The Fabled Fifth Graders of Aesop Elementary School (7 page)

And he kept earning:

Three notes for waxing the xylophone.

Eight notes for learning the correct verses to “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Sixteen notes for tutoring Lenny on the kazoo.

By the time Mr. Halfnote’s emporium opened for business again, Calvin had—

“A hundred notes!” exclaimed Humphrey. “I bet you have a hundred notes.”

Calvin, who had retired to a corner of the music room so he could be alone with his money, nodded proudly.

“What are you going to buy?” asked Humphrey.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? But you could buy a glow-in-the-dark calculator, or a carton of number two pencils, or … or …”

Calvin shuddered. He didn’t want any of that stuff. All he wanted was notes—lots and lots of notes. He desired them. He craved them. His greatest joy was to earn them so he could watch his stack grow … and grow … and grow.

“You do know that it’s fake money,” Humphrey reminded him.

“Uh-huh,” said Calvin vaguely. He arranged his notes into stacks of ten.

“You can’t do anything with it except shop at Mr. Halfnote’s store,” persisted Humphrey.

“Uh-huh,” said Calvin again. He rearranged his notes into stacks of twenty.

“So what’s the point of saving it?” asked Humphrey.

Calvin stopped stacking. He looked up. “It makes me happy,” he said.

“Happy?” repeated Humphrey.

“Happy,” said Calvin.

“Uh-huh,” said Humphrey. Rolling his eyes, he walked away.

Calvin went back to stacking, counting, and sorting his notes.

That afternoon, after music, Mr. Jupiter worked with the children on word problems. “Let’s see how many of you can solve this one,” he said.

At the word
solve
, Calvin stuck a pencil in his mouth and started gnawing. He couldn’t help it. When he was nervous, he chewed. And math—his very worst subject—made him very, very nervous.

At the front of the room, Mr. Jupiter continued. “A troll named Igor bought his sister, Griselda, three bottles of Wart-Away costing twenty-four dollars each, and his other sister, Esmeralda, five bottles of Hair-Today-Gone-Tomorrow at eighteen dollars each. How much money did Igor spend on beauty aids for his sisters?”

At his desk, Calvin chomped and chewed and thought about his notes. He saw himself stacking, sorting, counting … twenty-four dollars … eighteen dollars …

The pencil dropped from his mouth and his hand shot into the air. “One hundred and sixty-two dollars!” he blurted. “The answer is one hundred and sixty-two dollars!”

The other students gaped.

“Th … th … that’s right,” stammered Mr. Jupiter, hardly able to believe his ears. “That’s absolutely right!”

“It is?” asked Calvin in amazement.

“It certainly is!” exclaimed Mr. Jupiter. “Would you like to try another?”

Calvin nodded and put the pencil back in his mouth.

“For the Needy Kitty Cat Food Drive, Ms. Bozzetto collected three hundred twenty cans of Seafood Frenzy,” said Mr. Jupiter. “Each cat gets forty cans. How many hungry cats will benefit from Ms. Bozzetto’s charity?”

The room fell silent. All eyes watched as Calvin did the calculation.

Just like before, he chewed, chomped, and thought about his notes. He saw himself stacking them into piles of forty … two piles, four piles, six piles …

“Eight!” cried Calvin. “Eight needy kitties.”

“Eureka, he’s got it!” shouted Mr. Jupiter, flinging his arms into the air.

“I’ve got it!” whooped Calvin. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

“It’s about time,” sniffed Stanford.

The next week, during music, Mr. Halfnote organized the class into the four parts of an orchestra. “Woodwinds sit here,” he instructed.

Recorders at the ready, Missy, Emberly, and Melvin sat where the music teacher pointed.

“And Melvin,” added Mr. Halfnote, “please play your instrument with your
hands
this time.”

Melvin nodded.

“Brass is here,” continued Mr. Halfnote.

Trumpet in hand, Humphrey took up his position. Ham sat next to him, groaning under the weight of his tuba, while Stanford settled beside him.

“What’s that?” asked Ham. He pointed to Stanford’s instrument.

“A conch shell,” replied Stanford.

“A conch shell?” repeated Humphrey.

In reply, Stanford raised the shell to his lips and blew.

Ba-looooga!

