Class 12B Fights Back Read online

  “Why are you apologizing?” asked Victoria.

  “For making Mr. Sternblast angry,” said Scarlett. “I’m so glad we have Mr. Bambuckle back, but I don’t want our class to be picked on for what I did.”

  Sammy Bamford laughed in gentle support. “Mr. Sternblast is angry all the time. It’s not your fault. Besides, he’s always picked on us.”

  “But this is different,” said Scarlett. “I’m the one who made Miss Frost disappear. I’m the reason Mr. Sternblast didn’t get the other job. And I’m the reason he hates us so much.”

  Albert stood up. “And that makes you remarkable, Scarlett. Don’t you get it? You did something truly brave. You’re the reason Mr. Bambuckle is back. You’re the reason we’re learning so much. And you’re the reason wonderful things are happening to us.”

  Mr. Bambuckle took another sip of his tea. Beneath his sparkly blue jacket, his heart beat a fraction louder.

  “That’s right,” said Harold. “You and Vex and Victoria made things fun again.”

  Vex managed a half smile, though his sacrifice of working long hours in his father’s car lot was beginning to take its toll. He rubbed his eyes and rested his head on the desk, pretending to scribble on a piece of paper.

  Scarlett was overwhelmed with the feeling of support from her classmates. She tightened the red ribbon in her hair, then clasped her hands to her chest. “You’re really not angry at me?” she said.

  “Of course not!” sang a chorus of voices.

  “We can handle whatever comes our way,” said Carrot. “As long as we stick together.”

  Mr. Bambuckle’s heart beat louder again. The students were beginning to band together. This, he knew, was the first step in unlocking their true potential.

  Vex raised his head and yawned. “Yeah, yeah…lovey-dovey.” His joke was light, but it couldn’t hide the dark rings that were appearing under his eyes.

  “Lovey-dovey!” Slugger burst out laughing and slammed his hand onto his desk, cracking it through the middle. “Oops.”

  “LOL,” said Sammy.

  Carrot sighed.

  A flash of blue darted in through the open window and circled the room, chirping brightly.

  “Dodger!” cried Myra.

  The blue jay flew swiftly into Mr. Bambuckle’s pocket, vanishing in an instant.

  “Where was Dodger?” said Ren. “What was he doing outside the classroom?”

  “Dear Ren, as much as I would love to tell you, I simply cannot at this time.”

  “Dodger makes such great entrances,” said Miffy.

  “Which reminds me,” said Mr. Bambuckle, “for homework tonight, I would like you all to come up with an imaginative way to enter the classroom.”

  Name: Vinnie White

  Entry: Walk in normally, sit down normally, take your books out normally, look at your teacher normally, then let out the loudest cat meow you can muster. If you get any weird looks, lick the back of your hand and sniff the air.

  Name: Damon Dunst

  Entry: Wear dark gray clothes and pretend to be your teacher’s shadow. Lie on the floor and wiggle awkwardly so it looks like you’re mirroring their movements. If that’s too much effort, simply walk in singing a romantic song to your sweetheart.

  Name: Albert Smithers

  Entry: Teleport yourself in using advanced technology.

  Name: Slugger Choppers

  Entry: Smash through the wall on a giant wrecking ball. Jump off at the right time and land in your seat (if it’s still there). Note: Not for the super-squeamish type. Note for Mr. Bambuckle: I used a hyphen!

  Name: Miffy Armstrong

  Entry: Somersault in like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Do a triple backflip with a twist and land perfectly in your chair. It sounds hard, but it’s really quite easy.

  Name: Sammy Bamford

  Entry: Catch an airplane and skydive from twelve thousand feet. Open the parachute and steer it toward the classroom, landing on the roof. Crawl in through the air-conditioning duct and slide out of a hatch positioned directly above your desk. Land silently in your seat before anyone notices.

  Name: Victoria Goldenhorn

  Entry: Wear a pointy hat and dive into the room like an arrow. It beats riding a noisy bike!

  Name: Harold McHagil

  Entry: Never leave. Camp inside the classroom. Every night. Every weekend. Build a little campfire. Roast marshmallows. Go fishing in the bathroom sink. Use your desk as a backup shelter. Hang your dirty washing over the desk. Go to the toilet in... Oh, that’s kind of a problem.

  Name: Peter Strayer

  Entry: Don’t enter the classroom. Be somewhere else.

  Name: Myra Kumar

  Entry: Enter the room on a giant waterslide. Charge your friends a dollar each to have a turn. Make tons of money and retire early. Move to San Diego and spend your days reading books by Tim Harris.

  Name: Scarlett Geeves

  Entry: Sit on an extra-large paper airplane and have a friend toss you through the open window. Do a couple of loops and crash-land on your desk.

  Name: Evie Nightingale

  Entry: Being small has its advantages. Disguise yourself as a piece of dust and float in with other pieces of dust. Try not to get stuck in anyone’s eye. Being blinked out is not much fun.

  Name: Carrot Grigson

  Entry: Saw a hole through the roof and ride a giant pigeon to your desk.

