The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School (6 page)

“If I recall correctly,” cried Mr. Jupiter, “page XXIV of the
Babylonian Book of Babble
clearly states that to reverse the curse one must reverse the verse.” A golf-ball-sized piece of hail smacked him on the head. “But I may be mistaken.”

“Huh?” said Ham. “Reverse the verse?”

As the ice balls bounced around him, Ham pondered Mr. Jupiter’s words. Reverse the verse. Reverse the curse.

And then it struck him!

Yawa og niar niar
backwards was …

“Rain, rain, go away!” shouted Ham.

And at that, the hail stopped. The cloud disappeared. And the test papers floated back down to the desktops.

“Thank you, Ham,” said Mr. Jupiter, climbing out of the chest and squeezing water from his Sumerian bow tie. “Is everyone all right?”

The soggy students sputtered and nodded just as the final bell rang.

“We’ll finish our quizzes tomorrow,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Once they’ve dried off.”

Nodding again, the students sloshed toward the door.

“Hold on a minute, Ham,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home?” replied Ham.

Mr. Jupiter shook his head. “You’ll be going to the broom closet,” he said.

“Huh?” said Ham.

“That’s where the mop and bucket are kept,” added Mr. Jupiter.

“Oh,” said Ham. “I get it.”

For the next hour, Ham mopped and wrung and sponged. He toweled off the guinea pigs; he squeezed out the Venus flytrap; he polished the suit of armor until there wasn’t a water spot on it. But he steered well clear of the shelf where Mr. Jupiter’s collection of rare and ancient books and manuscripts once again sat.

“I’m keeping my hands off,” he told himself.

   
MORAL: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing
.

AS HE HAD EVERY FRIDAY MORNING
since the school year began, Mr. Jupiter said, “Let’s begin by reviewing some American history. I trust everyone read last night’s assignment?”

And as always, Bernadette fidgeted.

Melvin ducked his head behind his left knee.

And Calvin quickly looked at Stanford. “I bet the human computer did.”

Stanford turned as red as the Mongolian caftan Mr. Jupiter was wearing. “I … um … I … uh … was so absorbed in my philatelic studies, I ran out of time.”

“Huh?” said Ham.

“My stamp collection,” translated Stanford.

“Oh,” said Ham. “I get it.”

Mr. Jupiter sighed. “Didn’t anyone study their history lesson last night?”

No one raised a hand.

“Then I guess there’s no reason to talk about these,” said Mr. Jupiter. He whisked a black cloth off his desk to reveal a set of big yellow teeth. A jumble of
rusting wires and rotting springs held the teeth together.

“Ewww, what’s that?” asked Missy.

“George Washington’s dentures,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “They were given to me by the International Tooth and Gum Association for inventing floss-on-a-stick.”

The children gathered around for a closer look.

“I didn’t know George Washington wore dentures,” Ham finally said.

Mr. Jupiter nodded. “Poor George had terrible teeth. They kept rotting and falling out, rotting and falling out. By the time he became president, he only had one tooth remaining in his mouth. That’s why he had to wear dentures.”

“Is that true?” asked Lenny. He poked the teeth suspiciously. “These don’t look like my grandpa’s dentures.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Mr. Jupiter. “There weren’t any modern dental methods back then, so people had to make dentures out of some pretty odd things. Washington’s dentures are made from cow and hippopotamus teeth.”

Lenny rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me that
George Washington walked around with hippo in his mouth? I don’t believe it.”

Mr. Jupiter shrugged. “No? Then I guess there’s no reason to talk about
this
, either.” He pulled a long ivory toothbrush out of his desk drawer.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me
that’s
George Washington’s toothbrush,” sniffed Lenny.

“No,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “I’m going to tell you that this is George Washington’s
horses’
toothbrush.”

“Huh?” said Ham.

“Our first president obviously learned from his dental mistakes,” explained Mr. Jupiter. “On his orders, each of his six white horses had its teeth brushed every morning. According to Martha Washington, the horses’ breath smelled better than her husband’s.”

Everyone laughed but Lenny.

“I don’t think that’s very funny, Mr. Jupiter!” he cried. “You shouldn’t make up historical facts.”

