Bully-Be-Gone (8 page)

S
econd period class was a distraction for Millicent. Typically, history was one of her better subjects, and Mrs. Alpha was one of her favorite teachers so far this year.

But Millicent was fidgety. Bully-Be-Gone was causing major problems that she couldn't fix from her desk.

It had taken Mrs. Alpha some time to quiet her class after the assembly. After a few attempts she'd gotten everyone to stop laughing about Pollywog and Juanita.

She stood at the head of her class of sixth graders, teaching history as she often did—someone tossed out a year at random and Mrs. Alpha told the class everything
that happened that year with encyclopedic accuracy. Someone always tried to trip up Mrs. Alpha by shouting out an obscure year. Today, it was 1521 and Mrs. Alpha was going on and on about Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan and how he'd been murdered in the Philippines.

Millicent squirmed in her seat, her desk creaking like an old boat. She was so preoccupied, she hadn't even thought to ask Roderick, who sat in front of her, if he'd used Bully-Be-Gone. Roderick huffed at the sound of each creak of her desk. Finally, he turned around.

“Millicent,” he said, “would you please stop that racket?”

His ears were fuchsia, a shade darker than his pink face.

“Huh?” she asked.

“That racket,” said Roderick. “I'm trying to get an education here.”

“Oh,” she said.

She hadn't heard a word he'd uttered. She started tapping on her desk with a pencil, thinking of a solution, and rocking back and forth.

Roderick turned around again and gripped the back of his chair.

“Millicent,” he said, “am I going to have to raise my hand, get Mrs. Alpha's attention, and ultimately get you suspended for obstruction of my educational rights?”

“Right,” said Millicent blankly. She ripped a piece of paper from her binder and scribbled a possible antidote for
Bully-Be-Gone.
No, that wouldn't work.
She crumpled the paper. She ripped another piece of paper from her binder, scribbled again, wadded that one up.

“Darn it, Millicent,” Roderick said, taking a deep breath. “Would you please—”

“Yes?”

“Would you please—” he said. “Would you please…”

Millicent finally looked at Roderick. He had a funny look on his face. His nose was wiggling and his lips were pulled across his round face in a pair of fine lines. His eyes were blissfully rolled up under his eyelids, his tiny pink fingers perched atop his chair like a row of shrimp.

Millicent thought he looked more appalling than usual.

“Pepperoni and pistachios,” he said dreamily.

“What?” asked Millicent, though she had a distressing notion exactly what was going on.

“What was I saying?” he asked.

“You said, ‘Would you please—'” she replied cautiously. “That was it.”

“Would you please—” he repeated. He seemed confused, as if he were being forced to say something against his will. “Go out with me for pizza and ice cream after school?” he blurted.

Millicent jumped out of her seat.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” she screamed.

The whole class gasped.

“Rather badly, I assume,” said Mrs. Alpha, motioning toward the door, forgoing the required hall pass.

The class burst into laughter as Millicent gathered up her things and rushed out of the classroom.

M
illicent scanned the girls' room to be certain she was alone. She checked for feet under the stall doors. Empty. She did some of her best brainstorming in rooms that echoed, and it was absolutely necessary she be alone now because she'd be talking to herself.

“Okay,” she said aloud. “It's okay, everything's okay.” The room twanged in response.

She didn't believe herself. Everything was not okay. To begin with, Fletch Farnsworth had a crush on Tonisha Fontaine. By itself, it was news enough to make Millicent's braids stand at attention. Worse, Tonisha seemed to like him back. Even worse: the student assembly fiasco with Nina chasing Pollock and Pollywog's now famous ode-to-Juanita butt.

Worse still—if that were possible—Roderick Biggleton had made mushy faces at Millicent herself and asked her out for pizza and ice cream. The thought of it tied her stomach into uneasy knots. She could barely be in the same room with Roderick, much less consume food in his presence. Worst of all, it seemed as if Bully-Be-Gone wasn't washing off. Tonisha applied it two days ago. This meant it had survived at least two showers.

The bell rang and the hall filled with the sounds of footsteps and chatter. Millicent ducked into a toilet stall, locked the door, and sat. A couple of girls entered the bathroom.
Millicent recognized their voices immediately.

