The Wednesday Wars Read online

  Miss Violet tapped the baton again, and we started to sing.

  "Yes, we're all dodging, dodging, dodging, dodging,

  Yes, we're all dodging a way through the world."

  I tried not to show anything when Meryl Lee put her foot on top of mine and pushed down as hard as she could, which, let me tell you, teaches you something about a world of woe, and dodging, too.

  The next hour was Gym, where we ran laps around the track along with the eighth-grade class, who all smelled smoky—especially Doug Swieteck's brother.

  "Hoodhood," called Coach Quatrini, "you call that running?"

  The quality of mercy doesn't drop much from Gym teachers.

  The reason I wasn't running well was because Meryl Lee had kept pushing down on my foot for all of "Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad" and almost all of "Worried Man Blues," and if it's possible for there to be internal bleeding in a foot, then that's what mine was doing.

  "Pied ninny," I said, not loud enough for Coach Quatrini to hear me.

  But loud enough for Doug Swieteck's brother, who was running just behind me, to hear.

  "What does that mean?" he said, coming up beside me.

  "What?"

  He slowed down to match my limp. " 'Pied ninny.' What does that mean?"

  "Uh..."

  "C'mon," said Doug Swieteck's brother.

  "It means ... uh..."

  "You don't know."

  "It means someone who's so stupid that he's eaten all these pies and gotten really sick—sick like he's going to throw up all over himself. That sick."

  It was the best I could do while limping along with internal bleeding.

  "That's it?" he said.

  "That's it," I said.

  "Thanks," he said, and ran ahead, the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

  That afternoon, after everyone had left for Temple Beth-El or Saint Adelbert's, Mrs. Baker handed me a 150-question test on The Tempest. One hundred and fifty questions! Let me tell you, Shakespeare himself couldn't have answered half of these questions.

  "Show me what you've read and understood," said Mrs. Baker.

  I sat down at my desk and picked up my pencil.

  "And Mr. Hoodhood," she said, "there isn't a single question there about Caliban's curses—presuming, as I do, that you have mastered those already."

  That's the Teacher Gene at work, giving its bearer an extra sense. It's a little frightening. Maybe that's how people decide to become teachers. They have that extra sense, and once they have it, and know that they have it, they don't have any choice except to become a teacher.

  I got down to work. Overhead, the scurrying sounds of Caliban and Sycorax across the asbestos tiles accompanied the scratching of my pencil.

  I handed the test in five minutes before the end of the day. Mrs. Baker took it calmly, then reached into her bottom drawer for an enormous red pen with a wide felt tip. "Stand here and we'll see how you've done," she said, which is sort of like a dentist handing you a mirror and saying, "Sit here and watch while I drill a hole in your tooth." The first four were wrong, and she slashed through my answers with a broad swathe of bright red ink. It looked like my test was bleeding to death.

  "Not such a good beginning," she said.

  "The quality of mercy is not strained," I said.

  She looked up at me and almost smiled a real smile. Not a teacher smile. Think of it! Mrs. Baker almost smiling a real smile.

  "Nothing so much as a pound of flesh is at stake."

  You could have fooled me.

  Maybe it was mercy, or maybe I just needed to get into the rhythm of the thing, but after the first four wrong, the rest went pretty well, and the gushing blood slowed to a trickle, and then, for the last thirty questions in a row, a complete stop.

  "You've coagulated, Mr. Hoodhood," Mrs. Baker said, which I think is a Caliban curse that I missed. "For next week, we'll review what you missed. And read The Tempest again."

  "Read The Tempest again?" I said. I mean, you can understand reading Treasure Island four times, but no matter how good a Shakespeare play is, no one reads it twice.

  "You'll find that there is a lot more to The Tempest than a list of colorful curses."

  "Read The Tempest again?" I said.

  "Repetition is not always a rhetorical virtue," said Mrs. Baker. "Yes, read it again. From the start."

  So.

  It had turned out to be an all-right Wednesday afternoon after all. Except for the internal bleeding. And except for the 150-question test. And except for having to read The Tempest again. From the start.

