The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall (3 page)

Slowly—so slowly—she placed one hand on it. Marthur nearly stopped breathing. What if the eggs yelled for help? (If they could say good night, they could scream bloody murder.) She had to take that chance.

Trembling, she sneaked a peek at Ferlin. With a ruler (which looked a lot like a wand) the teacher was urging the rocket onward in a blast of rainbow stars. It surged around the light fixtures and began orbiting one. Ferlin watched in scientific triumph, oblivious to Marthur.

Suddenly, Marthur got the sweats. Ferlin
knew.
Ferlin always knew. Heart thumping and cartonless, Marthur raced back to her desk.

All day she festered. During recess she searched for a colorful bird or a beautiful blossom—the slightest sign that things would be okay. She saw some nice stuff. But the fact remained: As soon as she stole those dancing eggs (and she had to), she'd be a thief.

 

At noon everybody in the whole school was stuffed into the lunchroom, creating a fabulous hullabaloo. The little kids were eating pretty nicely. The older ones gobbled. Rufus and the bruisers were done eating. They were cruising for trouble.

Rufus grabbed a gob of paper-covered straws. “Watch me, guys!” He dipped a straw in somebody's mashed potatoes, blew like crazy, and shot the wrapper to the ceiling. The paper stuck. “WHOOPEE!” Rufus roared.

Rufus's minions grabbed straws, loaded them with potatoes, and shot the wrappers at the ceiling. Soon wrappers and wrappers and wrappers hung down like flimsy little stalactites. The rest of the kids just gawked.

“I'm gettin' Klunk!” Rufus yelled at them. “I'm telling what you guys did!” He and his rowdies scuttled away. Their laughter rang in the halls.

What were the kids going to do? They couldn't get the straw wrappers down. Klunk was going to blame them for the mess. Marthur was sitting with her friends, eating a peanut butter sandwich (with no peanut butter). Suddenly, she spronged up. She knew where her father kept a ladder. In a flash she hauled it out, scrambled up, and yanked the papers down. Two fifth graders held the ladder for her.

Then—zippo!—Marthur stashed the ladder and scooted to her seat. She put a finger to her lips. The kids sat like sphinxes, waiting.

Klunk roared in, his spies behind him. “Okay,” he blustered. “Number facts for a week for this little straw caper!” (He didn't know any number facts; that didn't matter.)

“What caper?” The kids started buzzing, looking puzzled.

Klunk pointed a fat finger at the ceiling. “That—” He nearly choked. “Rufus, you moron! You
oxy
-moron! There's nothing up there!” He spluttered and stalked out. All the kids glanced at Marthur. They clapped—silently.

“Hey, brain-o!” Rufus bellowed louder than usual. He was burned. He couldn't figure what had just happened, but he suspected Marthur. “You said you'd share your lunch with me.
Eggs.
Remember?”

He stood by a trash can, tipping it farther, farther, farther....

“
Don't do that!
” Marthur screamed. “You'll get them. After school.”

“I better.”

School was out. Kids were streaming from the dark brick corridors of Horace E. Bloggins like trails of noisy ants. Some were already biking away. Some were waiting (noisily) for the buses. By now most of them had seen the carving with the bizarre prediction about a king. “Are you the king?” a boy asked his friend. “I don't think so,” said the other boy, feeling his head for a crown. They laughed.

Last chance to filch the eggs. Marthur had a headache from worrying. Ferlin was going to hate her. But what could Marthur do? She had to keep her father out of trouble.

She hurried to the science room, the big coat flopping like a hound's loose skin. But on her way, she heard yelling. Bugged by the straw-paper incident, Dr. Klunk was making some first graders nail Jell-O to a tree. (Dr. Klunk didn't like first graders—or trees.) “The Jell-O stays put or you're doing laps, people! Fifty big ones! Now start nailing!” he hollered gleefully.

Marthur glanced over. The first graders were trying to swing at the nails, but they could barely lift the hammers. The Jell-O jiggled through their fingers and plopped to the ground before they could get a nail near it. Some of the kids were already dragging around the track, crying and crying. Marthur needed the eggs—NOW. But she couldn't stand watching the poor kids suffer.

“STOP!” she shouted. “I'll do the laps—for all of them!”

Dr. Klunk brightened. If Marthur ran all the laps (he couldn't figure out how many, but he knew it would be a lot), she'd collapse on the track. That would be excellent to watch.

