Authors: Terry Caszatt
Harriet, Weeser, and Alvin had their eyes fixed on me. Their faces were pale and tense. The other kids were still rustling around with their backpacks and talking in low voices, until they spotted Mrs. Mingley. Instantly the kids took their seats, their voices dying away.
“Class,” said Mrs. Mingley, “I’d like to introduce our new student. Eugene Ithaca Wise.”
A heavy-set boy—a spy—snickered loudly and said, “Ithaca?”
I thought Mrs. Mingley would jump on him for this, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
She went on silkily. “We don’t know why Mr. Wise decided to favor us with his presence this late in the year. We all find it rather odd, suspicious even. I sincerely hope he hasn’t come here to disrupt things. I guess we’ll soon know.”
I was nearly shaking my head off my shoulders in denial of all this, but it didn’t seem to help.
“Find a seat, Mr. Wise,” snapped Mrs. Mingley. The melodic voice was gone. She was all business now. As a kid, I recognized the change immediately. Lots of times adults pretend to be friendly at first, but brother, when the crowd gathers, they toss you to the wolves.
I hurried to a desk near the back, passing Alvin and Weeser, but they looked frightened and kept their eyes straight ahead.
Mrs. Mingley seemed to pay no more attention to me. She strode to her desk and picked up her record book. “Let’s turn immediately to the task at hand, students.” She swept the class with a challenging look. “Let’s find out if
certain individuals
in this class are going to cooperate, or are going to continue to be disruptive. Let’s get out our poems, please.”
Harriet threw me a warning glance. The battle was about to start. There was a general rustling of paper as the kids got out their assignments. Feeling totally lost, I pretended to look for a pen in my backpack.
While this was going on, I heard Mrs. Mingley discussing with the class which incense to burn. There were suggestions of “Rainy Day” and “Jungle Nights.”
“How about Monkeymind?” Mrs. Mingley called out. When she said that the class froze and simply stared at her. A quick peek at Harriet, Alvin, and Weeser showed the same response. They hadn’t heard the word at all.
“I think Monkeymind is an excellent choice,” cooed Mrs. Mingley. She scratched a match and lit the incense in the brass-monkey burner, then turned and grinned at me.
“Is that a good choice, Mr. Wise?”
“Sure,” I mumbled. “It’s a good choice, I guess. Why not?”
The class came alive now and gleeful laughter rattled around the room at my dumb response.
“All right, everyone,” Mrs. Mingley went on. “Let’s begin today’s lesson. I can’t wait to hear some good poetry. But first, let’s have Selene tell us what the assignment was so our new student knows what we’re doing. Selene?”
Selene, a plump, blonde-haired girl, stood and adjusted her sweater fussily. “The assignment,” she began in a high-pitched voice, “was to choose a poem by one of our poets, Mr. Higgenbottom, Ms. Pitts, or Ms. Potts, and read it. It’s supposed to be a poem that really really reflects what Mrs. Mingley has been trying to teach us this year. And no excuses,” she ended with a cutesy grin.
Mrs. Mingley didn’t respond to the grin. “That’s right, Selene. You always do everything exactly as I instruct. So gratifying. Recite your poem.”
Selene patted her hair and frowned at her paper. “My poem is by Ms. Potts,” she said. “It’s called ‘The Sycamore Tree.’” She began reading in a singsong voice a poem about some poor old tree that was freezing to death in the winter. That was bad enough, but then there was a twist at the end. It turned out the poet hated the tree and
wanted
it to die. I only remember one depressing line:
To the ash heap old shaggy bark, I rejoice in your death
.
“Isn’t that a lovely, inspiring poem?” Mrs. Mingley said.
I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t. Not at all.
She clapped twice. “Vision?”
“Dark and bleak,” cried the class.
“Exactly. Fine work, Selene. And who’s next?” Mrs. Mingley had her head down, putting a grade in the book, when she said silkily, “How about Walter?”
Weeser shot me a fearful look, then stood slowly.
“And what are you going to read, Walter?” Mrs. Mingley’s voice had an undertone of menace in it, and I knew the battle was about to heat up.
Weeser looked miserable. “My poem is called ‘In the Dung Heap of Life,’ by Ms. Pitts.” When he said this you could hear a sigh of relief sweep around the room. I saw Harriet bite her lip in disappointment and look away. Alvin snuffed and kept his eyes on the floor. Mrs. Mingley smiled.
