used to have a hearing aid. I don’t think it helps her, though, because even though her name is pronounced “Buj-wa,” Keith calls her “Ms. Bushwack” all the time, and he gets away with it. I am not complaining, though—having a teacher who is hard of hearing definitely has its advantages.
I was just about to tell Breanna that I was sick and tired of listening to snobby Jessica Patino, who sits right behind me, bragging to her best friend, Katie Walsh. Jessica talks constantly about all the cool makeup and clothes she has and all the new stuff her dad is going to get her when she goes to visit him. She and Katie think they’re awesome because they are pretty and popular and because Jessica has practically every color nail polish there is. We’re not allowed to wear nail polish at school so she just talks about it all the time, until I want to throw up.
Those two don’t like me at all. I might be able to ignore Keith calling me “dog fart,” but it would be hard to ignore Jessica and Katie because they’re just so mean. They call me “spacey” because I am always getting caught daydreaming or forgetting my homework or misplacing my pencil. I honestly don’t know why I can never find my school supplies when I need them. I don’t know how it happens, but somehow my stuff just seems to disappear into thin air. One minute I know where my markers or my scissors are, and the next minute they’re gone.
When Ms. Bourgeois saw my eyes fixed on her, she continued, “Now, children. I have a treat for you in connection with this month’s work on the solar system.”
Heads bobbed up and down while students tried to see what the surprise was. Was it on her desk? No, nothing unusual there.
Well, no—that wasn’t exactly true, I realized. Ms. Bourgeois’ fat brown purse was on top of her desk instead of in her drawer, where she usually kept it. It reminded me of the day we had that awful substitute with the high, squeaky voice. (I have to admit that we kids were pretty tough on her.)
Right before she stormed out of the room in the middle of fourth period, she pulled her purse out of the desk drawer and plunked it on the desk. Leaning toward us, she glared and squeaked, “That’s it! I quit! You children are monsters!” She sounded just like a mouse with its tail caught in a mousetrap. We fell over ourselves laughing. Our principal, Ms. Martin, taught the class for the rest of the day, and we were all in big trouble.
Now, as I looked at Ms. Bourgeois’ purse sitting there on the desk, it suddenly dawned on me: Ms. Bourgeois was quitting!
I looked at her in alarm. I didn’t want Ms. Bourgeois to quit. I mean, it was already April, and it had taken me most of the school year to get used to her! Even though she made us work hard, Ms. Bourgeois didn’t assign nearly as much homework as Ms. Evans gave the other fourth-grade class. A new teacher could be worse. She could have better hearing.
I tried to listen. Ms. Bourgeois was saying something about an astronaut. An astronaut? Maybe the government was sending her to teach reading, writing, and math to ten-eyed, eight-armed, three-legged Martian children. I could just see Ms. Bourgeois in a space suit making the little Martians line up by twos for recess. “Eyes to the front of the room!” she would order. The Martians would begin spinning around and knocking each other over trying to get all of their eyes focused on the front of the room at the same time.
I began to giggle.
“What’s so funny, Paige Bradley?” Ms. Bourgeois asked sternly. I looked up. Oh, man— busted again! Everyone stared at me.
I could have said “Nothing,” but no; I decided to explain. That was a mistake. “Well, you see, Ms. Bourgeois, it was the little Martians,” I began. “They were trying to do what you wanted them to do but, um… they were falling over. You know, they have so many eyes on those little antenna things.” A couple of kids started laughing. I felt my face get red.
“The Little Martians…?” Ms. Bourgeois looked puzzled.
“Well, you see, your purse was on your desk. And I um…” The whole class was roaring now. I gave up; it was hopeless.
Jessica said loudly, “Spacey was daydreaming again!” I cringed.
However, Ms. Bourgeois stared at me, puzzled. “What about my purse?” She started to say something else, then shrugged. Pulling an index card out of her purse, she explained, “I was just getting some notes I need about our special assembly in three weeks.”
When most of the kids had stopped snickering, she continued. “As all of you are aware, we have been studying the lives of several famous astronauts in connection with our unit on space and space travel. Most recently we learned about Dr. Sally Ride. Next we will move on to study the solar system and our galaxy—”
She was interrupted by a loud burp, and everybody snickered. She glared in the direction the sound had come from, but Keith just looked around at the other kids like it hadn’t been him. Ms. Bourgeois made an annoyed noise and then glanced at her index card again.
“Now,” she went on, “I have decided to assign each of you a research paper on our theme. The paper with the highest grade will be presented by its author to the entire school at an assembly. In addition, a student from each of the other classes will be presenting a paper, and Ms. Martin has decided that there is to be a schoolwide competition for the best report.”
Big deal! I thought, majorly disappointed. Is that all?
But as Ms. Bourgeois continued, her voice rose with excitement. “At the assembly we will have a very special guest judge to select the best paper. Finally, our class has been selected to decorate the big bulletin board in the entry hall with the Milky Way. The bulletin board will be a fine showcase of our work for the entire school to see.” Ms. Bourgeois beamed at us proudly as if the last bit of news was a great accomplishment.
“You mean we are going to decorate the bulletin board with candy bars?” Keith blurted out. Some of the kids laughed and some kids just rolled their eyes. Keith’s desk was right next to mine but, lucky for me, he spent much of his day in the reflection chair in the front of the room next to Ms. Bourgeois’ desk. The “reflection chair” was what we used to call the “time-out chair” when we were in kindergarten, but in fourth grade we mostly just called it the “Keith Guidry Memorial Chair,” since he was always sitting in it.
Unlike me, Keith didn’t seem to mind being sent to the reflection chair at all. There he sat in front of everybody, all blond spiky hair and freckles, making faces at Will Schiffer, his best friend. On top of that, he’d do just about anything to get people to notice him. I bet Keith Guidry would have come to school dressed only in his underwear for ten dollars. No, make that ten cents.
“Don’t be silly, Keith,” Ms. Bourgeois said sternly. “We will use construction paper and Styrofoam balls. I hope you will take this project seriously because this is a great honor and—”
“Ms. Bourgeois?” Carol Collins raised her hand insistently. She was the teacher’s pet and always said the right thing at the right time. “Who is the guest judge? What special prize?”
“Oh, dear me, did I forget to tell you that?” said Ms. Bourgeois. “She’s a famous TV actor. At least that’s what Ms. Martin said. I’ve never heard of this person. Let’s see…” She hesitated, peering down through her thick glasses at the index card in her hand. “Are any of you familiar with the TV show called Star Warrior? ”
Had we heard of it? Was she kidding? Everybody in the room sat straight up suddenly, excited. Star Warrior, of course, is the best, most awesome TV show ever. Breanna and I had never missed an episode.