“How do you know they’re made up?” asked Mr. Jupiter.

“Because history is boring,” answered Lenny. “There’s no laughing in history.”

“Sure there is,” replied Mr. Jupiter. “History is full of funny stories, as well as daring adventures and
heroic deeds.” He sighed. “Of course, you won’t read your book.” He shook his head. “That’s so sad.”

He let his words sink in a moment before clapping his hands. “Everyone return to your desks and take out your rock picks. It’s time for mineralogy.”

Lenny shrugged and slid back into his chair. Opening the lid of his desk, he peered past his spitball collection and rubber tarantula to the never-opened history book in back.

“Funny stories, huh?” he muttered to himself.

Using his rock pick to excavate the book, he slipped it into his backpack.

   
MORAL: Incentive spurs effort
.

MR. HALFNOTE WAS WORRIED
. “Ever since they returned from winter break, the fifth graders simply refuse to take music class seriously,” he admitted to the other teachers during lunch one day. He told them about the previous week’s lesson, on breathing and posture.

“Sit up straight and tall, but relaxed,” Mr. Halfnote had instructed the class.

Instantly, the fifth graders had started giggling and wiggling and slip-sliding out of their chairs. Music stands toppled. Sheet music scattered. Brasses and woodwinds rolled across the floor.

“Stop!” Mr. Halfnote had hollered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re trying to sit up straight and tall,
butt
relaxed,” replied Lenny.

“But we just can’t seem to get to the
bottom
of it,” added Bruce.

The rest of the students had shrieked with laughter.

Mr. Halfnote had spent the rest of the hour trying to regain control of his class.

“That is terrible,” Miss Turner agreed when he finished his story. She patted him sympathetically on the back.

“It gets worse,” confessed Mr. Halfnote. And he described that morning’s lesson.

“Today, as we accompany ourselves on our zithers, we’re going to learn the chorus from ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’” Mr. Halfnote had instructed the class. “Ready?”

Lenny had grinned. “We’re always ready.”

“Then instruments up,” said Mr. Halfnote. “Annnd begin.”

The fifth graders had plucked and bowed. Above the screeching racket, Mr. Halfnote could just make out the chorus’s lyrics:

The “Battle Hymn” had three verses. By the time the students had finished singing, Mr. Halfnote’s head was throbbing.

“Awful, just awful,” said Mrs. Gluteal. She handed him a caramel drop cookie as consolation.

Mr. Halfnote took a sad little bite. “It is,” he sighed. “It truly is. After all, music is a universal language. It allows children to express themselves. But most importantly, playing together, creating music as a group, is transformative. It can change their lives.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Miss Turner.

“So what can I do to motivate them?” asked Mr. Halfnote.

“Have you tried a gold star chart?” chirped Miss Fairchild. “My kindergartners
love
gold stars.”

“Or the promise of a pizza party,” suggested Mrs. Chen. “Kids can’t resist pepperoni.”

“What about a field trip?” said Mr. Jupiter. “Who wouldn’t fall in love with music after hearing the Blinkendorf Symphony Orchestra performing the overture from
Der Wienerdog
?”

“Ah, the BSO,” said Miss Turner with a sigh. “It brings back memories, doesn’t it, Harry?”

Mr. Jupiter smiled and touched the librarian’s hand.

“Money,” blurted out Mr. Swill, who had been mopping around the coffee machine. “Money’s the best motivator. You think I’d clean one square foot of this place if I didn’t get a paycheck?”

The others laughed.

But Mr. Halfnote leaped to his feet. “Cornelius!” he exclaimed, grabbing the janitor’s mop and dancing it around the room. “You’re brilliant!” He dashed out the door.

   For the next week—with the help of Ms. Bozzetto’s printing press—Mr. Halfnote made money. Each bill was decorated with musical symbols—treble clefs, breath marks, bar lines. And in the center, each sported a smiling likeness of the music teacher.

“I call them musical notes,” Mr. Halfnote told the fifth graders at their next lesson. “You can earn them by participating in class and exhibiting good behavior.”

“Why would we want to do that?” asked Lenny. “What can we do with fake money?”

“You can shop at my emporium,” replied Mr. Halfnote.