  Name: Vex Vron

  Entry: Dig a tunnel from the playground to the classroom and pop up under your desk. This will also provide you with a place to nap and allow quick access to the playground at lunchtime.

  Name: Ren Rivera

  Entry: Paint yourself the same color as the classroom wall. Once camouflaged, wait until everybody else comes in, then slowly peel yourself off the wall and take your seat as if it were a completely normal thing to do. Note: Take as long as you like before you peel—good detectives never miss an opportunity to spy!

  7

  Secret Business

  To lighten the mood the following morning, Mr. Bambuckle suggested the students act out their imaginative entrances—as best they could, of course.

  Miffy Armstrong went first, executing her backflip with grace and poise. “It’s truly not difficult,” she said with a bow.

  Slugger attempted to copy Miffy’s move, which resulted in him landing headfirst on his chair. The seat made a funny twoing noise, and two of the legs buckled forward.

  Mr. Bambuckle—quick as a flash—turned the lights out with his bouncy ball. The moment the lights flicked back on, Slugger was sitting upright in his chair, which looked as good as new.

  The students were beginning to realize their teacher was capable of truly extraordinary things, and rather than stare widemouthed at Slugger—who was looking a little dazed—they applauded with the joy of familiarity.

  Ren Rivera acted out her entrance next, flattening herself against the wall. Her challenge was not so much to camouflage as it was to tame her fits of laughter. “I need to work on my spying technique,” she said with a chuckle.

  Vex pretended to shovel his way out from underneath his desk, earning more laughter from the class. Although the charade put a smile on his face, the dark rings under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. He had worked particularly hard the night before and had barely slept. After a big yawn, he rested his head back on the desk.

  As only a good teacher could, Mr. Bambuckle was reading the signs and keeping a close eye on Vex. He had been using Dodger to help plan something special for the boy—something that would give him the break he so badly needed. It was a surprise the entire class would benefit from.

  Aside from Miffy’s acrobatic routine, Peter Strayer’s entrance was the most convincing. He had chosen to be absent.

  “That was a rather splendid way to start the day
,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have some business to attend to.” He opened an inside pocket of his jacket, and Dodger fluttered to his shoulder. The teacher whispered something to the blue jay, and it swooped through the door and out of sight.

  “I wish you could tell us where Dodger keeps flying off to,” said Ren. “Does it have something to do with the Indian spark-maker beetle?”

  Mr. Bambuckle shook his head. “As difficult as secrets are, they are necessary for surprises, and this one will be best revealed at the right time. May I also remind you that Indian spark maker beetles are incredibly dangerous—not something to be messed with lightly.”

  “Father’s bagpipes are not to be messed with lightly either,” said Harold. “His playing is lethal!”

  While the class chuckled at Harold’s joke, Mr. Bambuckle handed out math textbooks—the thick, heavy type that was filled with thousands of problems. “Don’t open these yet,” he instructed.

  “What are we going to learn about?” asked Albert Smithers.

  Mr. Bambuckle surveyed the room. “Our learning today will be most important. I’ve planned a lesson that will teach you twice as much as usual.”

  Albert licked his lips in anticipation.

  Mr. Bambuckle walked around the room and checked that everyone was ready. “You may now open your books.”

  “They’re blank!” said Albert. “What kind of textbook is blank?”

  “One that you’re going to fill in,” said the teacher.

  “I don’t understand,” said Vinnie.

  “Children are too often expected to answer questions,” said Mr. Bambuckle. “Today, you are going to ask the questions instead. By writing questions—asking them—your brain will work in fast-forward, since you’ll need to know the answers too. Once you have filled a page with questions, swap books with a partner and answer the problems in their book.”

  “I want to partner with Victoria,” said Damon, hastily picking up his pencil.

  “I want to be left alone,” said Vex, yawning again. “I hate math.”

  “Then I shall partner with you,” said Mr. Bambuckle, recognizing a familiar tone creeping back into Vex’s voice.

  The long hours of hard work after school were bringing out more of Vex’s brashness. This, the teacher knew, could lead to the boy slipping back into his rebellious ways. He simply couldn’t allow it to happen. Not when Vex’s sacrifice was the reason behind his return to room 12B, and certainly not when he had so much work to do with him—and the other fourteen students, for that matter.

  An hour passed, and the students were steaming ahead with their math.

  “We really are learning twice as much,” said Albert, his face beaming. “Well, 215 percent to be exact.”

  “Why twice as much?” said Carrot, who was rather enjoying the lesson. “We’ve never had to learn twice as much before.”

  “Because,” said Mr. Bambuckle, “you won’t learn a thing tomorrow. Certainly not in this room anyway. Outside, though… Well, that is a different matter altogether.”

  “What do you mean?” said Sammy. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  Mr. Bambuckle clapped his hands together. “Dear Sammy, I am trusting you remember certain…computer skills I sent your way?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “Good!” said the teacher. “Because tomorrow, they’ll come in handy.”

  The students glanced at each other with nervous excitement. This could only mean one thing—something remarkable was about to happen.

  The Typo

  Sammy Bamford’s Story

  Dad yawns and rubs his eyes. “Have you finished with your plate?”