“Nice breath tones,” complimented Mr. Halfnote. He pointed to the next section. “Here’s where percussion plays.”

Jackie made her way toward her chair, carrying her wood block. She was followed by Rose and her triangle, Lenny with his cymbals, Bruce with his glockenspiel, and Calvin with his bongo drums.

“I wonder how many notes we’ll earn for this?” Calvin whispered to Bruce.

But Bruce was too busy tuning his instrument to answer.

“Last, but not least, will the string section please take their seats?” said Mr. Halfnote.

Carrying zithers and pushing harps, the rest of the class took up their positions.

Mr. Halfnote rapped his baton on the edge of his music stand for attention.

The fifth graders fell silent. They trained their eyes on their teacher.

There was a suspense-filled pause. Then Mr. Halfnote gave the downbeat, and instantly the orchestra burst into life.

Screeching!

Squawking!

Banging!

Honking!

The woodwinds, brass, percussion, and strings came together in an earsplitting, head-thumping crescendo that filled the room with—

“Music!” said Jackie in a wonder-filled voice. “We’re making music.” She banged even harder on her wood block.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Ashlee A. whispered to Ashleigh B. Ashlee A. paused in bowing to point out the goose bumps on her arm.

“Ba-looooga,”
went Stanford’s shell joyfully. “
Ba-loooga.”

The music faded.

And Lenny swiped away the tears coursing down his cheeks before anyone saw.

Mr. Halfnote bowed to his students.
“Bravo!”
he cried.
“Bravissimo.”

“Grazie,”
replied Ham. A look of wonder crossed his face. “Hey, I’m so musically inspired, I’m suddenly speaking Italian!”

“And I’m so inspired, I am going to give each and every one of you ten notes,” said the music teacher. He passed out the money.

Calvin stuffed his into his wallet.

But the others barely glanced at their notes. Letting them flutter to the floor, they picked up their instruments once more.

“Can we play again?” asked Humphrey.

“We certainly can!” exclaimed Mr. Halfnote.

“Wait a minute!” cried Calvin, pointing at the abandoned bills. “Are you just going to leave those?”

His classmates nodded.

“Then can
I
have them?”

His classmates nodded again.

Bolting over his bongo drums, Calvin eagerly snatched up the bills. His new and improved math skills told him there must be at least two hundred notes there.

Two hundred!

He couldn’t wait to stack them, count them, squirrel them away in his wallet.

He looked around at his poor noteless classmates.

Why did they all look so happy? Didn’t they know they were broke?

“Now can we play?” Humphrey begged the music teacher.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Halfnote. Grinning widely, he gave the downbeat.

Grinning just as widely, the fifth graders burst into music again.

Calvin played along. Halfheartedly slapping at his drums, he waited impatiently for the song to end.

The music swirled.

It curled.

It wound its way around the room until finally it found Calvin. Wrapping itself around him, it squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter still, until all he heard was the melody of the song. All he saw were the happy faces of his classmates. All he felt were the bongos beneath his fingers and the joyous thumping of his heart.

I’m making music
, he thought with sudden wonder.
Really making music. And—

He loved, loved, loved it!

More than tetherball.

More than number two pencils.

More, even, than his pile of musical notes.

“Bella! Bella!”
whooped Calvin, unable to contain the Italian suddenly surging through him.
“Bellissimo!”

He banged his bongos with gusto.

*   *   *

The next morning, the fifth graders arrived to find—

“Doughnuts!” exclaimed Ham. “
Bellissimo
times ten!”

“Who brought the doughnuts?” asked Humphrey.

Calvin stepped forward. “I did.” He blushed. “I wanted to do something nice after everyone gave me their notes yesterday.”

“But these are
real
doughnuts,” said Humphrey. “They had to have been bought with
real
money.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been saving my allowance like I was saving my notes,” said Calvin.

“Was?”
repeated Humphrey.

“Was,” said Calvin.

Mr. Jupiter winked playfully. “Can you calculate how many weeks’ worth of allowance you had to save to pay for these doughnuts?”

Calvin grinned. “Six,” he answered, “but who’s counting?”

Mr. Jupiter grinned too.

“Hold on a minute!” cried Humphrey. “What did you end up doing with all your notes? Did you finally change your mind about that calculator?”

