Read Online The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco by Janice Repka - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Repka
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hotter when you’re crammed inside a circus cannon.
The waiting area outside Hardingtown Middle School’s vice-principal’s office had the reverse problem—it was too cold. The students said that the vice-principal, Mr. Race, kept it that way on purpose because it had the effect of slowing down a student’s body. Many an angry hothead had been reduced to a shivering pile of goose bumps by the time it was his or her turn to go in. Legend had it that a particularly troublesome student had to wait so long he got frostbite and transferred to another school district. Phillip cupped his hands and blew into them.
The walls outside the vice-principal’s office were concrete block painted an odd yellow, like brown mustard. On one wall, a poster said: THE PRINCI P AL IS YOUR PAL . Phillip sat on his hands to keep them warm. As the dismissal bell rang, he thought about the sweatshirt that was hanging in his locker. After twenty minutes passed, the vice-principal’s secretary appeared.
“You can go wait in his office,” she said. “He’ll be right in.”
The vice-principal’s office was as clean as a knife-thrower’s blade. Phillip sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs in front of the metal desk. On the desk was an IN box and an OUT box, both empty. On his teachers’ desks, Phillip had noticed brightly colored knickknacks. There was nothing bright on the vice-principal’s desk. It was as if vibrant colors were banned from his office, replaced by creams and grays and browns, colors that wouldn’t cause a commotion. That’s what the secretary had told Phillip that the vice-principal wanted to see him about—causing a commotion.
Mr. Race blew by him and plopped into his swiveling seat. The musky, aftershave-scented breeze made the flesh stand up on the back of Phillip’s neck. Mr. Race wore shiny braces on his not quite perfect teeth. His medium brown hair was parted down the middle with such accuracy that Phillip imagined there were exactly the same number of hairs on each side of his head. Mr. Race was always in a hurry. His name suited him.
Mr. Race opened a thin folder that was on his desk.
“Phillip Edward Stanislaw. Grade six,” he read.
While Mr. Race read from his school file, Phillip stared at the collection of antique handcuffs in the display case behind the desk. There was also a small dodgeball trophy. The gold plate on it said: SECOND PLACE .
A knock rattled the door.
“She’s here,” said his secretary, pushing the door open.
Phillip turned and saw Aunt Veola in her courthouse-guard uniform. She removed a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hand with it.
“Thank you for coming, Veola,” said Mr. Race as they shook hands. Aunt Veola discreetly wiped her hand again and sat next to Phillip.
“We are both busy people, Veola. I hope you don’t mind if I get straight to it.”
“No need for dawdling,” she agreed.
“We are suspending your nephew,” Mr. Race said. “We have a rule against circulating petitions without the approval of student council. He violated that rule.” Aunt Veola looked at Phillip, who sat wide-eyed and speechless.
“I didn’t know,” Phillip said.
Mr. Race opened a desk drawer and removed a petition form. He flipped it over and read out loud, “‘All petitions must be approved by student council before they may be circulated.’”
“Now, Veola,” continued Mr. Race. “You’re a law-abiding citizen, so you understand that we can’t allow students to break our rules without punishment.”
“They have to obey the rules,” Aunt Veola agreed. “But suspension—even for a short time—isn’t that a bit harsh?”
“A four-day out-of-school suspension will give the boy a chance to think about his transgression.”
“You’re not going extra hard on him because of what happened between you and my sister when you were in school together?”
“Of course not,” insisted Mr. Race.
“Because it wouldn’t be right to punish him just
The waiting area outside Hardingtown Middle School’s vice-principal’s office had the reverse problem—it was too cold. The students said that the vice-principal, Mr. Race, kept it that way on purpose because it had the effect of slowing down a student’s body. Many an angry hothead had been reduced to a shivering pile of goose bumps by the time it was his or her turn to go in. Legend had it that a particularly troublesome student had to wait so long he got frostbite and transferred to another school district. Phillip cupped his hands and blew into them.
The walls outside the vice-principal’s office were concrete block painted an odd yellow, like brown mustard. On one wall, a poster said: THE PRINCI P AL IS YOUR PAL . Phillip sat on his hands to keep them warm. As the dismissal bell rang, he thought about the sweatshirt that was hanging in his locker. After twenty minutes passed, the vice-principal’s secretary appeared.
“You can go wait in his office,” she said. “He’ll be right in.”
The vice-principal’s office was as clean as a knife-thrower’s blade. Phillip sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs in front of the metal desk. On the desk was an IN box and an OUT box, both empty. On his teachers’ desks, Phillip had noticed brightly colored knickknacks. There was nothing bright on the vice-principal’s desk. It was as if vibrant colors were banned from his office, replaced by creams and grays and browns, colors that wouldn’t cause a commotion. That’s what the secretary had told Phillip that the vice-principal wanted to see him about—causing a commotion.
Mr. Race blew by him and plopped into his swiveling seat. The musky, aftershave-scented breeze made the flesh stand up on the back of Phillip’s neck. Mr. Race wore shiny braces on his not quite perfect teeth. His medium brown hair was parted down the middle with such accuracy that Phillip imagined there were exactly the same number of hairs on each side of his head. Mr. Race was always in a hurry. His name suited him.
Mr. Race opened a thin folder that was on his desk.
“Phillip Edward Stanislaw. Grade six,” he read.
While Mr. Race read from his school file, Phillip stared at the collection of antique handcuffs in the display case behind the desk. There was also a small dodgeball trophy. The gold plate on it said: SECOND PLACE .
A knock rattled the door.
“She’s here,” said his secretary, pushing the door open.
Phillip turned and saw Aunt Veola in her courthouse-guard uniform. She removed a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hand with it.
“Thank you for coming, Veola,” said Mr. Race as they shook hands. Aunt Veola discreetly wiped her hand again and sat next to Phillip.
“We are both busy people, Veola. I hope you don’t mind if I get straight to it.”
“No need for dawdling,” she agreed.
“We are suspending your nephew,” Mr. Race said. “We have a rule against circulating petitions without the approval of student council. He violated that rule.” Aunt Veola looked at Phillip, who sat wide-eyed and speechless.
“I didn’t know,” Phillip said.
Mr. Race opened a desk drawer and removed a petition form. He flipped it over and read out loud, “‘All petitions must be approved by student council before they may be circulated.’”
“Now, Veola,” continued Mr. Race. “You’re a law-abiding citizen, so you understand that we can’t allow students to break our rules without punishment.”
“They have to obey the rules,” Aunt Veola agreed. “But suspension—even for a short time—isn’t that a bit harsh?”
“A four-day out-of-school suspension will give the boy a chance to think about his transgression.”
“You’re not going extra hard on him because of what happened between you and my sister when you were in school together?”
“Of course not,” insisted Mr. Race.
“Because it wouldn’t be right to punish him just
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