The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School (5 page)

“Whoa! Did you hear that?” asked Calvin.

“I heard it, but I don’t believe it,” answered Emberly.

“Let’s play the next line,” suggested Rose.

With more gusto this time, the fifth graders played, “Dum dum,
da
da da da da daaaa …”

And with the same extraordinary singing voices, the guinea pigs replied, “Eek eek,
eek
eek eek eek eek eeeek …”

Their enthusiasm at full throttle now, the fifth graders really belted it out. “Da
da
, da da da daaaa …”

The guinea pigs belted it back. “Eek
eek
, eek eek eek eeek …”

At the front of the room, Mr. Jupiter snatched up a fossil rib unearthed during a paleontological dig in eastern Uzbekistan. Waving the bone like a conductor’s baton, he cried, “All together now!”

On the downbeat, guinea pigs and kazoos melded into one joyous, melodious, wondrous concert.

“Wow!” whispered Rachel when the music finally faded away.

“Did you just say something?” asked Ham.

“Pffft,” replied Rachel. “Just pffft.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” said Ham.

Rose shyly raised her hand. “Um … Mr. Jupiter, did you know Burmese spectacled guinea pigs are … um … musical?”

“Very musical,” he replied. “They may be the most musical creatures in all of nature, able to squeak any tune, from Mozart to Motown, with perfect pitch. The incredible thing about them is that once they hear a song, they never forget it. And since Burmese spectacled guinea pigs can live longer than a hundred years, their repertoire of songs can be infinite.”

“Like an MP3 player!” exclaimed Lenny. “Call them gPods!”

Mr. Jupiter grinned. “Something like that.”

Everyone crowded around the cage to take a closer look at the new class pets.

Just then Amisha burst back into the classroom. “Why are you all standing around that cage? Ugh! Guinea pigs are so
b-o-r-i-n-g.”

Emberly smiled. “That’s what
you
think.”

And raising their kazoos to their lips, the fifth graders began to play …

   
MORAL: Appearances can be deceiving
.

ON THE WEDNESDAY AFTER
Thanksgiving break, the fifth graders arrived at school to find Mr. Jupiter—

“Gone!” gasped Missy.

“This is a case for Emberly Everclass!” declared Emberly. He closed his latest McFardy Boys mystery, pulled out his magnifying glass, and began examining the teacher’s desk for clues.

“Get serious,” snorted Stanford. “He’s probably just late.”

“
You
get serious,” replied Emberly. “He’s
never
late.”

At that moment, the door burst open and Mr. Jupiter bustled in, carrying a cardboard box. “Everyone, please take your seats,” he called out.

The fifth graders sat.

“Forgive my tardiness,” Mr. Jupiter continued as he dropped the box on his desk, “but I had a minor crisis at home. My fifteen-inch telescope with Cassegrain focus and thirty-six-segment primary mirror—the one
I just had installed—came crashing in through my roof this morning. Can you believe it?” He shook his head. “I had lens bits everywhere, and the eyepiece landed right on top of my collection of rare and ancient books and manuscripts. Luckily, they were unharmed.” He patted the box. “They should be safe here until the roof can be repaired.”

The students watched as Mr. Jupiter pushed back the box’s flaps and pulled out leather-bound volumes trimmed in gold, medieval illuminated manuscripts, clay tablets covered with cuneiform writing, and fragile papyrus scrolls.

Sweeping aside the class copies of
Cooking with Pooh Without Making a Piglet of Yourself
, Mr. Jupiter carefully arranged his collection in its new place on the shelf. Then he wiped his hands on his lederhosen—the pair he had bought during his goat-herding seminar in the Alps—and turned to face the class.

“Do not touch these,” he said.

In the back row, Ham felt a sudden urge to unroll scrolls, touch cuneiform markings, run his finger along exotic spines.

“Not only are they rare and valuable,” continued Mr. Jupiter with reverence, “but they contain the
secrets of the ancient world—knowledge you are not yet old enough to comprehend.”

In the back row, Ham longed to peek between the fine leather covers.

“So, fifth graders,” concluded Mr. Jupiter with a slight smile, “hands off.”

In the back row, Ham shivered with excitement. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the collection.

His chance came at lunchtime.

