The Center of Everything - By Laura Moriarty Page 0,89
leaves the faucet on so he can hold his hand underneath the rushing water, and he makes the pterodactyl sound, his eyes rolling back in his head. I have to yell so she can hear me.
“I don’t know, Evelyn,” she says, massaging his scalp with a washcloth, her hand over his eyes. “I can’t go calling the school every time you don’t get an A.” She is wearing the red glitter hat, and Samuel stares up at it, open-mouthed. His blue eyes look even larger with his hair slicked back and wet.
“Traci’s mom is calling.”
“Well then,” she says, reaching for a towel, her mouth curved in a half smile. “I’m sure that’s all you’ll need.”
But it isn’t true. Mr. Sellers is more difficult to get rid of than Stella the bus driver. The principal, Dr. Queen, is on his side.
I kind of like Dr. Queen, though I do not tell anyone this, ever. It is not okay to like the principal of the school. I have never really spoken with her, because you have to talk to her only if you get in trouble. But I like that she is principal and everyone is a little scared of her. And I like that she has a name like Dr. Queen. I would love to have a name like that.
Dr. Queen has black hair with a tight permanent wave and a gray streak right down the middle, and it does not look like she has her hair cut so much as clipped, the way you would clip a hedge. It goes out at least four inches in every direction above her ears, and sometimes people call her Frankenstein’s Bride, but never to her face. She wears business suits with big shoulder pads, and she carries a briefcase to work in the morning. For a long time, I wanted to be a principal, just because of her, but one day I saw her in the teachers’ lounge with Mrs. Evans, and before they shut the door, I saw Dr. Queen fall down on the couch with her hands over her head and say, “Claire, I hate my job. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”
Traci said that when her mother called to complain about Mr. Sellers, Dr. Queen told her that he was a respected educator, that he had gotten his degree in mathematics at Duke, that he was in his thirty-fifth year of teaching, almost ready to retire.
“She wants to compromise,” Traci told us, rolling her eyes. “Principals are total politicians.”
But Mrs. Carmichael showed up at Dr. Queen’s office the next day, unannounced, on the way home from a tennis game, and escorted Dr. Queen down to our classroom so they could watch Mr. Sellers teach.
“Just watching!” Mrs. Carmichael said, waving at him from the back of the room, her car keys jangling in her hand. She was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, carrying a tennis racket. Traci turned around, and her mother pointed the handle of the racket at her and winked.
By the end of the week, we had a new teacher.
The new teacher, Mr. Goldman, is shorter than Dr. Queen, not even including her hair. He is young enough to be Mr. Sellers’s son, or even grandson, and he has dark eyes and dark hair, cut short on the sides but longer in front. He wears a crisp, ironed gray shirt and a matching gray and green tie. None of the other male teachers match like this.
“Class,” Dr. Queen says. “Class.” She does not have to clap her hands to get our attention because just her voice is like hands clapping. “Mr. Goldman will be in this room for the rest of the year. He’s going to be helping…learning from Mr. Sellers. He’s from New York City.” She pauses, eyebrows raised, letting this information sink in. “Right, Mr. Goldman?”
“That’s right,” the new teacher says, his words coming out quick, cut off at the end. He stands beside her, smiling at us. “And now here I am.” His thick eyebrows form almost a straight line just above his eyes. He doesn’t look or sound like anyone I know.
Dr. Queen turns to the chalkboard to write Mr. Goldman’s name on the board for us, and Libby Masterson holds up a piece of paper for Traci to see: MAJOR BABE.
“Do you have a question, Libby?” Dr. Queen asks, turning back around. She has an eye like a sparrow, Dr. Queen. Mr. Sellers is already looking at the chalkboard longingly, his