Wayside School Beneath the Cloud of Doom (Wayside School #4) - Louis Sachar Page 0,24
Fingernail
Like moths, the children went to the light.
“Welcome, welcome, glad you’re here, come in,” the woman said as they filed past and joined the other kids in her class
“I’m sorry I don’t have enough desks, but we’ll make do. Please find a place on the floor for now.”
The children did as they were told. They felt safe, even if a bit uncomfortable. They could no longer feel the school shake, or hear the kachooga boops.
“Miss Zarves,” said Mrs. Jewls. “It’s so good to see you! How long has it been?”
“Feels like forever,” said Miss Zarves.
“I never bump into you in the teachers’ lounge,” said Mrs. Jewls. “We must just keep missing each other.”
“I try not to bump into people,” said Miss Zarves.
Miss Zarves was tall and thin. Her skirt and blouse were neat and trim. Her short hair looked shiny and silky, and smelled like strawberry shampoo. Everything about her was neat and orderly, except for that one fingernail.
“And how’s Mavis?” asked Miss Zarves.
Mavis was Mrs. Jewls’s daughter.
“Adorable,” said Mrs. Jewls. “But they grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Miss Zarves.
“You don’t look like you’ve aged a day,” said Mrs. Jewls.
“Very nice of you to say,” said Miss Zarves.
Mrs. Jewls wasn’t just being nice. Miss Zarves hadn’t changed one bit—except for her fingernail, of course, which had grown considerably longer.
Calvin walked between the two teachers. “Excuse me, Miss Zarves,” he said. “I think I’m supposed to give you this.”
He handed Miss Zarves a folded piece of paper that was so old, it tore as Miss Zarves unfolded it. She strained to read the faded writing.
“Oh, okay,” she said to Mrs. Jewls, then dropped the note in the trash.
“Is that the note I gave you to give Miss Zarves?” Mrs. Jewls asked Calvin.
Calvin shrugged. “I just found it in my pocket,” he said, sounding even more surprised than Mrs. Jewls.
Mrs. Jewls stared at him. “You told me you gave it to her,” she accused.
“I don’t think I ever said that,” said Calvin.
Mrs. Jewls continued to stare as he returned to his seat on the floor.
“We were just about to have our history review,” said Miss Zarves. “Who’s your best history student?”
“Myron,” Mrs. Jewls answered, without hesitation.
Myron had gotten the highest score on the history portion of the Ultimate Test.
“Myron, stand up, please,” said Miss Zarves.
He stood.
“What kind of shoes did Mary Bopkins like to wear?” Miss Zarves asked him.
“Who?” asked Myron.
The kids from Miss Zarves’s class giggled.
“No laughing,” said Miss Zarves. “We don’t laugh at stupid people. Don’t feel bad, Myron. You may be stupid now, but once you’ve been in my class for a few years, you’ll know the history of everybody. Mark, would you please tell Myron the answer.”
“A few years?” Myron asked, but Miss Zarves ignored the question.
Mark Miller stood up. “Which Mary Bopkins do you mean?” he asked. “The one born in 1801 in Boston, or the one born in 1954 in San Francisco?”
“Boston,” said Miss Zarves.
“Red boots,” said Mark.
“Excellent,” said Miss Zarves.
“Who’s Mary Bopkins?” asked Mrs. Jewls. “Was she famous?”
“Why?” asked Miss Zarves. “Does your class only study famous people? Do you think famous people are more important than people who aren’t famous?”
“But there isn’t enough time to study everyone,” said Mrs. Jewls.
“We don’t play favorites in my class,” said Miss Zarves.
She went to the back closet and took out several giant stacks of papers. “This is everyone born in 1837.” She went around the room, handing each student a stack of a hundred pages or more. “When you finish studying a page, please pass it on to someone else.”
Myron stared helplessly at his stack. “I can’t even read this,” he complained. “I think it’s Chinese.”
“Well, yes, a lot of people were born in China,” said Miss Zarves.
She handed Myron a Chinese dictionary and said, “You’ll need this.”
It is impossible to say how long Myron sat there, fumbling through the dictionary as the kids around him were passing around their sheets of paper.
He might have been there an hour. Or a day. Or a week.
Time passes slowly when you’re trying to read a Chinese dictionary.
Even if you’re Chinese.
He glanced up and spotted a pair of scissors on Mark Miller’s desk. He got an idea.
“Hey, Mark, can I borrow those for a sec?” Myron asked.
“Sure,” said Mark.
Myron took the scissors, then walked bravely to the front of the room.
He didn’t know if his plan would work. In fact, it really didn’t make any sense, but it was his only h-o-p-e.
“Excuse me, Miss Zarves. I