Cook had already heaped Ham’s tray with seven-layer cranberry loaf (she was still getting rid of last week’s leftovers) when he slapped his forehead. “I left my lunch pass in my desk!” he cried.

Cook snatched back her food. “Go get it,” she said. “But be quick about it. Cranberry loaf is a dish best served hot.”

Ham hurried back to the now-empty classroom. He rummaged around in his desk, pulled out his pass, and …

MR. JUPITER’S COLLECTION!

For the first time in his life, literature pushed lunch right out of Ham’s head. He moved toward the shelf. Glancing furtively around, he pulled down a
volume. It was thick and heavy and its centuries-old cover smelled of dust and secrets. Ham peered at the book’s title, written in faded gold leaf:

The Babylonian Book of Babble: An Ancient Primer
.

It opened with a creak.

On page four Ham found a chart labeled “Pyramids and Ziggurats Made Easy.”

On page seventy-six he found instructions titled “How to Weed Your Hanging Gardens.”

And on page one thousand and three he found an illuminated engraving of a thunderstorm, complete with black clouds, flashing lightning, floods, and hail. Beneath the engraving were the words
Yawa og niar niar
.

I wonder what that’s about?
thought Ham. He muttered the words aloud to himself.
“Yawa og niar niar.”

A wispy gray rain cloud suddenly appeared above his head.

Drip-drop.

The cloud squeezed out a thimbleful of water, then—

Poof!

It dissipated.

“No way!” gasped Ham, wiping the trickle of rainwater from his cheek.

Then he said the words again.
“Yawa og niar niar.”

This time a slightly bigger, slightly darker cloud appeared. Ham pointed to the Venus flytrap sitting on the windowsill.

The cloud obeyed.

It glided across the room, stopped above the plant, and …

Dribble-dribble-pitter-plop!

 … produced a light drizzle.

The Venus flytrap snapped angrily at the raindrops.

Poof!

The second cloud dissipated just like the first.

Ham let the truth sink in. Then—

“I’ve got the power!” he sang at the top of his voice. He danced around and punched the air. “The power … the power … whooo … whooo.… whooo!”

In their cage, the Burmese spectacled guinea pigs sang back in perfect harmony. “Eeeek.… eeeek.… eeeek!”

“I can’t wait to show Humphrey!” exclaimed Ham. Without bothering to read the rest of the page, he slid
the book back onto the shelf and bolted for the lunchroom.

But in the doorway, he skittered to a stop.

Mrs. Bunz was on a rampage.

“Who put their leftover soup in the recycling bin?” the lunchroom monitor bellowed into her bullhorn. Plucking out the offending bowl, she held it high for everyone to see, then poured it into a bucket of slop at her feet. “Who’s responsible for this irresponsibility?”

Cowering, the students stared nervously down at their corn chips and carrot sticks.

And Ham whispered,
“Yawa og niar niar.”

The cloud materialized, a bit bigger and a bit darker than before.

Feeling powerful, Ham pointed at the lunchroom monitor.

The cloud stormed across the lunchroom. It snatched the hairnet from Mrs. Bunz’s head. It ripped the apron from her ample hips. It grabbed the bullhorn from her tight fist and sent it skittering. Then—

SPLASH!

It drenched her with a cloudburst, and—

Poof!

It was gone.

A stunned silence fell over the lunchroom. Then—

“I always knew Mrs. Bunz was all wet!” cried Bruce.

The place exploded in loud, roaring laughter that echoed all the way to the teachers’ lounge.

“Do you hear that?” asked Mrs. Gluteal, her cake-laden fork stopping in midair. “It sounds like a riot.”

Mrs. Chen nodded in agreement. “Perhaps one of us should go and see what’s happening,” she suggested.

“Before someone makes a mess,” agreed Mr. Swill.

“Or gets hurt,” added Nurse Betadine.

“Or earns a detention,” said Mrs. Struggles.

The teachers looked at one another for a moment.

Then Mrs. Gluteal held up her plate. “Cake, anyone?”

In the lunchroom, a now dripping wet Mrs. Bunz whirled on the students. “Who did that?”

No one answered.

Mrs. Bunz’s eyes became slits. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she warned. “I’ll ferret out the culprit. I’ll find you. And when I do? Five minutes—
on the wall
!”

On the wall!

It was Mrs. Bunz’s favorite punishment—a unique form of torture involving a public apology and five long, humiliating minutes against the cold tiles of the lunchroom wall.

