Read Online The Wednesday Wars by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
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and gotten really sickâsick like he's going to throw up all over himself. That sick."
It was the best I could do while limping along with internal bleeding.
"That's it?" he said.
"That's it," I said.
"Thanks," he said, and ran ahead, the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.
That afternoon, after everyone had left for Temple Beth-El or Saint Adelbert's, Mrs. Baker handed me a 150-question test on
The Tempest.
One hundred and fifty questions! Let me tell you, Shakespeare himself couldn't have answered half of these questions.
"Show me what you've read and understood," said Mrs. Baker.
I sat down at my desk and picked up my pencil.
"And Mr. Hoodhood," she said, "there isn't a single question there about Caliban's cursesâpresuming, as I do, that you have mastered those already."
That's the Teacher Gene at work, giving its bearer an extra sense. It's a little frightening. Maybe that's how people decide to become teachers. They have that extra sense, and once they have it, and know that they have it, they don't have any choice except to become a teacher.
I got down to work. Overhead, the scurrying sounds of Caliban and Sycorax across the asbestos tiles accompanied the scratching of my pencil.
I handed the test in five minutes before the end of the day. Mrs. Baker took it calmly, then reached into her bottom drawer for an enormous red pen with a wide felt tip. "Stand here and we'll see how you've done," she said, which is sort of like a dentist handing you a mirror and saying, "Sit here and watch while I drill a hole in your tooth." The first four were wrong, and she slashed through my answers with a broad swathe of bright red ink. It looked like my test was bleeding to death.
"Not such a good beginning," she said.
"The quality of mercy is not strained," I said.
She looked up at me and almost smiled a real smile. Not a teacher smile. Think of it! Mrs. Baker almost smiling a real smile.
"Nothing so much as a pound of flesh is at stake."
You could have fooled me.
Maybe it was mercy, or maybe I just needed to get into the rhythm of the thing, but after the first four wrong, the rest went pretty well, and the gushing blood slowed to a trickle, and then, for the last thirty questions in a row, a complete stop.
"You've coagulated, Mr. Hoodhood," Mrs. Baker said, which I think is a Caliban curse that I missed. "For next week, we'll review what you missed. And read
The Tempest
again."
"Read
The Tempest
again?" I said. I mean, you can understand reading
Treasure Island
four times, but no matter how good a Shakespeare play is, no one reads it twice.
"You'll find that there is a lot more to
The Tempest
than a list of colorful curses."
"Read
The Tempest
again?" I said.
"Repetition is not always a rhetorical virtue," said Mrs. Baker. "Yes, read it again. From the start."
So.
It had turned out to be an all-right Wednesday afternoon after all. Except for the internal bleeding. And except for the 150-question test. And except for having to read
The Tempest
again. From the start.
But as I limped on home, I figured that if I read an act that night, and another on Thursday, and Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, I could have it all finished pretty painlessly. And each one would probably go a lot quicker, since I had already read them all once.
Life got brighter, and somehow, the world suddenly got brighter, too. You know how this is? You're walking along, and then the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the birds start to sing, and the air is suddenly warm, and it's like the whole world is happy because you're happy.
It's a great feeling.
But never trust it. Especially in November on Long Island.
Because as I limped past Goldman's Best Bakery, the front window was filled with cream puffs. Brown, light, perfect cream puffs. And I remembered the death threats hanging over me like Shylock's knife hanging over Antonio's chest.
I decided that to be safe I'd better get the cream puffsâeven if it meant
It was the best I could do while limping along with internal bleeding.
"That's it?" he said.
"That's it," I said.
"Thanks," he said, and ran ahead, the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.
That afternoon, after everyone had left for Temple Beth-El or Saint Adelbert's, Mrs. Baker handed me a 150-question test on
The Tempest.
One hundred and fifty questions! Let me tell you, Shakespeare himself couldn't have answered half of these questions.
"Show me what you've read and understood," said Mrs. Baker.
I sat down at my desk and picked up my pencil.
"And Mr. Hoodhood," she said, "there isn't a single question there about Caliban's cursesâpresuming, as I do, that you have mastered those already."
That's the Teacher Gene at work, giving its bearer an extra sense. It's a little frightening. Maybe that's how people decide to become teachers. They have that extra sense, and once they have it, and know that they have it, they don't have any choice except to become a teacher.
I got down to work. Overhead, the scurrying sounds of Caliban and Sycorax across the asbestos tiles accompanied the scratching of my pencil.
I handed the test in five minutes before the end of the day. Mrs. Baker took it calmly, then reached into her bottom drawer for an enormous red pen with a wide felt tip. "Stand here and we'll see how you've done," she said, which is sort of like a dentist handing you a mirror and saying, "Sit here and watch while I drill a hole in your tooth." The first four were wrong, and she slashed through my answers with a broad swathe of bright red ink. It looked like my test was bleeding to death.
"Not such a good beginning," she said.
"The quality of mercy is not strained," I said.
She looked up at me and almost smiled a real smile. Not a teacher smile. Think of it! Mrs. Baker almost smiling a real smile.
"Nothing so much as a pound of flesh is at stake."
You could have fooled me.
Maybe it was mercy, or maybe I just needed to get into the rhythm of the thing, but after the first four wrong, the rest went pretty well, and the gushing blood slowed to a trickle, and then, for the last thirty questions in a row, a complete stop.
"You've coagulated, Mr. Hoodhood," Mrs. Baker said, which I think is a Caliban curse that I missed. "For next week, we'll review what you missed. And read
The Tempest
again."
"Read
The Tempest
again?" I said. I mean, you can understand reading
Treasure Island
four times, but no matter how good a Shakespeare play is, no one reads it twice.
"You'll find that there is a lot more to
The Tempest
than a list of colorful curses."
"Read
The Tempest
again?" I said.
"Repetition is not always a rhetorical virtue," said Mrs. Baker. "Yes, read it again. From the start."
So.
It had turned out to be an all-right Wednesday afternoon after all. Except for the internal bleeding. And except for the 150-question test. And except for having to read
The Tempest
again. From the start.
But as I limped on home, I figured that if I read an act that night, and another on Thursday, and Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, I could have it all finished pretty painlessly. And each one would probably go a lot quicker, since I had already read them all once.
Life got brighter, and somehow, the world suddenly got brighter, too. You know how this is? You're walking along, and then the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the birds start to sing, and the air is suddenly warm, and it's like the whole world is happy because you're happy.
It's a great feeling.
But never trust it. Especially in November on Long Island.
Because as I limped past Goldman's Best Bakery, the front window was filled with cream puffs. Brown, light, perfect cream puffs. And I remembered the death threats hanging over me like Shylock's knife hanging over Antonio's chest.
I decided that to be safe I'd better get the cream puffsâeven if it meant
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