The Magical Ms. Plum (4 page)

“Hey, your baby brother called. He wants his pants back!” said Brad
.

“Where’s the flood, Hi-Pants?” said Becky Oh
.

She and Brad high-fived each other
.

Just as he had hoped—kids were being mean to him!

When Carlos sat down, he could barely breathe, his pants were so tight. By lunchtime his legs were numb. It was really uncomfortable pretending to be poor and sad. And Ms. Plum never even noticed how pitiful he was, anyway
.

Then he remembered Mindy. She had done a good deed and gotten that neat horse
.

Carlos did good deeds all the following day. He picked up dropped pencils, opened
doors, and let Eric cut in front of him in line at lunch. He even tried to get Jeremy to laugh by telling him a joke, but Jeremy just stared at him
.

Still, it was the thought that counted, right? Carlos looked hopefully at Ms. Plum
.

She smiled warmly at him, but that was all. No one was asked to go to the closet that day or for the next two weeks, long after Carlos had become tired of doing good deeds
.

So now he knew Rule 6. You couldn’t predict when or why or what would happen with the closet. All he could do now was wait and wait and wait…
.

Then Carlos had an awful thought. What if Ms. Plum never picked him? No, that wasn’t possible … was it?

Jovi didn’t speak English very well. Ms. Plum explained to them how Jovi had escaped with his family from a place in Africa where bad things had happened. Jovi had gentle brown eyes and a soft smile, like he wished he could say yes to everything.

Jovi never raised his hand for the supply closet, but even so, one bright fall day Ms. Plum called on him.

Ms. Plum was showing them the basics of classical fencing.

“Jovi,” she suddenly said.

And when he looked up from his homemade sword—a cardboard tube taped to a wooden handle—she held up an empty roll of tape, smiled, and nodded toward the supply closet.

Jovi smiled back and quickly went to the closet.

Back in the third row, Carlos slumped over his “sword.” He had never lived where really bad things had happened.

“Now watch carefully,” Ms. Plum said. “This is the en garde position. The position you take just before the fencing match begins.”

Jovi quickly came back with the tape. A bird streaked out of the closet behind him. It perched on a narrow pipe that ran just below the ceiling. It was a golden falcon with a beak that curved into a sharp point.

The falcon glared down at the classroom with glittering eyes.

“Awesome!” said Brad. “He’s not like a horse or a parrot or those squirrels. He’s a real wild animal.”

Brad was right. You could tell by the falcon’s fierce yellow eyes. And the way it jolted its head around, fast and sure and wary.

Nadia sucked her lip. The falcon looked like it would bite.

“Now, the key is to hold your sword lightly but with confidence,” Ms. Plum said, continuing with her lesson.

But Tashala couldn’t help herself. She
dropped her cardboard tube and took a piece of beef jerky out of her desk and held it up toward the falcon.

The falcon blinked. With a sudden high screech, the bird of prey launched itself from the pipe, swooped down on Tashala, and snatched the jerky in its claws. Tashala could feel the breeze from its wings. It flew back to the pipe and tore into the meat.

“Wow!” said Tashala.

Ms. Plum didn’t scold. In fact, she cocked her head, her brown eyes bright, as if Tashala and the bird were an interesting experiment.

With that, most everyone rushed to get food from their lunches and hold it up for the falcon—potato chips, a Twinkie, a pickle.

“Falcons don’t eat pickles,” said Becky Oh.

But Mindy ignored her and waggled the green slice toward the bird.

Jovi stood near the back of the room and smiled timidly.

At first when the falcon grabbed some food, it was cool. But then the bird kept swooping down on people, even when no one wanted it to anymore. Sometimes it would dive-bomb a kid’s head for no reason. Lucy
was sure the bird would bury its pointed beak in the back of her neck.

Pretty soon the students of Ms. Plum’s class had their necks hunched into their
shoulders or were cringing under their desks.

“We gotta get it back into the closet!” cried Eric as the bird jetted over his desk, screeching and scattering his papers.

No one asked Jovi what to do with his bird.

Eric tried flapping his jacket at it and shooing it toward the closet, but the falcon just yawned, showing a tiny black tongue.

Carlos stood right in front of the open closet door, waving some bologna.

“Look, food!” he cried.