  I nod and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  “It’ll be early to bed for me tonight,” he says, yawning again.

  Dad’s yawn makes me yawn. Yawns are funny like that. Though I’m glad farting isn’t contagious, because he lets one rip.

  I pinch my nose. “That smells worse than your cooking!”

  Dad must be tired. He doesn’t even smile at my joke.

  “I had a bad day at work today,” he says. “I fell asleep at my desk.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  Dad works for the government. His job is to monitor and record any changes made to laws on the government computer system. The job is about as straightforward as kicking a goal from directly in front of the posts.

  He looks around the dining room, as if checking that nobody else is listening, which is weird because we’re the only ones who live here. “I made a mistake today, Sammy. A big one. Under no circumstance are you allowed to watch television tonight. Or listen to the radio. Or use the internet. Understood?”

  I let go of my nose. “But why?”

  “And don’t ask any questions,” says Dad. “In fact, it’s probably best that you go straight to bed too.”

  I’m confused by Dad’s behavior, but I let it go and head to my room for an early night.

  • • •

  I’m waiting at the bus stop like I do every morning. But something is different. I’m waiting alone. Usually, there are heaps of other kids standing around with me.

  I check my watch to make sure I’m not early. I’m not.

  A car swerves past. It’s traveling dangerously fast.

  A motor scooter whizzes by soon after, and the driver is having trouble reaching the handlebars. The scooter wobbles out of control before eventually crashing into some bushes farther down the road.

  The front door of the house opposite the bus stop slams shut. A little girl marches up to the car in the driveway. “I’m ready for my lesson now, Mom!”

  A lady—still dressed in her bathrobe—thunders down the driveway after her daughter. “Get back inside this instant! It’s time for school!”

  The girl crosses her arms. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore! I saw it on television!”

  Just as things are getting interesting, the bus rumbles around the corner. I pull out my bus pass and step up to the curb. The bus skids to an abrupt halt, and the doors fly open.

  I can’t believe it.

  Slugger is driving the bus!

  “What are you waiting for? Hop in,” he says.

  I step onto the bus and rub my eyes. It really is Slugger. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat with a coffee in one hand. He takes my pass with his other hand and quickly inspects it. “All right, on ya get, buddy. But keep it down. You kids need to remember I have to concentrate.”

  There are only a handful of other children on the bus.

  Too stunned to say anything, I sit down in front of a girl from one of the big schools in the city. She catches the bus every day, and we often talk about sports together. But today, something isn’t right.

  “Why are you dressed in a suit?” I ask.

  “Sorry, can’t chat now.” She picks up her phone. “Dermot, it’s me, Sasha. Sell the Triton Tech shares and invest in Canly Candy. Sell, sell, sell!”

  I scratch my head. Something strange is going on.

  The bus passes a construction site. A young boy is trying to control a jackhammer. He bounces around like he’s on some kind of hyperactive pogo stick. There is a girl driving a digger. She accidentally reverses it into a wall, sending bricks flying out the other side.

  What is happening?

  The bus jerks. Slugger mutters a word my dad says when his football team loses. To distract himself, he turns up the radio to one of those talk shows that only old people listen to. The host is talking about boring government stuff. Something about new rules. It’s the last thing I want to listen to, so I put my headphones on.

  Even with my ears covered, I can still hear Sasha yelling on her phone. “Buy, buy, buy!” She is telling someone else to invest in Canly Candy.

  The bus stops outside Blue Valley School, and I
stand up to leave. “Aren’t you coming to school, Slugger?”

  “Nah, kid. No time for that. I’ve got six more runs to do today. Cool, huh!” He waves me off the bus and closes the doors.

  Blue Valley School is like a ghost town. Apart from the teachers, who are scrambling around in confusion, I can’t see anyone. Where are all the other students?

  Then I notice Mr. Bambuckle waving at me from our classroom window. Boy, am I glad to see him. I run over to the room like it’s the Olympic one-hundred-meter sprint final.

  • • •

  I’m sitting at my desk. Mr. Bambuckle is riding his unicycle around the empty room. He’s cooking an egg and two strips of bacon in his frying pan and singing the Mongolian welcome song.

  I look around, confused. I’m the only student here.

  Mr. Bambuckle stops singing and flips the bacon. He balances perfectly on his unicycle. “Well, dear Sammy, I suppose you’re wondering where everyone is.”

  I nod. “What’s going on?”

  Mr. Bambuckle pauses. “Sometimes, those closest to the problem end up being the furthest from it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dear Sammy, did your father allow you access to any media last night? Internet? Television?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Bambuckle looks thoughtful. “Just as I suspected. It seems the good man is protecting you from what he feels may be…embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “Personally, I don’t think it’s embarrassing at all. I think you’re missing out on some jolly good fun! But that’s just my opinion.”

  “Please, Mr. Bambuckle,” I say. “What’s happening?”

  Mr. Bambuckle, as only Mr. Bambuckle can, sees the urgency in my eyes. He steps off his unicycle and clicks his fingers. The unicycle wheels around the room and brushes against the class television before steering itself into the corner.