  But as I limped on home, I figured that if I read an act that night, and another on Thursday, and Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, I could have it all finished pretty painlessly. And each one would probably go a lot quicker, since I had already read them all once.

  Life got brighter, and somehow, the world suddenly got brighter, too. You know how this is? You're walking along, and then the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the birds start to sing, and the air is suddenly warm, and it's like the whole world is happy because you're happy.

  It's a great feeling.

  But never trust it. Especially in November on Long Island.

  Because as I limped past Goldman's Best Bakery, the front window was filled with cream puffs. Brown, light, perfect cream puffs. And I remembered the death threats hanging over me like Shylock's knife hanging over Antonio's chest.

  I decided that to be safe I'd better get the cream puffs—even if it meant asking for an advance on my allowance.

  Which I had about as much chance of getting as Shylock had of getting his ducats back.

  Still, I thought I might have a little chance when Dad got home that evening and let out the great news: Hoodhood and Associates had won the Baker Sporting Emporium contract! They were going to design a new main store and redesign every single one of the chain stores—and there were plenty of them, one in almost every town on Long Island. He grabbed my mother and twirled her around, and they danced beneath the newly plastered ceiling of the living room. Can you believe it? They went into the Perfect Living Room! Then they danced through the kitchen, back into the Perfect Living Room, out onto the front stoop, down the stairs, and past the embarrassed azaleas.

  Let me tell you, when Presbyterians start to dance on the front stoop, you know that something big has happened.

  "We got the contract, we got the contract, we got the contract, we got the contract," my father sang. It sounded like he was waiting for a full string orchestra to come in, something out of The Sound of Music.

  When he swept back inside, pirouetting my mother, it seemed the perfect moment to ask.

  "Dad, could I have an advance on my allowance next week?"

  "We got the contract, we got the contract, not on your sweet life, we got the contract."

  That night, I dreamed that Caliban sat at the foot of my bed, looking a lot like Danny Hupfer and telling me how I was going to end up all scurvy and blistered if I didn't get the cream puffs next week—the end of the three weeks I had promised. "Beware, beware," he said, and I decided I should.

  So on Friday, I went to Goldman's Best Bakery and put two dollars and forty-five cents on the counter—all the money I had in the world.

  "Two dollars and forty-five cents can buy a great deal," said Mr. Goldman. "So what is it you want to buy?"

  "Twenty-two cream puffs," I said.

  Mr. Goldman added up twenty-two cream puffs in his head.

  "For that you need two more dollars and eighty cents."

  "I need the cream puffs by next week."

  "You still need two more dollars and eighty cents."

  "I can work. I can wash dishes and stuff?."

  "I should need you to wash dishes? I have two good hands. They can wash dishes, too—and I don't have to pay them."

  "I could sweep and clean up."

  Mr. Goldman held up his two good hands.

  I sighed. "You don't need anything done around her
e?"

  "What I should really need," he said, "is a boy who knows Shakespeare. But is there a boy who knows Shakespeare these days? No. Not one. You would think that they should teach Shakespeare in school. But do they? No."

  Okay, I'm not kidding here. Mr. Goldman really said that: "What I should really need is a boy who knows Shakespeare." Those words came right out of his mouth.

  "I know Shakespeare," I said.

  "Sure you do," Mr. Goldman said. "You still need two more dollars and eighty cents."

  "I do."

  Mr. Goldman put his hands on his hips. "Show me some Shakespeare, then."

  I went back to The Tempest, and not just the Caliban curses, either—which is all that Mrs. Baker thought I knew. I spread my arms out wide.

  Now does my project gather to a head.

  My charms crack not, my spirits obey, and Time

  Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day?

  Mr. Goldman clapped his hands—really!—and then he leaped upon a stool behind the counter—and Mr. Goldman is not someone whose size encourages leaping. He clapped his hands again above his head, and a fine, light flouring flew into the air—sort of like chalk dust—and a haze shimmered about his face. His voice changed, and when he spoke, it was as though he was chanting a high and faraway music.

