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Authors: Richard Peck
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with Janis to the girlsâ restroom to soak her fingers. We stirred.
Patty paled.
But her arm was in a sling, so she and Janis made a good match. One had a good arm, the other a good hand.
Beverly bolted. She and her stooges were never parted. It was a rule of theirs. She snapped a finger at Doreen, who was looking the other way. Then Beverly was lumbering up the aisle, heading for the door and Janis. Suddenly she was nose to nose with Miss Titus.
âWhat business is this of yours?â Two magnified eyes bored into Beverly.
Beverly fell back. A first. The tide of classroom war began to turn.
Â
The whole business was a real good lesson about not stealing. And after she quit sobbing, what could Janis say? That a rattrap out of an old barn jumped up and bit her as she happened to be passing?
Some people thought baiting a rattrap with your purse wasnât the way a teacher should act. But nothing teacherish worked with Beverly or Doreen or Janis. Anyway, there was a war on, so you needed to bring out your big guns and your secret weapons.
When Patty MacIntosh and Janis came back, Miss Titus said to get ready for a lesson in first aid, as per the instructions on a wall chart. We were all in either Brownies or Cub Scouts by now, working on our bandaging badge, so we got busy on Janis, stretched out once more on the floor.
Her hand didnât look too bad, but she wouldnât be slapping anybody around with it for a while. Still, she hollered the place down every time you went near it. She was a lot bigger sissy than weâd realized.
With Miss Titus showing us how, we bandaged Janis up one side and down the other. She was a dead ringer for an Egyptian mummy by the time Miss Howe looked in on us, following Janisâs screams. Miss Howe saw us at our patriotic best, working over Janis as volunteer victim, with actual tears.
âVery realistic,â Miss Howe said, and withdrew.
War Stamp Thursday Came Around . . .
. . . and Miss Titus called out, âScooter Tomlinson? How are you in arithmetic?â The wisp of scant hair atop her head seemed to form a question mark.
âA grade or two ahead,â Scooter estimated.
So she put him and Hoyt Albers behind her desk, to take our money and issue the War Stamps, which they liked.
We were all used to returning to our desks by way of Doreenâs row, to drop our dimes on her. But today Miss Titus was standing right over her. The first one down her aisle, Darryl Dillman, was ready with his dime. But there was Miss Titus, standing guard, all eyes. Doreen held her palm out, below the corner of her desk. But Miss Titus could see around corners.
âWhatâs that dime for?â she demanded, loud enough for all.
âHe . . . owes it to me,â Doreen said in an all-new, mousy voice.
âWhat for?â
â. . . For about a week,â Doreen mumbled into her grubby shirtfront.
âMove on,â Miss Titus told Darryl, and the line of dime-droppers behind him melted away.
âNobody owes you a red cent, sister,â Miss Titus said, over Doreenâs head. But her buggish gaze swept the room and fell all over Beverly.
Beverly sizzled. An ugly flush rose up her brawny neck. She looked like she might burst into flames.
As one more of her stooges bit the dust. First Janis in the rattrap. Now Doreen without a dime.
Â
Soon after, we got back our HOW WE, THE YOUNG OF AMERICA, ARE WINNING THE WAR essays. Scooter wrote about two boys who found a mutant form of milkweed growing in a barn, and they won the Congressional Medal of Honor for their discovery. Scooter liked using words such as mutant . Miss Titus wrote on his page that âIt read well for fictionâ and gave him a 94.
I wrote about a couple of boys who found a brass bed in a spooky attic and got a pair of movie tickets out of it. None of my participles dangled, but Iâd written:
when I should have written:
She graded me down for that. Way down. Down,
Patty paled.
But her arm was in a sling, so she and Janis made a good match. One had a good arm, the other a good hand.
Beverly bolted. She and her stooges were never parted. It was a rule of theirs. She snapped a finger at Doreen, who was looking the other way. Then Beverly was lumbering up the aisle, heading for the door and Janis. Suddenly she was nose to nose with Miss Titus.
âWhat business is this of yours?â Two magnified eyes bored into Beverly.
Beverly fell back. A first. The tide of classroom war began to turn.
Â
The whole business was a real good lesson about not stealing. And after she quit sobbing, what could Janis say? That a rattrap out of an old barn jumped up and bit her as she happened to be passing?
Some people thought baiting a rattrap with your purse wasnât the way a teacher should act. But nothing teacherish worked with Beverly or Doreen or Janis. Anyway, there was a war on, so you needed to bring out your big guns and your secret weapons.
When Patty MacIntosh and Janis came back, Miss Titus said to get ready for a lesson in first aid, as per the instructions on a wall chart. We were all in either Brownies or Cub Scouts by now, working on our bandaging badge, so we got busy on Janis, stretched out once more on the floor.
Her hand didnât look too bad, but she wouldnât be slapping anybody around with it for a while. Still, she hollered the place down every time you went near it. She was a lot bigger sissy than weâd realized.
With Miss Titus showing us how, we bandaged Janis up one side and down the other. She was a dead ringer for an Egyptian mummy by the time Miss Howe looked in on us, following Janisâs screams. Miss Howe saw us at our patriotic best, working over Janis as volunteer victim, with actual tears.
âVery realistic,â Miss Howe said, and withdrew.
War Stamp Thursday Came Around . . .
. . . and Miss Titus called out, âScooter Tomlinson? How are you in arithmetic?â The wisp of scant hair atop her head seemed to form a question mark.
âA grade or two ahead,â Scooter estimated.
So she put him and Hoyt Albers behind her desk, to take our money and issue the War Stamps, which they liked.
We were all used to returning to our desks by way of Doreenâs row, to drop our dimes on her. But today Miss Titus was standing right over her. The first one down her aisle, Darryl Dillman, was ready with his dime. But there was Miss Titus, standing guard, all eyes. Doreen held her palm out, below the corner of her desk. But Miss Titus could see around corners.
âWhatâs that dime for?â she demanded, loud enough for all.
âHe . . . owes it to me,â Doreen said in an all-new, mousy voice.
âWhat for?â
â. . . For about a week,â Doreen mumbled into her grubby shirtfront.
âMove on,â Miss Titus told Darryl, and the line of dime-droppers behind him melted away.
âNobody owes you a red cent, sister,â Miss Titus said, over Doreenâs head. But her buggish gaze swept the room and fell all over Beverly.
Beverly sizzled. An ugly flush rose up her brawny neck. She looked like she might burst into flames.
As one more of her stooges bit the dust. First Janis in the rattrap. Now Doreen without a dime.
Â
Soon after, we got back our HOW WE, THE YOUNG OF AMERICA, ARE WINNING THE WAR essays. Scooter wrote about two boys who found a mutant form of milkweed growing in a barn, and they won the Congressional Medal of Honor for their discovery. Scooter liked using words such as mutant . Miss Titus wrote on his page that âIt read well for fictionâ and gave him a 94.
I wrote about a couple of boys who found a brass bed in a spooky attic and got a pair of movie tickets out of it. None of my participles dangled, but Iâd written:
when I should have written:
She graded me down for that. Way down. Down,
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