Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 12
Wesley, Flea, Owen, and Chip were already seated. I was still kind of irritated about the dance lessons, so I tried to act like I didn’t notice and instead sat in the front row, making Tabitha Rattlebag pause when she came into the room. Tabitha Rattlebag earned the top score in all her classes, and always had, ever since the day she was born. She probably cried the best in the hospital nursery. Tabitha Rattlebag always sat front and center.
Tabitha Rattlebag was just going to have to deal with it.
She harrumphed and sat behind me.
“Homework,” Mr. Smith announced, putting down the chalk and brushing off his hands.
There was silence in the room, and then Clara spoke up. “You mean we’re supposed to just, like, read it?”
Mr. Smith nodded.
“We’re not supposed to make a rap song out of it?” Patrice Pillow asked.
“No; why would I have you do that?”
“A poem, maybe?” Samara Lee interjected. “Or a one-act play?”
“No, just read it and be ready for a quiz tomorrow.”
“A quiz?” Buckley was incredulous.
“Yes. Ten points is all. Just over tonight’s reading.”
“A quiz,” Buckley said again.
“Yes, Mr. Manor, a quiz.” Mr. Smith was getting irritated. Again.
“It’s just that we’ve never taken a quiz in this class before,” Clara said.
“Or a test,” Tabitha added sourly. “In my opinion, it’s about time.”
Mr. Smith was taken aback. “No quizzes? How does Mr. Faboo know whether you understand the lessons?”
“Role-play, mostly,” I said. “Sometimes with costumes.”
“Costumes are silly and a distraction,” Mr. Smith said again. “We’ll have no more of that in this class. From here on out, we read the material, discuss it in class—in an appropriate manner—and take tests to make sure everyone understands. Now, open your packets to the final page.”
There was a lot of unhappy mumbling as people tugged their packets out of their backpacks—the ones who hadn’t used theirs to make paper airplanes or save a trapped bug or play trash-can basketball, that is.
I felt a poke in my back. Wesley was giving me an eyebrow look.
Eyebrows lifted and lips pooched together: You still think Mr. Faboo might come back, dude?
“Come on, Mr. Fallgrout, the class is waiting.”
I opened my packet and spread it out on my desk.
Mr. Faboo was going to come back, even if I had to find him and haul him back to Pennybaker myself.
I waited outside the office bathroom for Principal Rooster. He came through the door, humming the Pennybaker alma mater, and almost ran into me. He jumped back. “Oh! Thomas. You startled me. You know students aren’t allowed to use the office bathroom, right?”
“I need to talk to Mr. Faboo,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s about … It’s about my costume. I’m not sure if Philadelphus Philadelphia would have worn white stockings or another color. Maybe blue. Or red. His name sounds pretty patriotic. I can buy another color. I like shopping for pantyhose.” Sometimes, when my brain accidentally lets my mouth off its leash, my mouth hops over the fence and runs all around the neighborhood before I can catch it. I blushed. “I mean, I want to make sure I get an A on the Act After the Fact assignment, so I just need to make sure my panty—leggings are right. That’s all.” I flicked some imaginary lint off my shirt, trying to look bored.
Principal Rooster squinted at me. “I thought Mr. Smith canceled Act After the Fact.”
“Yeah, but Mr. Faboo will probably want to do it when he gets back. This gives me lots of time to shop.” Seriously, mouth. Get back on the leash.
“Son.” Principal Rooster placed his hand on my shoulder. When guys like Principal Rooster start looking deep into your eyes and calling you “son,” you know it’s bad news. “I think you can just let Act After the Fact go. Mr. Smith is going to be around for a while.”
I swallowed. “For how long?”
“For …” He searched the ceiling as if trying to recall a specific date, then locked his eyes on mine again. “Ever.”
Nope. I refused to accept that we would have quizzes and reading packets forever. No wigs, no quill chalk, no live chickens? Just plain old history? That sounded terrible.
The warning bell rang. “You should probably get to class now,” Principal Rooster said. “You’re going to be tardy.”
I felt my whole body slump as I trudged away from his office. But then I had an idea. I sauntered over to Miss Munch’s desk and went back to flicking imaginary lint. “So, I’m supposed to get Mr. Faboo’s phone number from you,” I said.
“Huh?”
I rolled my eyes dramatically and flapped my hand in Principal Rooster’s direction. “Principal Rooster wants me to call him about something.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“I already have it somewhere,” I tried. “It would just be a lot easier on me if I didn’t have to search for it.” I fake yawned.
“Not happening,” she said.
“I mean, I know it has a five in it.” A bluff, but chances were pretty high that I was right—especially since everyone in town had a phone number that started with 815.
“Go to class, Thomas,” Miss Munch said, going back to her paperwork.
“Fine,” I mumbled, and turned to go.
“And, Thomas?”
I turned back to her hopefully.
“He’s not coming back. So you should probably give up trying to find him.”
I frowned. Give up? No way.
I was just getting started.
Chip didn’t show up right away after school let out. I tried to get Mom to leave without him, but she swore she could see him kneeling in front of the Heirmauser statue with all the other students, and figured he would be right out.
“You really should spend more time doing that,” she said to me as we watched through the car window.
“Why?”
“Because … people liked her.”
“I didn’t even know her. And she doesn’t really look like