  On the sixth hour, at which time, my lord,

  You said our work should cease.

  I spread my arms out even wider, and tried to imagine long robes with sleeves that flowed down along the arms of Prospero.

  I did say so

  When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,

  How fares the king and's followers?

  The "and 's" is not easy to say, but it came off pretty well, with about as much spit as "beetles."

  Mr. Goldman clapped his hands again, and another shimmering of flour fell.

  Confined together

  In the same fashion as you gave in charge,

  Just as you left them.

  Mr. Goldman climbed down from the stool and held out his still floury hand. His smile pushed his cheeks into round lumps.

  And that was how I got to be part of the Long Island Shakespeare Company's Holiday Extravaganza, which was opening next month.

  And how I got twenty-two cream puffs for two dollars and eighty cents less than I should have—plus two more free, since they come cheaper by the dozen.

  And it was a good thing.

  When Monday came and I walked into the classroom carrying a long box of cream puffs, it was pretty clear that Danny Hupfer and Meryl Lee and Doug Swieteck and Mai Thi would have been at me with daggers, looking for a pound of flesh, if I had failed them. I set the box on the shelf by the window and opened it up. Twenty-four cream puffs—brown, light, perfect cream puffs—waiting to be eaten after lunch.

  Mrs. Baker didn't say anything. But all through English for You and Me, the buttery vanilla smell of the cream puffs wafted around the room with the circulating air, and even Mrs. Baker couldn't help but look at them. I saw her nostrils grow wide. Danny Hupfer kept turning around and grinning at me. Meryl Lee pretended like she didn't care much, but she's a terrible liar.

  If lunchtime hadn't come when it did, we might have all gone wild. Even Mrs. Baker. But finally, finally, finally the school clock clicked to noon, and we crammed our sandwiches down our throats, and then Danny Hupfer stood up and approached the brown, light, perfect cream puffs sort of reverently.

  "Not just yet, Mr. Hupfer," said Mrs. Baker.

  Danny Hupfer looked at her like he'd just missed an easy goal.

  Meryl Lee looked at me like it was my fault.

  "If you are going to eat cream puffs," said Mrs. Baker, "you are going to do it on your own time. Go out for lunch recess and come back a few minutes early. Then you may gorge yourselves as you please."

  "I bet she's going to take three for herself," whispered Doug Swieteck.

  "No, Mr. Swieteck, she is not going to take three for herself," said Mrs. Baker. "She is going to Saint Adelbert's quickly to light a candle, and she will be back in time for your gorging. Now, out, all of you."

  We went out.

  It was, of course, a cold November day on Long Island, and everything was, of course, gray—the sky, the air, the grass, the drizzle misting down. Gray everywhere. We stood around in huddled groups, a little bit damp, and still hungry because we'd eaten so fast and there were twenty-four cream puffs waiting for everyone back in the classroom. Twenty-four brown, light, perfect cream puffs.

  "They better be good," said Meryl Lee.

  "They'll be good," I said.

  "They better be really good," said Danny Hupfer.

  "They'll be really good," I said.

  When there were only seven minutes left in recess, Danny Hupfer declared that we had served our time, and even if Mrs. Baker hadn't come back yet, we deserved our cream puffs. So like an unstoppable mob, like a tidal wave, like an avalanche, we rushed into Camillo Junior High, up two flights of stairs, and to the doorway of our classroom.

  And stopped.

  On the shelf, the long box of cream puffs lay ripped apart, and in the middle of the buttery, brown, light, perfect cream puffs stood Sycorax and Caliban, up on their hind legs, their paws holding shreds of crust to their mouths. Their faces were covered with yellow vanilla filling and powdered sugar. Their naked tails were thick with it. Their scabby skin was slathered with it.

  Then Mrs. Baker came behind us and peered in. The rats opened their snouts and clacked their yellow teeth at her.

  And Mrs. Baker screamed, "Strange stuff, the dropsy drown you! The red plague rid you, thrice double-ass!"

  That last one I knew about, but I wasn't going to tell you I knew it, because of what you'd think of me.

