nose all stopped up, he dies. I almost said “Yuck!” out loud, but it’s a good thing I didn’t.
Mrs. Mingley clapped a hand to her bosom. “Oh, my goodness! That poem hits me right here. Heartfelt! And so accurate! Vision?”
“Dark,” chanted the class, “and bleak.”
“Yes, it is!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “Dark and bleak! And so perfect for you, Walter. So much better than that silly thing you read last time by Robert Frost.”
Weeser flashed me a defeated look as he sat down.
Mrs. Mingley smiled out at us. “Things are going so well in here,” she said. “I’m so impressed with your work. Let’s inhale!”
The kids breathed in deeply, and at first I didn’t understand. Then Mrs. Mingley said, “There’s something about my incense, isn’t there? A good deep breath makes everything so much clearer! Doesn’t it?”
“Hmm,” went the class.
“And who’s next?” went on Mrs. Mingley. “How about you, Alvin?”
Alvin started nervously, then lunged to his feet. The class tittered.
“Our little earthquake boy,” said Mrs. Mingley, but there was no trace of humor in her voice. “Always disrupting things, aren’t you? Well, let’s see what you have this morning. And I hope you’ve thought very carefully about this.”
I held my breath. It was obvious Weeser didn’t have the chest hair to go against Mingley’s assignment, but I knew Alvin was a different matter.
He cleared his throat. “I guess I don’t much care for Pitts, Potts, and whatever,” he began. “But even so, I’ll stick with the assignment.” He swiped at his nose and gave Harriet a beaten look. “This one’s by Higgenbutt,” he said.
“Bottom,” snapped Mrs. Mingley, eyeing him sharply. “Higgen-bottom!”
“Right,” said Alvin. He straightened his shoulders and began reciting a really sick poem about a guy who goes around destroying all the things kids like. I only remember a couple of lines:
Childish smiles, a dog’s bark, shadows on the grass
,
I blacken all with my poisonous brush
.
“Wonderful, Alvin!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “What great strides you’ve made today! A lovely choice. And read quite well, too, I must say.” She turned now and looked over at Harriet, giving her a challenging smirk. “And what about you, Miss Grove? This might be a good time for you to show us your true spirit today.” The smirk on Mingley’s face disappeared. “Stand up and recite!”
When she said this, Ming suddenly looked away from Harriet and shot me a grim look as if I, too, were involved in some way. I didn’t move a muscle or try to meet her eye. I could feel the quivering buzz just over my head, and I knew that if I made one false move, the dreaded bolt would come down on me.
10
the trap doses
“Stand up, I said!” thundered Mrs. Mingley.
Harriet hesitated, sighed softly, and stood up.
A large vein appeared on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead. “And let me tell you something right now,” she hissed. “If you read the wrong kind of poem, Grove, you’re getting a failing grade for this assignment. Do you understand?”
I could see Harriet’s lips trembling, but she nodded and never looked away.
“To be truthful, I feel the same way Alvin does,” she began. “I know our vision is supposed to be dark and bleak, but it seems to me poetry is so much more than that. So, I decided to read a poem that sort of goes in the opposite direction. It’s by James Kavanaugh and it’s called ‘Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights.’” Then she began to read in her clear bell-like voice a poem that went so totally against the “dark and bleak” vision that I figured the roof was going to cave in.
I was born to catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning …
The large vein on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead began swelling darkly.
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days …
I was born to rub my hands in dirt
And walk green hills—
I
Mrs. Mingley clapped a hand to her bosom. “Oh, my goodness! That poem hits me right here. Heartfelt! And so accurate! Vision?”
“Dark,” chanted the class, “and bleak.”
“Yes, it is!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “Dark and bleak! And so perfect for you, Walter. So much better than that silly thing you read last time by Robert Frost.”
Weeser flashed me a defeated look as he sat down.
Mrs. Mingley smiled out at us. “Things are going so well in here,” she said. “I’m so impressed with your work. Let’s inhale!”
The kids breathed in deeply, and at first I didn’t understand. Then Mrs. Mingley said, “There’s something about my incense, isn’t there? A good deep breath makes everything so much clearer! Doesn’t it?”
“Hmm,” went the class.
“And who’s next?” went on Mrs. Mingley. “How about you, Alvin?”
Alvin started nervously, then lunged to his feet. The class tittered.
“Our little earthquake boy,” said Mrs. Mingley, but there was no trace of humor in her voice. “Always disrupting things, aren’t you? Well, let’s see what you have this morning. And I hope you’ve thought very carefully about this.”
I held my breath. It was obvious Weeser didn’t have the chest hair to go against Mingley’s assignment, but I knew Alvin was a different matter.
He cleared his throat. “I guess I don’t much care for Pitts, Potts, and whatever,” he began. “But even so, I’ll stick with the assignment.” He swiped at his nose and gave Harriet a beaten look. “This one’s by Higgenbutt,” he said.
“Bottom,” snapped Mrs. Mingley, eyeing him sharply. “Higgen-bottom!”
“Right,” said Alvin. He straightened his shoulders and began reciting a really sick poem about a guy who goes around destroying all the things kids like. I only remember a couple of lines:
Childish smiles, a dog’s bark, shadows on the grass
,
I blacken all with my poisonous brush
.
“Wonderful, Alvin!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “What great strides you’ve made today! A lovely choice. And read quite well, too, I must say.” She turned now and looked over at Harriet, giving her a challenging smirk. “And what about you, Miss Grove? This might be a good time for you to show us your true spirit today.” The smirk on Mingley’s face disappeared. “Stand up and recite!”
When she said this, Ming suddenly looked away from Harriet and shot me a grim look as if I, too, were involved in some way. I didn’t move a muscle or try to meet her eye. I could feel the quivering buzz just over my head, and I knew that if I made one false move, the dreaded bolt would come down on me.
10
the trap doses
“Stand up, I said!” thundered Mrs. Mingley.
Harriet hesitated, sighed softly, and stood up.
A large vein appeared on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead. “And let me tell you something right now,” she hissed. “If you read the wrong kind of poem, Grove, you’re getting a failing grade for this assignment. Do you understand?”
I could see Harriet’s lips trembling, but she nodded and never looked away.
“To be truthful, I feel the same way Alvin does,” she began. “I know our vision is supposed to be dark and bleak, but it seems to me poetry is so much more than that. So, I decided to read a poem that sort of goes in the opposite direction. It’s by James Kavanaugh and it’s called ‘Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights.’” Then she began to read in her clear bell-like voice a poem that went so totally against the “dark and bleak” vision that I figured the roof was going to cave in.
I was born to catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning …
The large vein on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead began swelling darkly.
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days …
I was born to rub my hands in dirt
And walk green hills—
I
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