“Huh?” said Ham.

“Store,” translated Stanford, rolling his eyes. “Emporium means store.”

“And here it is,” said Mr. Halfnote. He pushed into the center of the room a long table loaded with Chinese yo-yos, flashing finger lights, temporary tattoos, rubber spiders, McFardy Boys notebooks, and much, much more. Some of the items on the table, like the jawbreakers, cost only one note. Other items, like the stuffed toy unicorn, cost a whopping twenty notes.

“I want
that,”
Ashlee A. whispered to Ashleigh B.

Mr. Halfnote went on with his explanation. “Every few weeks, I will open the emporium. At that time, those of you who have earned musical notes may spend them.”

Calvin raised his hand. “Do we have to spend our notes right away, or can we save them?”

“You may spend as little or as much as you like,” replied Mr. Halfnote. “You can save up for more expensive items.”

He paused, allowing the students to admire his wares. Then he handed each of them a wallet made of
brown construction paper. Each wallet contained one musical note. “To start you off,” explained Mr. Halfnote.

“Can I buy something now?” begged Ham. He eyed the chocolate insects. “Mmmm … choco-roaches.”

“Not today,” said Mr. Halfnote.

“When
can
we shop?” asked Ham.

Mr. Halfnote grinned. “Whenever I decide to open the emporium.”

“But doesn’t your store have set business hours?” said Victoria. “All stores have set business hours.”

“Not this one,” said Mr. Halfnote. “You’ll just have to earn and wait.”

Lenny thought a moment, then hurried to his chair. “Look at me, Mr. Halfnote,” he sang out. “I’m sitting up straight and tall … but relaxed.”

Mr. Halfnote grinned again. “Leonard,” he said, “your exemplary behavior has just earned you a musical note.”

Lenny preened as the others, too, sat straight and tall in their chairs.

For the rest of the hour the class learned about melody and harmony. No one fell on the floor or sang funny song lyrics.

Over the next few weeks, Missy stopped losing her music book and instead came to class with it tucked securely under her arm.

She earned two notes
and
learned to read music.

Rose volunteered to play the broken triangle—the one nobody wanted because it was missing the little metal piece to play it with (Mr. Halfnote used an old spoon from the lunchroom).

She earned three notes
and
discovered a natural talent for percussion.

Humphrey took it upon himself to empty all the trumpets’ spit valves.

He earned seven notes …

Mr. Halfnote noticed Humphrey’s saliva-speckled shirt.

“Make that eight notes,” said the music teacher.

 … 
and
increased his finger dexterity.

“Who knew music could be so much fun?” Missy said to Rose one afternoon as they headed back to their classroom.

“It
is
the universal language,” replied Rose.

“YES!” Mr. Halfnote whispered victoriously to himself.

By the time the music teacher finally opened the
emporium for business, the students’ wallets, as well as their minds, were full.

“What to buy?” Ernest asked himself. He walked around and around the table, picking up an item, examining it, putting it down, picking up an item, examining it, putting it down, picking up an item …

Ham made a decisive purchase.

CRUNCH!

“OWWW!

“Mmmm,” he sighed happily, “jawbreakers.”

Lenny and Bruce combined their earnings and bought a whoopee cushion.

“We consider it an investment in our comedic futures,” explained Lenny.

“Yeah, we’re starting with the classics,” added Bruce, eyeing the puddle of rubber vomit.

For a few minutes, the music room bubbled with excitement as the fifth graders made their choices and handed over their notes.

Only Calvin remained seated.

“Aren’t you going to buy anything?” asked Ashlee A. She hugged her new stuffed unicorn.

“Nope,” replied Calvin. “I’m just going to earn and save.”

And that was exactly what he did.

Over the next weeks, Calvin earned:

Two notes for passing out sheet music.

Four notes for attempting to play “Lady of Spain” on the accordion.

Three notes for attempting to play “Yellow Bird” on the accordion.

Ten notes for promising not to play
anything
on the accordion.

His construction-paper wallet grew so thick with notes, he had to ask Mr. Halfnote for another.

“Wow,” commented Humphrey. “You must really love music.”

“Who cares about music?” replied Calvin. “It’s the
notes
I love.”