  Sycorax and Caliban understood the meaning of all those, I guess. They scurried out of the box, skidding in the vanilla cream, and leaped into the radiators. We heard them climb up inside the walls, then scamper across the asbestos tiles.

  There was a long and absolute silence.

  Then Meryl Lee turned to me. "You still owe us cream puffs," she said.

  "Ten day," said Mai Thi.

  "Ten days!" I said.

  "We gave you three weeks already," said Danny Hupfer. "Now you have ten days."

  "Ten days!" I said.

  "Here is another situation where repetition is not a rhetorical virtue. Clean up the mess, Mr. Hoodhood," said Mrs. Baker.

  And I did.

  But I wasn't happy.

  Usually, the last week before Thanksgiving was pretty easy. Everyone is thinking about two days off from school, grandparents coming for dinner, the Syosset-Farmingdale football rivalry, and all that.

  But it wasn't an easy week this year. Not for me.

  It was a long week.

  First, it somehow became my fault that Sycorax and Caliban ate the cream puffs. I think this was because of Meryl Lee. For three days, things were whispered about me that I hope I never have to hear.

  Then second, on Wednesday afternoon, when I went to get the script for the Long Island Shakespeare Company's Holiday Extravaganza from Mr. Goldman, I found out that I was going to play Ariel from The Tempest. Ariel is a fairy. A fairy! Let me tell you, it is not a good thing for a boy from Camillo Junior High to play a fairy. Especially a boy who has been singing soprano for Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels.

  "I don't think I can play Ariel," I told Mr. Goldman.

  "Here's your costume," he said, and handed me a pair of bright yellow tights with white feathers on the ... well, I'll let you guess what part the white feathers were attached to.

  Third, now that I needed another set of cream puffs, I asked my father if he might ever, ever, ever imagine a three-week advance on my allowance, since he had clinched the deal with the Baker Sporting Emporium, and he just laughed out loud. "You ought to be a comedian," he said. "You and Bob Hope. You could travel to Saigon together and do troop shows."

  "I wasn't trying to be funny," I said.
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  "You must have been trying to be funny, since no kid of mine in his right mind would ever ask for a three-week advance on his allowance," he said.

  "I was trying to be funny," I said.

  "I thought so," he said.

  Fourth, when I told Meryl Lee that I might not be able to get the cream puffs by next Wednesday ("I wouldn't spread that around if I were you," she said) and that my father was a cheapskate since he'd just landed this big deal with the Baker Sporting Emporium and he wouldn't give me a dime, she started to cry.

  Really.

  "Meryl Lee," I said, "it's not all that bad. I'll find a way to get the cream puffs. I mean..."

  "You jerk," said Meryl Lee, "you don't understand anything," and she wouldn't speak to me or anyone else the rest of the day.

  Fifth, on the Tuesday before the Wednesday of the cream puffs deadline, Mr. Guareschi came in and asked Mrs. Baker if she knew what "pied ninny" meant. She asked him why he needed to know that, and he told her that Doug Swieteck's brother was in his office at that very moment for having called Mr. Ludema a pied ninny.

  Mrs. Baker stared straight at me.

  And sixth, when Wednesday morning came around and I walked in with a bag of five cream puffs—which was as far as a one-week allowance stretches—it was pretty clear that I was doomed. With five cream puffs, almost everyone could have one quarter of a cream puff, I pointed out. It was better than nothing.

  Meryl Lee shook her head.

  "You're dead," said Danny Hupfer.

  And I supposed I was. At least I wouldn't have to wear the yellow tights with the white feathers attached you can guess where.

  But you know that stuff about the darkest nights turning into the brightest dawns? That can sometimes come true. Even when you least expect it.

  Because when we came back in from recess, on the shelf was a long box from Goldman's Best Bakery ... filled with twenty-four cream puffs! Twenty-four brown, light, perfect cream puffs! Twenty-four buttery vanilla cream puffs!

  "Mr. Hoodhood was simply playing a joke on you all," said Mrs. Baker. "Now, enjoy."