“I'm never speaking to her again,” Juanita cried. “That was the height of embarrassment.”

“Is this lipstick too flashy?” Tonisha asked. “I don't want to scare him off.”

“What are you talking about? Scare who off?”

“I wish I had longer eyelashes.”

“What?”

“Winking is better with long eyelashes. Do you have any mascara?”

“No. Masonville to Tonisha. Hello?”

“My eyebrows are good, though.”

“Tonisha, what is wrong with you?”

The bell rang again, signifying the start of third period.

“I'm going to be late to orchestra practice.”

“I have to wait two more classes to see him.”

They shuffled out of the girls' room.

“Him who?” Juanita asked as the door closed.

Third period was under way. Millicent left the stall, went to a sink, and stared at her reflection. “You have a problem of staggering proportions on your hands…on…your…hands.” She had put Bully-Be-Gone on her hands! She jumped toward the sink and turned on the faucet, pumped soap onto her palms from the dispenser on the wall, and started scrubbing furiously. She scrubbed her neck until there was a beard of foam dripping onto her sweater. “But it doesn't wash off,” she argued with herself. The thought of creeps with crushes on her made her scour
her face even harder. “Got to try…got to get it…from my head to my…ankles. My ankles!” She'd put Bully-Be-Gone on her ankles. “Dang it!” She kicked off her shoes, yanked off her socks, hiked up her skirt, and stuck her right foot into the sink and lathered it while hopping on her left foot.
Too awkward
, she thought. So she gripped both faucets and hoisted herself off the floor until her left foot was in the sink too, her tush hanging over the edge. Now, it was plain to see she couldn't scrub herself because she needed to hold onto the faucets to keep from falling out; so she turned, ever so slowly, so that she could rest her fanny against the wall which freed her hands to wash her ankles.

Anyone entering the girls' room at that moment might have considered normally sensible Millicent in the sink a laughable sight, but she didn't think her predicament was humorous at all. She was rubbing her skin raw, the redness beneath the mounds of bubbles looked like cuts of beef. Soap drizzled from her face as if she'd strolled through a car wash.

Suddenly Millicent's feet squirted out of the basin. She landed on her bottom in the sink with a painful smack, her legs sticking out like antennae, her bottom plugging up the basin. Water filled the sink to overflowing, spilling over the rim and flowing toward and under the door.

She was in such a state that she didn't hear the footsteps coming down the hall.

An urgent pounding at the door echoed in the girls' room. “What is going on in there?” a voice boomed. The
voice belonged to Mr. Pennystacker.

“Nothing, Mr. Pennystacker,” Millicent said as innocently as she could.

“The hallway is flooding,” the voice said. “I'm coming in.”

The door swung open.

“Miss Millicent Madding,” Mr. Pennystacker exclaimed. He wedged his hands between his belly and hips and strode up to the sink. “Miss Millicent Madding,” he said again. “In the sink.”

“Uh-huh,” said Millicent.

“May I see your hall pass, Miss Madding?” asked Mr. Pennystacker, extending his hand.

“It seems I don't have one,” said Millicent, feeling rather stupid.

“Not in class, in the sink—without a hall pass. Two infractions.” He positioned himself before Millicent and squatted so the two of them were at eye level, so close that Millicent could smell the greasy hair product holding his comb-over in place. “Tell me,” he continued, “do you not have a shower at home?”

“Um, no, sir. I mean, yes. I mean, no,” Millicent replied. “It's so difficult to answer a question worded in the negative, sir.” She thought about it for a second, then said, “We do. We do have a shower.”

“Then what, pray tell, is the reason for this preposterous hygienic display?” Mr. Pennystacker stared at Millicent as though through the lens of a microscope.

Millicent folded her hands in her lap, the water from the faucets running down her back, soaking into her sweater, spreading dark blobs to the front of it.

“Well, it's a mildly funny story, really,” she said. “And a long one. I'd rather not bore you.”