For a minute it looked like Carlos’s idea would work. The falcon swooped toward him, but at the last second, the bird banked, grabbed the bologna in its claws, and zoomed back to its perch on the pipe.

Becky grabbed her cardboard tube and heaved it at the bird. “Go back where you belong, Feather-butt!”

“That won’t work,” said Brad. He picked up an eraser and threw it hard. He almost hit the falcon, who didn’t seem to understand that some people were throwing things at it.

And that’s when a voice from the back of the room said, “No.”

It took a moment for everyone to realize that it was Jovi.

Jovi’s shoulders were tight points under his shirt. It seemed like it made him nervous to have everyone look at him and to not say yes, but even so, he said, a second time, “No. No hurting.”

Some of the kids remembered that in a way, the falcon belonged to Jovi. Others remembered, too, about the bad things Jovi’s gentle eyes had seen.

“It’s not his fault he doesn’t want to go back into the closet,” Tashala admitted.

“Well, then what are we gonna do?” asked Brad.

Jovi jerked his chin toward the window. For a second he looked almost like a falcon himself, with his fine, sharp nose and the determined look in his dark eyes.

“Free,” he said.

They all looked at Ms. Plum.

She nodded.

“But I thought the animals couldn’t leave the room,” said Carlos.

“Each animal can choose for itself,” said Ms. Plum; she didn’t explain any further.

Tashala pulled down the top of one of the windows.

Amazingly, the falcon flew down from the pipe and perched on Jovi’s forearm. Jovi’s arm shook, but he carried the bird over to the window.

“Fly away now,” said Jovi. “Freedom for you.”

“Say, you’re really learning your English,” said Carlos.

Jovi straightened his shoulders. His dark eyes shone.

“I am being good with English,” he said proudly.

“You really are,” said Carlos.

“Screeeeeeee,” cried the falcon. Then it flapped its wings and flew out into the high blue sky.

The gloomiest kid in Ms. Plum’s room was Jeremy. Jeremy’s favorite word was
doom
. His favorite weather was wet. His favorite color was black.

Jeremy always wore black shoes, black socks, black pants, and a black T-shirt. When he grew up, he wanted a tattoo of a cobweb on his arm.

Jeremy never smiled because, he said, “It’s a weary, weary way.”

No one knew quite what that meant, but it was the sort of thing Jeremy liked to say.

“Who can get me a glue stick?” asked Ms. Plum one rainy October afternoon.

Jeremy slowly raised his hand, propping it with his other hand and letting his fingers hang pale and limp.

When Ms. Plum picked him, he walked in a weary, weary way to the closet.

Carlos let out a big, weary sigh, glanced at Ms. Plum, but knew it was pointless. He could come into class in a coffin and it wouldn’t make Ms. Plum pick him.

A moment later Jeremy stepped out of the closet with a small raven hunched on his shoulder. It was dark black, with black eyes and a black beak that looked too heavy for its head.

“Nevermore,” Jeremy said in a grimly satisfied way. “Nevermore.”

“Huh?” said Lucy.

Ms. Plum explained that Jeremy was referring to a famous poem by Edgar Allan Poe about a raven who only said “nevermore” to everything.

“‘Quoth the raven,’” said Jeremy with a faint nod of his head. “‘Nevermore.’”

“Quoth?” asked Eric.

“Means ‘said,’” explained Carlos.

Jeremy slumped back to his seat, noticing with satisfaction in the mirror how the bird crouched on his shoulder, looking as gloomy as midnight.

“Maybe your raven will say something,” said Eric.

“Beware,” said Jeremy, “for they are messengers of death.”

Nadia bit her lip.

Eric grinned and said, “Awesome!”

“Speak, dark one,” said Jeremy. “Tell them of their doom.”

“Pig snout,” said the raven.

“Pig snout? What’s that mean?” said Darma.

Jeremy frowned.

“Speak to us of bleakness,” commanded Jeremy. “Speak of sorrow.”

“Pig snout,” said the raven.

Darma and Mindy giggled.

Jeremy couldn’t believe it. “That’s not what ravens say,” he complained.

The raven hunched its dark shoulders. It looked very gloomy and woeful on Jeremy’s shoulder, but no matter what Jeremy did or said, all it would croak was “Pig snout.”