“Hop to it, little missy! The rest of you get lost!”

Marthur's mind spun, trying to think of a way out. She crossed her fingers. “I've got a doctor appointment,” she fibbed, and felt horrible. “But I'll do double—tomorrow.”

Klunk stared at her from behind his wraparound shades. “Make my day.” He grinned.

Marthur heaved a huge sigh of relief and dashed for the science room. She knew Ferlin would still be there. She always stayed late.

“Hi, Ferlin,” she said limply.

“Hello, Marthur,” said Ferlin, bebangled with outlandish jewelry. “Something on your mind?”

Marthur got flustered. She couldn't very well say, “I'm gonna steal your dancing eggs.” She had to distract her—so she blurted, “I want to be a teacher! That's my dream.” She added, “Hold fast to dreams 'cause they are broken birds.”

“An unusual sentiment,” remarked Ferlin.

“It's a famous poem that means don't quit on stuff,” Marthur said. “I won't quit on teaching. Will you show me how?”

“I was wondering when you were going to ask,” Ferlin said mysteriously.

“
You knew about my dream?
”

“Since kindergarten.”

Marthur gaped. Finally she said, “So. Will you teach me?”

“Now?”

“Yes—please.” While Ferlin taught, she was in another world. She absolutely riveted on a topic and noticed nothing else. Once she got going, Marthur could easily snatch the eggs.

“Teaching is the finest job there is,” said Ferlin vigorously. “I would be
overjoyed
to show you its intricacies. But I'm on my way home. Instruction starts tomorrow.”

“OH NO!” Marthur yelped.

“What?”

“I—er—needtosharpenmypencil!”

“Go ahead. I'll get my things.”

Marthur rushed to the little cupboard with the weird spoon symbol on it. She fake-cranked the pencil sharpener like mad, keeping a wild eye on Ferlin. The second Ferlin's head was turned, Marthur opened the cupboard, whisked out the purple carton, and bundled it under her sloppy coat.

“Marthur...,” Ferlin said slowly, peering from under her bushy eyebrows.

Help! I'm caught!
Marthur thought, feeling lower than a dirt-digging worm.

“Would you snap off the light?”

Marthur nearly fainted. “Uh—sure.”

“Same time tomorrow, first teaching lesson.” Ferlin sparkled merrily as they went out. “Till then, ‘Hold fast to dreams'!”

Her heart thumping nearly through her chest, Marthur held fast to the stolen eggs.

In a panic Marthur lurched along the dim corridor, clutching her father's coat closed. She could feel the eggs jiggling inside the carton. And she was almost certain she heard them giggling.

Marthur's brain buzzed. Her very first teaching lesson was the next day. She should have felt like floating; instead she felt heavy as lead.
What have I done?
she thought.
I've burgled! I'm a thief! A crook! I'm as horrid as Rufus and Dr. Klunk!

Then she worried,
Ferlin knows. I know she knows. She always knows everything—even before it happens. “Hold fast to dreams. ” Right. Now
Ferlin will never teach me to teach. Even if I
do
learn, what teacher would filch mage eggs? A good teacher would never do such a thing! And what about Daddy? Klunk will find out what I've done, and he'll be out of a job!

Marthur spun around. “I have to take them back!” she said out loud, running toward Ferlin's room.

“
That'll
happen,” sneered Rufus, pouncing from a dark doorway. “Give 'em over or well pound you to jelly!”

He was surrounded by his meatball minions. They usually hung around after school to see if there were any kids left to pester. But this time they'd been hanging around waiting for Marthur.

“You don't
really
want them,” Marthur said, nonchalant outside, inside a total quiver.

“I really
do.
I'm gonna charge people oodles to watch 'em dance their little legs off. Even though I'm a kid, I'll be RICH. Then I won't have to get good grades like you, brain-o. That'll show my dad—”

“Show him what?”

“None o' yer beeswax, Einstein!”

“Why do you hate me?” Marthur blurted. “I never did anything to you.”

“Yeah? You do everything
right
, you—you-BRAIN-O!”

Rufus grabbed the carton, tore it open, and set the eggs on the edge of a ledge.

“Dance!” he snarled.

The eggs lay there on their gleaming white sides, their small shoes shining like black jelly beans.

“
Dance!
” Rufus yelled.