“I've got time,” said Mr. Pennystacker, restoring himself to his full height. “And I love a snoozer of a tale—hear 'em all the time. Meet me in my office, pronto.” He turned and walked out of the girls' room with the swagger of a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

In short order, Millicent was sloshing down the hall, leaving a trail of water behind her. It had taken her five minutes to get out of the sink, as she was slippery with soap. Whenever she passed a classroom, she hunched over so no one would see her through the small window at the top of each door.

A dozen questions bombarded her brain. Was she in serious trouble? What was the penalty for bathing in the girls' room sink? How quickly would her clothes dry? Had she been able to wash away the Bully-Be-Gone she'd so generously doused herself with? What was she going to tell Mr. Pennystacker?

Lists gave her a sense of control she otherwise lacked under stressful conditions, so she stopped, fumbled around in her backpack, and found a notepad and pen. A puddle of water formed beneath her. She walked a few steps, then stopped again.

“Okay,” she said aloud, “who used Bully-Be-Gone?”

She scribbled:
me, Tonisha, Pollock, Juanita. Who else?
She'd handed out samples to all the Wunderkinder. That meant Leon had possibly used it. Fortunately, he was home sick. If luck were with her, Leon would return to school after the Bully-Be-Gone had worn off.

The very thought of another Wunderkinder being hounded by a bug-eyed hoodlum was enough to make her sweat, which added to her dampness. Another puddle formed beneath her, so she moved on.

Mr. Pennystacker's office was at the end of a narrow hall; his was the only door for several feet. Outside it were two long benches that normally played host to kids responsible for any assortment of disobediences and disruptions. Fortunately, there was no one sitting on them today. Millicent turned the doorknob and entered.

Behind the admittance counter, she saw an enormous light-blue wig bobbing along.

“Hello?” she asked.

The blue wig shot up from behind the counter. A couple of paper clips fell out of it. The wig belonged to Miss Bucket, Mr. Pennystacker's assistant.

“What a fright,” Miss Bucket exclaimed, adjusting her wig and her glasses that had both gone askew.

“Sorry,” said Millicent.

“Why, Miss Millicent Madding,” said Miss Bucket, her eyebrows arched above the rims of her glasses like two alarmed cats. “You're a stranger to these parts. What brings you here?”

“Mr. Pennystacker told me to come.”

“Curious. Well, sign in please,” said Miss Bucket, handing Millicent a clipboard. “Now, where did I put my pen?” Miss Bucket kept a number of pens in her wig. Millicent pointed to Miss Bucket's head where she could see a ballpoint pen dangling. “Thank you, dear,” said Miss Bucket. “Let's see now, red?” Millicent waited patiently while Miss Bucket dug around for the appropriately colored pen. “No, you look like a purple kind of gal,” Miss Bucket said, passing Millicent a grape-scented felt-tip pen.

“Thank you,” said Millicent, dripping water onto the clipboard.

“You're as wet as a slobbering hyena,” said Miss Bucket. “However did that happen?”

“I was in the girls' room sink,” Millicent replied sheepishly.

“Sponge bath, eh?” asked Miss Bucket with a wink. “I've tried rinsing down in the faculty ladies' room sink. It gets you nothing but odd looks.” She rummaged around in her desk and produced a packet of moist towelettes. “My advice? Try these wipes. They're so—”

“Miss Bucket!” a voice blasted.

Miss Bucket screamed and jumped back. Several pencils and pens fell out of her wig and onto the floor.

Mr. Pennystacker stood in the doorway of his office, his arms folded hard and shut as tight as a bear trap. “I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me to my official advisory capacity,” he growled.

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Bucket breathlessly.

“And you, Miss Millicent Madding,” said Mr. Pennystacker. “Follow me.” He waddled into his office, hooking a beckoning finger behind him.

Millicent followed him.

“Shut the door, please,” said Mr. Pennystacker, easing himself into his chair with a grunt. “And have a seat.”

Millicent shut the door and plopped herself into a hard metal chair. It felt icy against her wet rear. She wanted to yelp, but didn't.

“You may begin by explaining how it is you came to be bathing in the sink,” Mr. Pennystacker said gruffly, gripping his chin with his chubby hand.

“I was in the sink—”

“That's been established,” said Mr. Pennystacker. His pupils became dark, small, reflective beads, like two beetles crawling around on the whites of his eyes.