Class 12B Fights Back Read online

  “That’s dangerous, Buster! Come back!”

  Buster had run into the teachers’ parking lot, and I was powerless to stop him. The last bell had rung, and the teachers would be returning to their vehicles soon. It was a Friday afternoon, and they were likely to leave in a rush.

  “You’re a poo-poo,” he called from the other side of the parking lot.

  All I could do was watch in horror.

  Buster strutted along a row of cars and stopped at a bright red sedan. Did you know the word sedan is thought to have originally meant “a covered chair carried on poles”? But that’s beside the point.

  Buster sized up the red sedan with a rather troublesome grin.

  It was Miss Schlump’s car. Everyone knew which car was hers, because Damon Dunst had crashed it at the car wash fun day. She’d only just gotten it back from the mechanic’s.

  Buster bent down next to one of the car’s tires.

  I nudged my glasses farther up my nose to get a better look. “What are you doing?”

  Buster ignored me. He unscrewed the air cap, and a hissing noise flowed from the wheel.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “You’re a poo-poo.”

  The tire slowly deflated—much like my feelings about the buddy system—and Buster moved on to the next one.

  He let the air out of that tire too—approximately eighty-five percent of it, by my calculations.

  Miss Schlump appeared at the far end of the parking lot and started walking toward her vehicle.

  I couldn’t let Buster get caught. If he got caught, I’d get caught. And I’d be in more trouble than him, because I am the older student and should have been looking after him. Some buddy system!

  “Buster!” I hissed. “Miss Schlump’s coming.” The stress was making my glasses fog up.

  I wiped them dry.

  Thankfully, Miss Schlump kept glancing at her phone, and she didn’t see Buster. She was probably looking at photos of the Swiss helicopter pilot she had a crush on. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until she followed him to Switzerland.

  “Buster! Quick! Get out of there!”

  Buster scurried behind another car and gave me a thumbs-up. This made my blood boil, because it wasn’t a game. Blood can’t really boil, mind you. If it did, you would die.

  Miss Schlump got into her car and started the engine. Then she began to reverse slowly. The deflated tires made a horrible flapping sound as she rolled backward. She stopped the car and got out. “What on earth?”

  “You’re blocking the exit, Schlump!” Mr. Sternblast was jammed in behind her. He beeped his horn.

  Another horn honked. Ms. Goss was stuck behind Mr. Sternblast.

  Soon, dozens of horns were beeping and honking. Miss Schlump became flustered.

  She started jumping up and down like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

  Mr. Sternblast got out of his car and stomped over to her. “Snap out of it!” he commanded, holding her shoulders to restrain the tantrum.

  Buster squealed in delight and vanished behind some bushes. I didn’t see him again that day.

  Little did I know, he was just warming up.

  • • •

  The following week was to be Miss Schlump’s last at Blue Valley School. I’m not sure whether the parking lot incident had something to do with it or perhaps her love for the Swiss helicopter pilot got the better of her, but in either case, she handed in her resignation.

  “Let’s throw a surprise farewell party for her,” said Victoria. “That way, we can give her a proper send-off.”

  “Good riddance, I say,” said Vex.

  Victoria dug her heels in. “Come on, guys. I know she can be cranky, but at least she’s nicer than Mr. Sternblast. Let’s give her a happy farewell on Friday.”

  “Victoria is right,” said Damon. His eyes glazed over as he stared at his love. “Let’s throw her a party she’ll never forget.”

  It was a party she’d never forget, all right. Never.

  • • •

  Victoria decided to have the party in the library. Mrs. Paige—who breaks the rules and lets me borrow thirty books a week instead of three—kindly agreed and let us use the main section of the library.

  Victoria was in her element. “Ren, you put the ribbons up. Sammy, you pour the drinks. Slugger, you prepare the caviar.”

  Damon followed Victoria around, echoing her orders. “Ren, you put the ribbons up. Sammy, you pour the drinks. Slugger, you fill the cattle car.”

  “Prepare the caviar,” corrected Victoria. Everything was in place.

  The half-time lunch bell sounded, and that was our signal. We hid behind the bookshelves and waited for Miss Schlump to arrive. I sat behind the science books so I could squeeze in a couple of hundred pages of reading while we waited.

  Miss Schlump must be a fast walker. I only got through 164 pages by the time she reached the library.

  “Surprise!”

  Everyone jumped out from their hiding positions and exploded their party poppers.

  Miss Schlump put her hand on her heart and smiled.

  “Oh, so that’s what your smile looks like,” said Vex.

  Miss Schlump frowned.

  “Ah, that’s more like it.”

  “We wanted to thank you for being our teacher,” said Victoria. “So we threw you this party.”

  For the second time in a minute, Miss Schlump smiled.

  Then Vex ensured she’d never smile again. “The new teacher is going to be better than you, right?”

  Miss Schlump crossed her arms. “All I know is that Mr. Sternblast mentioned something about a new, younger teacher who—”

  “You’re a poo-poo!”

  Everyone looked around to find the source of the offensive remark. But I already knew. There was only one kid in school who would say something like that.

  Buster had crashed the party. He was balancing on top of one of the bookshelves.

