Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 11
I didn’t want to say anything, but I could kind of feel it in my bones, too. Something was weird about the way the sub had acted. Like he owned the place. Like he was in charge forever. Like we were going to have to memorize dates and take tests and read things from photocopied packets.
I wasn’t the biggest fan of Pennybaker’s uniqueness. I wasn’t the biggest fan of scary head statues or a principal who pantomimed, and I definitely wasn’t the biggest fan of costumes. But I had become Mr. Faboo’s fan, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it was true that he was gone forever.
We walked into the vestibule, and the first thing I saw was Miss Munch, hands on hips, beaming as she admired Chip’s polishing job.
I let my backpack drop to the floor and marched over.
“Oh, hello, Thomas,” Chip said. “I was just showing Miss Munch the new polishing paste I’ve concocted for the esteemed artwork in our fine school. Here, want a taste?” He held up a plastic bowl full of mucky white gunk. I jumped back.
“Gross! No.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. He leaned over and took a lick, then smacked his lips. “It’s simply flour, salt, and vinegar. Nothing that can harm you. Some say that vinegar has been around since as far back as five thousand BC. Can you imagine? They even used it to clean wounds. Do you have any wounds, Thomas? I’m certain I’ll have some paste left over.”
“That’s my statue,” I said, crossing my arms. I knew I looked like a baby standing there, but I couldn’t help it. I was the Helen Heirmauser Head Hero. I was the one who got to polish her every day. Sure, I forgot to do it a lot. And, sure, I complained a super lot. But still.
“Now, Thomas,” Miss Munch said, placing her hand on my back, “Chip is only trying to help. Look how wonderfully his paste is working. Why, I haven’t seen Helen’s forehead shine so much since the heat wave of 1992.”
“But that’s my job. I’m the one who gets to shine her forehead.” I couldn’t believe those words had just come out of my mouth.
“Oh, here, Thomas. You can shine her tomorrow. I don’t mind.” Chip held out the rag he was using. It stunk like Easter eggs. He leaned in and whispered, “I’ve nibbled it only a little.”
I held the rag between my thumb and forefinger, totally grossed out. “Thanks, I …” I leaned in closer. “I …” I leaned in closer still. “Hey! What happened to my name?”
He tapped his chin. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that for some time now, so I’m glad you brought it up. Thomas, of course, means ‘twin.’ That’s easy. But Fallgrout is a bit of an enigma. It’s not really Faulkner, which would have Scottish origins meaning Falconer, as in one who trains predatory birds. But it’s not really Fa—”
“No, I mean my name on the statue.” I pointed to the slightly lighter spot where a nameplate had been, bearing my name as the hero and rescuer of the Heirmauser memory. “You polished my name off!”
Chip leaned in closely and examined the bare spot over the top of his glasses. “Huh,” he said. “I didn’t notice. It must have fallen.” He glanced around the floor, looking for it. “Maybe Mr. Crumbs swept it up. I’m sorry, Thomas. It was an accident.”
I poked my finger into his chest. “It was not. You did it on purpose. Just like you stole my job on purpose, and started teaching dance on purpose, and—”
The bell rang, and everyone started scurrying toward their classrooms. Including Chip.
“I wasn’t finished yelling at you,” I called after him.
He turned, came back to me, smiled, and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Thomas. You’ll have lots of yelling-at-me time later. Maybe at tomorrow morning’s dance practice? Everyone will be there.”
He walked briskly into the crowd and was soon swept away.
“Never!” I called toward his back, my stomach clenching at the word “dance” again. Wesley, Flea, and Owen wandered by. “Hey, you guys aren’t going to do that stupid dancing thing in the morning, are you?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“Well, uh …” Flea said, looking over his shoulder.
“We were,” Owen said. “You should, too, Thomas. It’s not so bad.”
Just like pantyhose weren’t so bad and bow ties weren’t so bad and penny loafers with shiny pennies in the toes to look cute weren’t so bad. All those things were bad! I would bet that Mom would call the dance a Ballroom Dance Adventure. And you knew that when Mom put the word “adventure” after something, it was bad.
They started to walk away. I caught Wesley by the sleeve.
“Dude,” I said, trying to convey the rest of the sentence with my eyebrows.
Eyebrow Conversation 101
The single raised eyebrow: What are you doing, dude?
The double raised eyebrow: I can’t believe you did that, dude.
The double raised eyebrow with head tilted to one side: You better be with me on this, dude.
The frowning eyebrows: Fine, have it your way, dude.
I went through all the eyebrow configurations with Wesley. He responded with his own addition:
The raised and bunched-together eyebrows: Sorry, dude.
Wesley drifted away with the others, and I was left alone in the vestibule, staring at the faded spot where my name used to be.
Mr. Smith was writing a bunch of packet page numbers on Mr. Faboo’s vintage blackboard when I got to class that afternoon. Mr. Faboo always used a piece of chalk with a quill taped to one end to write on the blackboard, but Mr. Smith was using a plain old piece of chalk. The quill