“My, my,” she said. “I’m so surprised but pleased, Walter. Recite it!”
Weeser launched into a gloomy poem about some guy who was unhappy about life and ended up sleeping on a pile of cow manure. I’m not kidding! The first lines went something like this:
I shall lie forever on my little heap, lulled by flies and the weeping wind
.
It turned out the guy hated everything so much that he burrowed down in the poop until he was completely covered. Then, with his eyes and nose all stopped up, he dies. I almost said “Yuck!” out loud, but it’s a good thing I didn’t.
Mrs. Mingley clapped a hand to her bosom. “Oh, my goodness! That poem hits me right here. Heartfelt! And so accurate! Vision?”
“Dark,” chanted the class, “and bleak.”
“Yes, it is!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “Dark and bleak! And so perfect for you, Walter. So much better than that silly thing you read last time by Robert Frost.”
Weeser flashed me a defeated look as he sat down.
Mrs. Mingley smiled out at us. “Things are going so well in here,” she said. “I’m so impressed with your work. Let’s inhale!”
The kids breathed in deeply, and at first I didn’t understand. Then Mrs. Mingley said, “There’s something about my incense, isn’t there? A good deep breath makes everything so much clearer! Doesn’t it?”
“Hmm,” went the class.
“And who’s next?” went on Mrs. Mingley. “How about you, Alvin?”
Alvin started nervously, then lunged to his feet. The class tittered.
“Our little earthquake boy,” said Mrs. Mingley, but there was no trace of humor in her voice. “Always disrupting things, aren’t you? Well, let’s see what you have this morning. And I hope you’ve thought very carefully about this.”
I held my breath. It was obvious Weeser didn’t have the chest hair to go against Mingley’s assignment, but I knew Alvin was a different matter.
He cleared his throat. “I guess I don’t much care for Pitts, Potts, and whatever,” he began. “But even so, I’ll stick with the assignment.” He swiped at his nose and gave Harriet a beaten look. “This one’s by Higgenbutt,” he said.
“Bottom,” snapped Mrs. Mingley, eyeing him sharply. “Higgen-bottom!”
“Right,” said Alvin. He straightened his shoulders and began reciting a really sick poem about a guy who goes around destroying all the things kids like. I only remember a couple of lines:
Childish smiles, a dog’s bark, shadows on the grass
,
I blacken all with my poisonous brush
.
“Wonderful, Alvin!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “What great strides you’ve made today! A lovely choice. And read quite well, too, I must say.” She turned now and looked over at Harriet, giving her a challenging smirk. “And what about you, Miss Grove? This might be a good time for you to show us your true spirit today.” The smirk on Mingley’s face disappeared. “Stand up and recite!”
When she said this, Ming suddenly looked away from Harriet and shot me a grim look as if I, too, were involved in some way. I didn’t move a muscle or try to meet her eye. I could feel the quivering buzz just over my head, and I knew that if I made one false move, the dreaded bolt would come down on me.
“Stand up, I said!” thundered Mrs. Mingley.
Harriet hesitated, sighed softly, and stood up.
A large vein appeared on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead. “And let me tell you something right now,” she hissed. “If you read the wrong kind of poem, Grove, you’re getting a failing grade for this assignment. Do you understand?”
I could see Harriet’s lips trembling, but she nodded and never looked away.
“To be truthful, I feel the same way Alvin does,” she began. “I know our vision is supposed to be dark and bleak, but it seems to me poetry is so much more than that. So, I decided to read a poem that sort of goes in the opposite direction. It’s by James Kavanaugh and it’s called ‘Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights.’” Then she began to read in her clear bell-like voice a poem that went so totally against the “dark and bleak” vision that I figured the roof was going to cave in.
I was born to catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning …
The large vein on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead began swelling darkly.
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days …
I was born to rub my hands in dirt
And walk green hills—
I looked away. I couldn’t stand the tension. I heard Mrs. Mingley striding toward Harriet. This was followed by the awful crackle of paper as the page was snatched from Harriet’s hand.
“That’s enough from you, Miss Grove!” Mingley ground out the words as she wadded up the paper. “Such a stubborn girl! Is this the correct vision, class?”
“No!” shouted almost everyone in the room. Even I formed the word.