  Mrs. Paige was jumping up and down, trying to grab his legs. “Get down this instant!”

  Buster dashed along the top of the shelf, sending books flying—at approximately eighteen miles per hour—in all directions. “Words are for silly Billies!” he yelled as a book flapped dangerously close to Mrs. Paige’s curly-haired head.

  “Albert, control your buddy,” cried Miss Schlump.

  “But I can’t—”

  “Just deal with it!”

  Buster spotted the party food and leapt down from the bookshelf. He dodged Mrs. Paige’s clasping hands and ducked between her legs.

  “Get back here!”

  He darted toward the food table and snatched the first thing he saw—the caviar.

  “No!” cried Slugger.

  But it was too late. Buster had already hurled a handful down his throat.

  Slugger’s face turned red. “I spent ages preparing that, you gourmet wrecker!”

  Buster, half choking on the salted fish eggs, poked his tongue out. “You’re a pee-pee.”

  Slugger clenched his fists.

  Miss Schlump stepped in to calm things down, only to be met by a spray of fish eggs. Buster had spat out the caviar. “Gross!” he cried.

  “My caviar!” Slugger lunged at Buster. But Buster was too quick. He dived under the drinks table. Slugger roared and slammed his arms down on the edge of the table, sending the drinks catapulting over his head. Cups of punch crashed into the shelves, painting the books in red, green, and orange.

  Mrs. Paige shrieked.

  Mr. Sternblast, who was passing by outside, heard the cry and burst through the door.

  Buster took the opportunity to squeeze past the principal to the freedom of the playground.

  Slugger took the opportunity to chase Buster, only to barrel into Mr. Sternblast, sending him flyin
g back through the door.

  Mr. Sternblast landed outside on a bed of grass. Approximately 943 blades, by my calculation.

  Slugger landed outside on a bed of Mr. Sternblast. Approximately one piece, by my calculation.

  “Saturday detention, Choppers, first thing tomorrow!” thundered Mr. Sternblast. “And if it wasn’t for the fact that your parents donated the new school kitchen, I’d have you expelled!”

  Meanwhile, Miss Schlump had seen enough. She stepped delicately over Slugger and Mr. Sternblast, then marched all the way to her car—the red sedan with newly pumped tires.

  “I don’t think we should expect a postcard from her,” said Vex.

  Mr. Sternblast stood up, brushing about forty-six blades of grass off his suit. His balding head glowed like lava, and his moustache trembled as though it were about to erupt. “Who is responsible for all this commotion?”

  Vex pointed at me. “Albert can’t control his buddy.”

  • • •

  Mr. Bambuckle first arrived at Blue Valley School approximately 4,080 minutes later. It was a Monday morning, and he was balancing on a unicycle on top of his desk, singing us a Mongolian welcome song. I knew right away we would get along well, so I decided to talk to him at morning recess.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bambuckle,” I said. “I know you’re trying to order our stickers and stamps, but this is important.”

  Mr. Bambuckle closed his laptop and winked at me. I could tell by the way his green eyes shone that he was happy to see me. “What can I do for you, dear Albert?”

  “It’s about my buddy.”

  “Ah, yes, the infamous Buster.”

  “How do you know about Buster?”

  “I know everything.”

  I was impressed. It would take an average adult about seven weeks to read through every file at Blue Valley School (five weeks if you took away Buster’s).

  “I don’t know what to do about him,” I said. “He causes trouble wherever he goes.”

  “What do you know about sodium?” said Mr. Bambuckle.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. It felt odd for me to say that.

  “Sodium. What do you know about it?”

  “Chemical or nutrient?”

  “A most wonderful response! The chemical element, if you will.”

  I thought back to some books I’d read. “Sodium is a very soft metal. Its periodic table symbol is Na, and its atomic number is eleven.”

  “Very good!” Mr. Bambuckle clapped his hands. “Now, tell me, Albert,” he added, “what happens if you drop a piece of sodium into water?”

  I paused. “It explodes, of course. Big time.”

  Mr. Bambuckle opened his laptop and clicked on a link to a sticker website. “That will be all, dear Albert.”

  I walked out of the room, thinking hard. It was nice to have a teacher who could plant tricky clues in my mind. By the time I reached the playground, I’d figured it out. It was as though a blindfold had been lifted from my eyes.

  Buster was like a piece of sodium. Other people were like water. When you mixed the two—Buster and other people—boom!

  It was true. All Buster wanted in life was to stir up trouble and make people react. To make them explode. All I needed in life was a way to distract him.

  • • •

  I’m standing at the edge of the visitors’ parking lot, waiting for Buster to get out of his mom’s car. He is approximately seventy-five seconds late, based on the weather and local traffic conditions.

  Buster opens the door and waves at me. He bounds over and puts something in my hand.

  It’s a book.

  “You’re a poo-poo,” he says, though I know he’s only joking.

  “Did you like it?” I say.

  “The words are for silly Billies,” he says. “But I loved the pictures!”

  I take a different book out of my bag and give it to him. “Wanna meet in the library at lunch?”

  Buster grins and runs off.

  I’m finding it hard to keep up with him.