On the wall!

Those three little words caused everyone—first through fifth grade alike—to freeze.

Perhaps
, decided Ham with a shudder,
I should keep my new powers a secret
.

That afternoon, Mr. Jupiter said, “I understand something very unusual took place in the lunchroom today.” He studied each of his students’ faces. “Does anyone know what happened?”

“I believe it was simply one of life’s mysteries,” said Lil. And she waxed poetic:

“No mystery should go unexplained,” said Emberly. “Arty McFardy says—”

Stanford interrupted with a snort. “Get serious. There is a logical and scientific explanation for what happened.”

Mr. Jupiter looked around the room. “Does anyone
have
that explanation?”

The classroom fell silent.

In the back row, Ham plastered an innocent look on his face.

“One last question,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Who watered the Venus flytrap? It’s been spitting and sputtering since lunchtime.”

The classroom stayed silent.

“Anyone?” persisted Mr. Jupiter.

“Pa-tooey!” coughed the flytrap.

Disappointed, Mr. Jupiter shook his head. “If no one will answer my question, then I guess we’ll just have to move on.” Picking up a stack of papers, he began handing them out. “I hope you all did your zoology reading last night, because we’re having a pop quiz.”

Ham leaned forward. “Zoology reading?” he whispered in Victoria’s ear. “I didn’t even know we had a zoology book.”

“Too bad for you,” she replied with a flip of her hair.

Ham gulped and read the first question: “Bactrian camels have two humps. What is a one-humped camel called?”

Ham had no idea. Guessing, he wrote, “Humphrey.”

He moved on to the second question: “What do ducks do in the fall when food is scarce?”

Ham guessed again. “Go to the store and say, ‘Put it on my bill.’”

He read the third question: “What animal has three heads and smells bad?”

Ham wrote, “Victoria,” but he knew that wasn’t right. He was pretty sure his first two answers weren’t right either. As for the next ninety-seven questions? He didn’t have a clue.

He did, however, have the power.

“Yawa og niar niar.”

A cloud materialized, the biggest and darkest of them all.

Ham made a swirling motion with his hand.

Instantly, a cool mist of rain swirled around the fifth graders, tickling their faces and freckling their test papers.

Ashley Z. peeled off his shoes and socks and splashed in the little puddles that began to form on the
floor, while Lil and the Burmese spectacled guinea pigs burst into a squeaky rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.”

“So much for zoology,” smirked Ham. Feeling powerful, he signaled for the cloud to stop.

Instead, it turned darker. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. The gentle mist turned into stinging, slashing rain.

“Take cover!” shouted Mr. Jupiter. Braving the storm, he raced back and forth between the bookshelf containing his collection and a nearby Byzantine funeral chest. When the last manuscript was safe, he dove in on top of them. The fifth graders ducked beneath their desks.

“What’s happening?” cried Calvin. He fumbled in his desk for a pencil to chew on.

“Mr. Jupiter,” begged Ernest. “Make it stop!”

From inside the chest, Mr. Jupiter called out, “I can’t control the weather.”

Even though he couldn’t see Mr. Jupiter’s eyes, Ham swore he could feel them boring into him. “Please, cloud, stop now,” Ham begged.

But the cloud turned darker still. It whirled. It
churned. It snatched the test papers off the desks and spun them around and around.

“Hey!” Stanford shouted at the cloud. “No copying!” He tried to grab his test back.

ZAP!

The cloud shot him a warning flash of lightning.

“Yow!” cried Stanford.

Ham was whimpering now. “Please stop, cloud. Pretty please with hot fudge and tuna on top.”

Instead, it hailed. Balls of ice pinged and popped and bounced across the classroom. They put a dent in the suit of armor. They dimpled the Zulu war shield. They bruised Rachel’s head.

“Ouchie!” she cried.

Beneath his desk, Ham felt powerless. He burst into tears.

“It’s my fault,” he wailed at the top of his voice. “I touched Mr. Jupiter’s rare books. I read the ancient words. I learned how to turn the cloud on, but I didn’t learn how to turn it off.”

Mr. Jupiter poked his head out of the chest. “Thank you for your honesty, Ham,” he shouted over the hailstorm.

“Honesty schmonesty,” hollered Missy. “Who’ll stop the rain?”