“No, it is not,” Mingley continued. “And this brings me to one of the saddest moments of my career. We are poised here, on the edge of an abyss. The wrong decision can plunge us into one of life’s tragic mistakes. What are we to do, students?” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you trust me to know what’s right?”
“Yes!” cried the class.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Mingley. “We must return to our true vision as quickly as we can. We must stamp out the effect of this last horrible poem, and the only way to do that is to hear words from a better, truer poem.” She paused dramatically. “Who in here has a poem that will carry us back to where we belong? If you do, you will not only save this class, but also Miss Grove who may fail the entire marking period!”
The class gasped, and I saw Harriet falter under the blow and start to sit down.
“No, stand up, Grove!” cried Mingley. “I want you to face the seriousness of this.” Her eyes swept over the class. “Unless there’s a young scholar in here willing to help, you are in very grave trouble.”
The room was deadly quiet. Harriet glanced up then and gave me a small pleading look. And that’s when I did the most foolish thing in my life. I suddenly raised my hand.
When I looked back on it later, I realized how easily I had fallen into the trap. Part of my weakness was my desire to be the big hero and save Harriet, but I had an even greater crack in my armor, which Ming the Merciless must have sensed.
“Well, look at this,” said Mrs. Mingley. “What have we here? Our new student wishes to step in and rescue Harriet? Stand up, Eugene. What do you have?”
“It’s a po-em,” I stammered, “called ‘Toad Man.’ Uh, Mr. Heilbart, my English teacher from my old school, used to write it on the board … and we had to memorize it. I think he actually wrote the poem.”
Mingley’s bulging eyes studied me intently. “Well, this should be interesting. And it had better be good, Mr. Wise.”
I suddenly sensed my idea might be a huge mistake, but I was in too deep now.
I caught a glimpse of Alvin and Weeser watching me in awe. But Harriet’s face made the greatest impression: her eyes glowed with such hope. She thought I was riding to the rescue. And I thought I was, too.
I began to recite in a stammering voice old Heilbart’s poem:
I am the Toad Man at the end of days
The moon is dead, the sun is dying;
I have them in my bag
.
The toad days are upon us, endless and dark …
As I spoke, Harriet’s hopeful look began to die. Weeser and Alvin looked baffled, then shocked. I knew they had expected me to go bravely against the “dark and bleak” vision. Instead, I was convinced the only way to save Harriet was to read a poem that Mrs. Mingley would like.
Harriet suddenly put a hand over her eyes and sat down, and I could tell she was crying. I knew right then that I had made one of the great blunders of my life. Mrs. Mingley didn’t seem to care that Harriet had disobeyed her by sitting down; she was beaming happily at me as I mumbled on:
Yesterday is dust, tomorrow is gone;
Welcome to the night
.
For a moment there was dead silence in the room. Mrs. Mingley was nodding and smiling like crazy at me. Finally she said, “Magnificent, Mr. Wise! Nothing could sum up better what I have been trying to say in here. You have not only saved Miss Grove and her grade, but you have saved us. So let’s show Eugene how much we appreciate his effort!”
She began applauding and the class, except for Harriet, Weeser, and Alvin, began clapping right along with her.
The bell rang then, and while I gathered up my things, several kids slapped me on the back and said, “Good work” or “Nice job.” The heavy-set spy came over and drew me into a handshake before I could think about it.
“We’re together now, buddy,” he said. He gave me a big wink.
I nodded dumbly and then turned quickly so I could let Harriet know I wasn’t really buying into this baloney, but she, Weeser, and Alvin were already heading for the door. I had only a glimpse of Alvin’s scowling look.
I picked up my things and rushed after them, finally catching up to Weeser and Alvin by their lockers. There was no sign of Harriet.
“Wow, that didn’t turn out quite like I expected,” I began breathlessly. “But at least I got Harriet off the hook.” Alvin wouldn’t look at me, but Weeser gave me a green-eyed stare.
“You didn’t get anyone off the hook,” he said. “You just kissed butt.”
“I didn’t kiss butt,” I said indignantly. “Listen, I knew if I read a great poem, it would have just made things worse. So I took the smart way—”
“Bullroar,” growled Alvin. “You didn’t help Harriet by reading some old fardexy thing like that. A bunch of ‘Toad Man’ crud.”