  We’ve gone through almost every book in the school library, and he’s nearly halfway through my collection at home.

  It’s the pictures. Buster loves pictures.

  After the incident at Miss Schlump’s farewell party, Buster and I had to help clean the library. It was then that I noticed his attraction to the pictures in the books we had to put back on the shelves. The artworks entranced him. It was like a whole new world had been opened up to him—one where the words played little part.

  These days, Buster flicks gently through any book he can get his hands on, poring over the illustrations, tracing them with his finger. Books are the distraction that stops Buster reacting with people. There hasn’t been an explosion for weeks.

  I hear a shrill cry come from Buster’s car. His mom is wrestling with someone in the back seat. It’s his little sister.

  “Stop tearing at the seats,” I hear Buster’s mom say. “You’re an absolute terror!”

  There is another shrill cry, and a doll’s head flies out the open door. It soars in a perfect curve, and I catch it in my left hand. There are little teeth marks covering the doll’s face.

  A banana peel flies through the back window of the car and lands on the sidewalk. A kid in second grade slips on it and lands on his funny bone, which is actually his ulnar nerve.

  There are hoots of laughter coming from inside the car. The headless body of a doll somersaults out the open door and is run over by a passing car.

  “Bertha!” says Buster’s mom. “You’re even worse than your brother was at this age!”

  I wonder if Buster’s mom has formally proven this.

  • • •

  Buster arrives at the library with a purple folder tucked under his arm. He is 132 seconds early, which is good, because I want to go to the cafeteria with Mr. Bambuckle and try the chicken noodles.

  “What’s that?” I say, pointing to the purple folder.

  “A present.”

  “For me?”

  Buster smiles and hands me the folder. His cheeks flush in a cute way.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I open it. There is a beautiful picture inside. It takes my breath away. “This must have taken you ages.”

  Buster nods. “Almost a whole week. I worked on it every night before bedtime.”

  Buster has drawn a lake at sunset. The sun casts golden light over the water. The ripples and waves are drawn in soft, delicate strokes. The yellow tones in the water paint a picture of calm.

  “Thanks again,” I say. “What’s it called?”

  Buster giggles and turns for the door. “Lake of Pee-pee!” he cries, running for the exit. “Lake of Peeeee-peeeee!”

  6

  Things Are Going to Change

  With the taste of Cafeteria Carol’s chicken noodles still fresh in his mouth, Albert stood proudly at the front of room 12B, holding Buster’s artwork above his head for all to see. The picture had inspired him to share his story, and he felt wiser having told it.

  “What did you say the drawing was called again?” said Vex, who simply wanted to hear Albert say “pee-pee” once more.

  Mr. Bambuckle chuckled. “You, dear Albert, are a rather fine teller of stories. What a marvelous way to commence our afternoon session.”

  Albert’s cheeks flushed with pride. “It must be all the reading I do.”

  “I’m certain that helps,” said Mr. Bambuckle, “though telling your own story is quite a different ball game.”

  “What ball game?” said Sammy, who was dreaming of playing soccer.

  “What’s your story, Mr. Bambuckle?” said Vinnie White, winding a brown curl of hair around her finger.

  “Yeah,” said Ren Rivera. “We know that you’ve been to lots of places, but where are yo
u from?”

  “Stop wasting time with pointless questions!” said an impatient voice at the door. “You should be learning algebra.” It was Mr. Sternblast.

  “Dear Mr. Principal, please, come in,” said Mr. Bambuckle.

  Mr. Sternblast strode to the front of the room with fire in his steps. “Listen up,” he barked. “I have some important news.”

  The students listened closely.

  “There’s going to be a crackdown. We can’t allow classes like this to continue with such airy-fairy nonsense lessons. I’m bringing in someone to help me clean up this school for good. I’m bringing in someone who will boost our grades. I’ll get that promotion if it’s the last thing I do! Things are going to change, and discipline will be the new order!”

  Miffy dared to raise her hand.

  “Yes, Armstrong?”

  “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  Mr. Sternblast narrowed his eyes and glared around the room. “I haven’t forgotten the little stunt that someone in this class pulled.” He looked at Scarlett. “You can’t get rid of good teachers like Miss Frost in my school without consequences. It cost me a better job with more pay. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m sure it was you. Be warned—all of you! Things are about to change around here, and you’re not going to like it. Not one little bit!”

  Miffy wished she hadn’t asked.

  “Now where’s that wretched teacher of yours?” said Mr. Sternblast. “He was here a moment ago… This crackdown can’t come soon enough!”

  The storeroom door at the back of the classroom opened, and Mr. Bambuckle stepped out, holding a brightly-colored glass teacup. “Would you care for some Himalayan tea, dear Mr. Principal?”

  Mr. Sternblast spat his response. “I don’t drink with my enemies!” He stormed back through the door, his words lingering like a bad smell.

  Comforted by the reassuring presence of Mr. Bambuckle, Scarlett stood up and walked to the front of the room. The eyes of her classmates followed her, looking on not with judgment but with fondness and understanding. “I want to say sorry,” she said bluntly.

  Mr. Bambuckle stepped back and sipped his tea, allowing the conversation to take its own course.