“Who needs a calculator?” replied Calvin. “No, I found a better use for them.” He pointed at the guinea pigs’ cage.

Inside, the class pets were cuddled up in a cozy blanket of shredded treble clefs, breath notes, and Mr. Halfnote’s face.

“Comfy,” said Humphrey.

Then Calvin cried, “Let’s eat, and then …” He pulled out a set of bongo drums. “Anyone care for some music?”

   
MORAL: The true value of money is not in its possession, but in its use
.

AFTER MR. JUPITER REFUSED TO LET
them roast wieners over their Bunsen burners during science, the fifth graders stomped out into the cold February air for recess. They huddled together in a grumbling mass.

“All Mr. Jupiter thinks about is schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork,” said Jackie.

“‘Alphabetize these Latin verbs,’” muttered Rose.

“‘Memorize the periodic table of elements,’” groused Missy.

“‘Pasteurize your milk,’” added Ham.

Rose nodded. “That was
one
involved science lesson.”

Missy shrugged. “It got easier after we caught the cows.”

The students fell silent, remembering.

“I bet other fifth graders aren’t forced to work so hard,” Jackie went on. “I bet other fifth graders are allowed to roast wieners over their Bunsen burners.”

The others murmured in agreement.

And Lil waxed poetic:

The next morning, Mr. Jupiter could not come to class. Overnight he had developed a rash, a sore throat, a ringing in his ears, and smelly feet.

“Scarlet macaw fever,” he explained to Mrs. Struggles when he called to report his absence, “probably caught during last weekend’s trek across the Osa Peninsula … well … except for the smelly feet. I get those from my mother’s side of the family.”

“You poor thing,” sympathized the principal.

“Yes, stinky feet are a burden,” agreed Mr. Jupiter. “But have no fear, it’s just a touch of the bug. I should be back in the classroom tomorrow.”

“But what about today?” cried the principal.

“I can’t today, although I wish I could,” said Mr. Jupiter. “I really don’t like leaving my class in the hands of a substitute.”

Substitute?

Mrs. Struggles hastily said goodbye, then whipped out her substitute teacher list. She started dialing.

“Oh … um … uh … I’m … uh … busy today.… I’m … uh … uh … shampooing my … uh … uh … horse,” stammered the first sub on the list.

“I’m sorry, but I’m allergic,” fibbed the second sub.

“Allergic to what?” asked Mrs. Struggles.

“To all things fifth grade,” replied the second sub.

The third sub didn’t even bother with an excuse. As soon as he heard the words
fifth grade
, he hung up.

“What will I do?” wailed Mrs. Struggles. She flipped to the end of the list and read the last name. Beside it, the former principal had made a notation. It read, “Use only in emergency.”

Was this an emergency?

Mrs. Struggles pictured the fifth graders alone in their classroom.

“Ye gods!” she shrieked. Crossing her fingers, she dialed.

By the time the fifth graders filed into the classroom, their substitute teacher was waiting. Her braided hair was covered with sparkly barrettes shaped like bunnies, ponies, and kittens. On her right
thumb she wore a purple plastic butterfly ring. And with every step, her light-up tennis shoes flashed a brilliant pink.

“Good glorious morning, my bright-faced chickie-wickies,” she chirped. “Oooh, aren’t you all sooooo cute!” She swept Emberly into a hug.

“Who are you?” he demanded between twists and wiggles. “And what have you done with Mr. Jupiter?”

The substitute released Emberly and giggled. “Mr. Jupie-Wupie is playing hooky today, so I’m filling in for him. Isn’t that fun?” She scrawled her name on the blackboard. “That’s me, Miss Day.” Over the
i
she put a smiley face instead of a dot, then beamed at the class. “But you can call me by my first name if you like—Sunny.”

“Sunny?” repeated Humphrey.

“Sunny
Day
?” snickered Lenny.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” Miss Day giggled.

“Hey,” cried Bruce, “that’s
my
line!”

Lenny patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s just as lame no matter who says it.”

They headed to their seats just as Missy shrieked, “My desk! I’ve lost my desk.”

“Get serious,” snorted Stanford. “You can’t lose a desk.”

“But I did,” wailed Missy. “Yesterday it was here and today it’s gone.” She swiped at her eyes. “I lost everything.”