Not a wiggle. Not a jiggle.

“DANCE!”

“They're the wrong eggs,” Marthur said in desperation. “I made a mistake.” (Now she was a liar, too.)

“Right, nimble-wit. That's why they got feet.” Rufus gave the eggs a hard-boiled glare.

“Ya won't dance?” he fumed. His Big Plan was squelched. “Maybe you're good for something else—like
eating.
Come on, guys, let's cook the Dirty Dozen!”

Marthur screamed, “You can't do that!”

“Why not?”

“If you do, you won't get rich!”

“These lazy eggs aren't worth a dime, anyways!”

“But it's—it's—
murder
.”

“They're eggs, brain-o!” Rufus roared. “But since you care so much, you get to watch me boil 'em. In the
boiler
room!” He laughed and snorty-snorted, like a pig.

Rufus shoved Marthur along in front of him. As she stumbled home, Marthur racked her brain about what she'd done to make him hate her. And she racked her brain for a way to save Ferlin's eggs.

It's all my fault
, she thought.
Think fast or the little dancers are goners!

Marthur was undone. A waterwall of tears welled behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let Rufus see them. When they reached the boiler room, she fumbled with the doorknob, hoping to dart in quickly and slam the door on the hooligans.

“Get a move on, fumblethumbs,” snorted Rufus. “We've got cooking to do. The Dirty Dozen's goin' DOWN!”

Luther Snapdragon opened the door.

“Daddy!” The tears nearly gushed.

“Come in, everybody!” yelled Luther Snapdragon enthusiastically, removing his earmuffs. “It's always nice to see Martha's friends!” (He, of course, called her by her real name.)

Rufus and his pals swarmed in.

“Nice pipes!” Rufus shouted with fake politeness, seeing the ancient steam heater.

“Thank you, young man!” replied Luther Snapdragon, as the heater kronked and hissed.

“They have to go, Daddy!” cried Marthur urgently.

“They just arrived! And welcome they are!” stated Luther heartily.

“But, Daddy, it's
Rufus!
He's going to boil eggs!”

Marthur was jumping up and down as if fleas were nipping her legs.

“Eggs-cellent!” Luther Snapdragon joked. “The water's ready! I was boiling it for coffee!”

“
Eggs-cellent!
” Rufus grinned.

“Nothing tastier than a-negg!” shouted Luther with gusto. “Martha and I favor poached.”

Marthur was about to pop. Her father didn't know about Rufus because she hadn't told him. If she had, no doubt he would have smiled and spouted his solution to everything: “Hold fast, my dear! Show them you're a Snapdragon!”

“Mr. Snapdragon!” Rufus shouted, all smarmy. “I sure admire your daughter's brains!” To Luther, Rufus seemed to be a nice young fellow.

“She
is
quite bright!” yelled Luther with pride. (Marthur's photo was often in the local newspaper; she won lots of prizes at Horace E. Bloggins.)

Luther Snapdragon glanced at Rufus's (stolen) watch. “Oh, my word! Dr. Klunk wants me right now. Gotta go. Cheerio! Hold fast!”

“DADDY! WAIT!” Marthur yelled after him. But her throat was still sore from the night before. So the words scraped out in squeaks.

“Daddy can't help you now, megamind!” Rufus taunted. “Let's get to it!”

In a wink the Dirty Dozen were awash with water in a pot on top of a pipe. Steam clouded. The pipe hissed. The water burbled.

Rufus rubbed his hands together. “This is what you get for wrecking my plan! You won't dance, you lose, chumps!” He smirked at the twelve white lumps.

The water boiled faster. It roiled and rolled quite jollily—like in an old-time cauldron.

“STOP!” Marthur yelled. “
You're killing them!''
She flailed at the pot, hoping to dump it over. But the minions grabbed her first.

Marthur nearly dissolved. But she didn't. She stuck her chin out instead.

“Isn't cooking a gas?” Rufus gloated. “You're the Marthur Stewart (rhymes with
blooert
) of Horace E. Bloggins!”

The eggs thudded against one another like small stones. Strange sounds erupted from them. Suddenly—
crrrr-ick! crrrr-ock! crrrr-eek!
—they cracked open.

“Criminy!” Rufus screamed.

A dozen tiny dragons gleamed in the boiling water, eyes lit with devilment, hissing their heads off. And they were clawing their way out.