who was more confused than ever.
“What?” said Mark, who thought the superintendent was missing the point.
Mr. Griswold stroked his gray beard. “Okay, I will make sure you get back those five points on your spelling test. But from now on you have to use the American spellings of words. And you have to cooperate with your teacher.”
“Can you put that in writing?” Mark asked.
At school the next morning, Mark marched up to Miss Kelly's desk and smugly handed her his letter from the superintendent. (“Dear Ms. Kelly, Please give your Swedish student his five points back.”) Miss Kelly gave him the five points and a weary look.
When Mark got a blue ribbon for spelling, he pinned it to his shirt and wore it all day. The other students laughed, and Frank Stucco pushed him into a tree after school, but Mark just stuck his freckled nose in the air and told them they were jealous.
“Hey, Mark,” shouted J. T. Morris. “How do you spell
spit-wad
?”
“Look it up, fartbrain,” Mark shot back.
Even Jasmina Horace, his only friend—who was probably his friend only because they lived across the street from each other and had been playing together since they were infants—told him to take off the ribbon. “You look stupid,” she said.
“No,” said Mark with a laugh. “Getting a blue ribbon for spelling makes you
smart
. Duh.”
“But wearing it makes you look stupid.”
“How could an award for being smart make you look stupid?”
Jasmina, who knew it wasn't worth arguing with Mark, walked away.
“Why are you even friends with him?” Mark heard Kylie ask Jasmina. He then heard Jasmina give the answer she always gave to that question: “I have no idea.” Mark stuck out his chin, and his chest with the blue ribbon, and walked home alone.
Chapter
3
Mark Hopper
Mark's bright blue eyes opened with a jolt. He breathed in the smell of grease and ran down the hall, sliding in his slippers on the wood floors into the kitchen. Sure enough, Grandpa Murray was making breakfast, and that meant it'd be an array of deliciously unhealthy food that Mark's mother would hardly ever make, especially all at once. Mark put his chin on the countertop and stared wide-eyed at the spread of sausage, bacon, eggs, and chocolate-chip pancakes frying on the stove. Grandpa Murray, wearing an apron that said PAY THE COOK, hit Mark on the bottom with a spatula. “Don't drool on the food,” he said.
“Why not?” said Mark with a big grin. “Maybe it'll taste better than syrup.”
“That's disgusting,” said Beth. She rubbed her eyes in front of the stove. “Good morning, Grandpa. Thanks for making breakfast.”
“I think the pancakes are ready to be flipped. Watch this, kids.” Grandpa Murray stuck his spatula under one of the pancakes on the skillet and flicked his wrist. The pancake did a somersault in the air and landed halfway on top of another pancake. “Whoops. Close, though.” He used the spatula to separate the pancakes. Then he flipped the second one with extra gusto. It did a three-sixty and landed back on the side that had already been cooked.
Mark and Beth cheered. “Can I try?” Mark asked.
“You get one shot,” Grandpa Murray said. “If you can do better than me, I will eat this apron and leave all the food for you and your sister and your mom.”
Mark took the spatula and stuck it underneath a small pancake. He flicked his wrist. The pancake flipped up and landed on the countertop, raw side down. Mark raised his eyebrows and stretched his mouth into a sort-of grin. “How was that?”
“C-plus,” said Grandpa Murray.
Mark shrugged. That was about the grade he was used to getting.
Mrs. Hopper walked in and eyed the pancake mix dripping down the counter. She said “good morning,” but her tone of voice suggested she did not think the morning was particularly good so far.
“Let me try,” said Beth. She took the spatula and slid it under a pancake. She scrunched her forehead and her eyes darted back and forth. Then she flicked her wrist, and the pancake flipped gracefully into the air and landed right back in its original spot, raw side down. Beth smiled.
“How did you do that?” Mark asked in amazement.
“Physics,” she said with a shrug.
“Speaking of which,” Mrs. Hopper said. “You got something from school, Beth.”
Beth took the envelope from her mother and opened it up. It was her class schedule. “Cool!” Beth said. “I have three hours in the lab every single day. I can't
wait
for school.”
“Cool,” said Grandpa Murray. He looked at Mark and rotated his finger around the side of his head. Mark laughed.
Mrs. Hopper clapped her hand over her mouth. “I never registered Mark for school,” she said.
“Ah,” said Grandpa Murray. “You mentioned that a few weeks ago, didn't you?”
“Does that mean I can't go?” Mark asked hopefully.
“No, it just means I have to call and do it right now.”
“Good try,” said Grandpa Murray. “Breakfast's up!”
Mrs. Hopper looked up the number for Ivy Road Middle School and dialed.
“Ivy Road Middle School, Ethel speaking,” came the voice from the other end. Ethel had been working in the main office of Ivy Road since the school had opened.
“Hello, Ethel,” said Mrs. Hopper. “My name is Leslie Hopper, and I'd like to register my son for school.”
Ethel, who did not know how to use the computer and refused to learn, took out a piece of paper. “What is your son's name?” she asked.
“Mark Hopper.”
“Mark . . . Hopper,” Ethel said as she wrote it on the top of the sheet in careful cursive.
“Mark Hopper?” said Mindy, the young office worker sitting next to Ethel. “School hasn't even started and a Hopper's already causing trouble?”
“Excuse me?” said Ethel.
“Excuse me?” said Leslie.
“One moment, dear,” said Ethel. She turned to Mindy and asked if Mark Hopper was already enrolled for September.
