Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 15

We filed in and took our seats just as the bell rang. Mr. Smith stood, smoothed out his suit jacket, and went to the blackboard. “Essay Topics,” he wrote in really big letters across the top of the board.

“What’s an essay?” Colton asked.

Mr. Smith turned and stared at him. “It’s a paper. You know, the kind you write in English class.”

“English class?” I heard someone whisper, and then someone else responded, “It’s what they used to call Lexiconical Arts in the olden days.”

“We’ve never written an essay,” Patrice Pillow said. “Mrs. Codex has us write poems or limericks or screenplays or novels. You know, the usual stuff.”

“That is not the usual— Never mind,” Mr. Smith said. “An essay is a paper discussing a particular topic. In this case, your essay is going to be an informative piece about the character you’ve chosen for History Month.”

“What’s History Month?” Buckley asked.

“It’s Act After the Fact Month,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re having us write an essay and then act it out? Brilliant!” Wesley exclaimed. “I haven’t really had the chance to do a nonfiction reading.”

“No, no, you’re going to write a biographical piece about your character,” Mr. Smith said. “Like what’s in your textbooks.”

We all turned and looked at the bookshelf that held our textbooks. The shelf was thick with dust, and the white spines on the books were yellowing. There was a spiderweb stretching across half of them.

“We’ve never read them,” Flea said.

“Yeah, Mr. Faboo says they’re way more boring than history. Those books won’t tell you that Napoleon once got attacked by rabbits. Or that there was a baboon named Jackie who was promoted to corporal in World War I.”

“Or about the ghost ship,” Patrice Pillow said.

“The SS Ourang Medan,” Owen added. “The ship that sent out a desperate SOS, and then when everyone got there …”

Wesley made a noise and flopped his head to one side, his tongue hanging out. Very realistic. His acting classes were really paying off.

Samara Lee squeaked and slapped her hands over her eyes.

“No, no, no,” Mr. Smith said. “We’re not studying ghost ships or rabbits or army baboons. We’re studying real history. No … nonsense.”

We all gasped. Mr. Faboo would have never called those things nonsense.

“But that is real history,” Flea said.

“It’s not the kind of history we learn in this class,” Mr. Smith argued, and again we all gasped.

“Technically,” Chip said, “history—and one would assume this denotes what you call ‘real history’—is defined as the study of events, particularly in human affairs.”

“Exactly!” I said. “And what could be more human than ghosts, rabbits, and baboons?”

“Actual humans?” Wesley said.

“You know what I mean,” I muttered.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Smith said, rocking back on his heels. He scratched one eyebrow. “Since you seem to enjoy definitions so much, Mr. Mason, I’m going to assign you an extra little project for History Month. Let’s say you write a paper, five pages, detailing the American Revolution, starting with the first shot at Lexington and going all the way through until you reach Cornwallis at Yorktown.” He bent over at the waist so he was looking Chip in the eye. “And don’t forget to include lots of definitions.”

“But that’s not fair,” I said.

“Okay, Mr. Fallgrout,” Mr. Smith said. “Since you seem so interested in fairness, I’ll be expecting the same paper from you.”

“What? You can’t—”

“Due next Friday.”

“But—”

“Now, everyone go grab a textbook and turn to page fifty-three. We’ll begin there, and then we’ll discuss these essays.”

We shuffled toward the dusty, spiderwebby shelf, all looking at one another as if something horrible had just happened. And, in a way, it had.

“When Mr. Faboo finds out about this, he isn’t going to like it one bit,” Wesley whispered as we bent to pick up our books.

But then Flea whispered what we were all thinking but were afraid to say. “Let’s just face it—Mr. Faboo really isn’t coming back.”

Thirty minutes later, the bell rang, and we all bolted, many of us leaving our textbooks on our desks, the pages fluttering in our wakes. I had no idea what page I was even on. I’d spent most of my class time thinking—about the essays, about the extra assignment that Chip and I now had to do.

About revolutions.

That was it. We were thinking too small. Finding Mr. Faboo was a big job, and if we intended to get it done, we needed to all-out revolt.

“Can you believe he did that to us?” I railed, catching up with Chip in the hallway. “So not fair.”

“Agreed. Mr. Faboo would have never assigned such a paper,” Chip said. “He would have known that you can’t sum up eight years of bloody battle in just five pages. Eight years of fighting against oppression, of yearning for freedom. Of refusing to bow to the crown. The American spirit! The foundation of our democracy! The very insurrection that this country was built upon! In five pages? I’ll need at least twenty.”

“Chip. Focus,” I said, grabbing his arm and turning him to face me. “We’re not writing those papers.”

“We’ve been assigned,” he said, confused. “He didn’t mention it being optional.”

“We’re not doing it, because we’re going to have our own revolution.”

“We are?”

I nodded, putting my arm around him and walking toward the door. “We’re going to fight against our own oppressor. We’re going to fight against Mr. Smith.”

“But how? I’m afraid I don’t even own a pair of revolution socks.”

I stopped and turned him to face me again. “We’re going to find Mr. Faboo and get him back.”

“Hey, Thomas! Thomas!” Chip was hurrying to catch up with me after the next class. “Look what I found.” He held out a postcard. “A clue!”

I took it from him and studied it. “Boone County History-Lovers Society? Where did you find it?”

“In Mr. Faboo’s desk drawer,” he said proudly. “I clandestinely snuck in and snatched it when Mr. Smith went to the restroom.” He beamed.

“You stole it?”

“I found it.” His face clouded