Mindy snorted. “If he isn't, then all of the teachers have been complaining for nothing.” She pulled up Mark Hopper's file on the computer and turned the screen toward Ethel.
“Hello?” said Leslie.
“Hello,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Hopper, your son is already enrolled.”
“Really?” Leslie turned to her family, who were happily munching on breakfast. “They think Mark's already registered,” she said.
Ethel tapped the computer monitor. “I don't know what to do with this box,” she said to Mindy.
“Excuse me?” said Leslie.
Mindy took the phone from Ethel. “Hi, Mrs. Hopper,” she said. “Mark Geoffrey Hopper, sixth grade?”
“Yes. That's correct.”
“Yep, he's already in our computer system. He's all set.”
“That's strange,” Leslie said. “I know my husband wouldn't have called.” She turned to Grandpa Murray. “Did you register Mark for school?”
Grandpa Murray shook his head. Leslie asked if he was sure. Grandpa Murray chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. “Maybe I did,” he said.
Mark laughed.
“Actually, yes, I suppose I did,” Grandpa Murray said. “I forgot.”
Mindy popped her gum. “Well, I know a lot of teachers are looking forward to having Mark, because of Beth.” She looked at her fellow office staff and mouthed, “Yeah, right.” A few of them rolled their eyes or shook their heads.
Mrs. Hopper was so surprised she nearly dropped the phone. She was used to people in their old town looking forward to having Mark because of Beth, but she had no idea how anyone in Greenburgh could know anything about Beth. Unless Grandpa Murray had accidentally registered Beth, too. That was something he might do. “Beth isn't registered, is she?” she asked. Everyone at the table gave her a cockeyed look.
“I hope not,” said Mindy. “Beth should be starting high school this year.”
“Of course,” said Leslie. “Just checking.”
“Anything else we can help you with, Mrs. Hopper?” asked Ethel, who was back on the line.
“Well, can you just check and make sure he is registered for art?” she said. “I know Mark wants to take art.” Mark gave her a thumbs-up.
Ethel consulted Mindy's computer screen. “No, we have him down for band.”
Mark's mother laughed. She shook her head at Grandpa Murray. “Can you please change that to art? Mark is definitely not a musician.”
“That's for sure,” said Beth in a low voice.
Mark stuck out his tongue at her. “Everyone is squeaky when they start learning to play the violin.”
Beth shuddered. “Not
that
squeaky.”
At Ivy Road, Ethel held a pen poised over a sheet of paper. “Are you absolutely sure he wants art?” she asked. “We can't keep changing it back and forth, you know. Art and band do not meet the same period, so changing that one class means changing the whole schedule. I have to write it down, and then someone needs to enter it into the computer system. That's a lot of work over here, especially with class schedules being mailed the end of the week.”
Mrs. Hopper replied, “Yes. Mark is right here and he says he definitely wants art. I'm sorry to cause trouble.”
“No trouble,” said Ethel politely.
Mindy raised her eyebrows at Ethel. “You mean nothing but trouble. We're talking about the Hoppers here.”
“Excuse me?” said Mrs. Hopper.
“Nothing,” said Ethel. “Is that all?”
Mrs. Hopper said yes and thanked her before hanging up. Then she turned to Grandpa Murray, who was busy rolling a pancake around a piece of sausage. “Into your blanket, little piggy,” he cooed.
“You registered Mark for band,” said Mrs. Hopper.
“No,” said Grandpa Murray. “I am sure that I registered him for art.”
Mrs. Hopper laughed and crossed her arms. “You didn't even remember that you registered him at all!”
“Yes, and I
distinctly
don't remember registering him for band. The fools.”
Mark patted Grandpa Murray on the back. “I love you, Grandpa,” he said.
His mother shook her head and put some scrambled eggs on her plate.
“It's a good thing you called,” Grandpa Murray said. “Some people are just incompetent.”
Chapter
4
Mark's Schedule
“CAR!” shouted Lou.
Everyone moved to the sides of the street. Mark held his arm in front of six-year-old Timmy Horace. Once the car passed and Lou shouted “SAFE,” Mark looked both ways and gave the okay for play to continue. He held Timmy's hand as they walked back into the street. “That's how smart people like me enter the street,” he told Timmy. “Always, always look both ways.”
Timmy said, “I know, I know,” and wriggled his hand away.
Mark resumed his spot on the sewer cap that was a base. Jasmina, who was a better pitcher by anyone's judgment except Mark's, took her place on the Hoppers' garbage-can lid, which was the other base. The five younger kids from the street assumed positions with one foot touching the sewer—they were safe as long as the tip of their sneaker still touched. Lou enjoyed shouting more than running, so he kept his post on the Horaces' stoop to look out for cars.
Jasmina checked her runners and wound up. She threw the ball to Mark and the runners on his base sprinted toward the garbage lid. Mark caught it and threw it back to Jasmina immediately. The runners who had just touched her base squealed and turned around before she could touch them with the ball. Those who hadn't made it all the way across hesitated in the middle. Would she throw it quickly back to Mark? Would she hold it for a few seconds? The object was not to get tagged, and not to get stuck with your foot touching a base while that thrower held the ball. Jasmina fake-threw to Mark, and Timmy, falling for it, sprinted. Jasmina moved to tag him but let Timmy duck out of the way.
BOOK: The Trouble with Mark Hopper
12.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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