The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall (7 page)

 

“Don't die in class?” Marthur asked.

“Try not to do that, heaven knows. But embrace learning. Soak it up. So will your pupils.”

 

6. Humiliation is highly unaccaptable
.

 

“Teachers hold places of power,” said Ferlin. “To make pupils feel small is despicable.”

“Like bullying?”

“Bravo, my Marthur!”

 

7. Every pupil is of value
.

 

“Self-explanatory.”

 

8. Every pupil is of
equal
value
.

 

“Like Rufus?”

“
Everybody
.”

 

9. Learn from your pupils
.

 

“Yeah,” Marthur agreed. “Kids know a ton of stuff.”

 

10. Mercy is highly acceptable
.

 

“When you get a chance to be kind, grab it,” said Ferlin.

Marthur said, “I like that one.”

 

11. One to grow on: Laugh a lot
.

 

“I just tossed that in.” Ferlin laughed her head off.

Marthur suddenly panicked. “What if I mess up?” She worried about Rufus. Maybe she'd ruin him.

“You have tomorrow—and tomorrow and tomorrow—to do better.”

Throughout the lesson it had been weirdly quiet. No sign of Rufus. No sniggers. No snorts. No stones hitting the windows. Marthur wondered if Ferlin had cast a spell around her room—to keep him away for once.

It was very strange. Marthur's mind was so riveted on the lessons, she never once thought about the coming of the king or the spoon.

Ferlin clapped like a firecracker. A copy of “Ferlin's Perfect Rules of Teaching” flew into Marthur's hands.

“Well, there you have it, dear Marthur,” said Ferlin. “All you need to know about teaching.”

“That's it?”

“Yep. Study them well and you'll be ready—for anything.”

Funny. It sounded like Ferlin meant more than teaching.

“By the way,” Ferlin said as Marthur was leaving, “I've decided to relent about Rufus.”

“Golly day! Thanks!”

“If you can help him, I can, too. He won't be my pupil. Not like you. But I'll give him some dragon work to do.”

“Like what?”

“Don't be so nosy.” Then Ferlin added mysteriously, “You'll see.”

Porta Potties had sprung up at school like bright blue mushrooms.

“What're those doing here?” Marthur asked Rufus. She'd been tutoring him in the boiler room. Day after day, whenever she could. On fractions and stuff like that. Using Ferlin's Rules to keep on track. Nobody went to class anymore (and nobody cared) but Rufus and her. Who would've believed it?

Rufus was doing okay. He was actually trying. (So hard sometimes, he even got headaches.) He'd pretty much dumped his thuggy friends. He was still gruff, but with less huff and puff. Of course, it didn't hurt that Ferlin was giving him dragon work (whatever that was). Because of it, he always smelled like smoke. And sometimes his eyebrows—or his clothes—were singed. Funny thing, he wasn't after the spoon anymore.

Now they were outside taking a break. Rufus told Marthur, “Klunk hired a wrestler, Slam-Bam Sammy” (rhymes with
whammy).

“How come?”

“To loosen the spoon for him. Sammy sweated and grunted and strained like crazy. But the spoon didn't budge. Slam-Bam Sammy got so mad, he stamped his feet and blubbered like a baby.”

Marthur grinned at that.

“After Slam-Bam's failure, Klunk gave a big fat order,” Rufus said. “KEEP YOUR STINKING HANDS OFF THE SPOON! Nobody's allowed in the boys' bathroom but him.”

“So it's Porta Potties or bushes?”

“You got it,” said Rufus. “The kids and teachers planned to swarm the bathroom today. Take over. But Klunk outsmarted them.”

“How?”

“He's called in Grease-ball Burgers. Free burgers all around. He can work away at the spoon while everybody eats.”

“Aim for the stomach,” joked Marthur.

A roar filled the Horace E. Bloggins parking lot. Three Grease-ball Burgers trucks rolled up. Cheers erupted from students and teachers as guys in white caps began doling out free eats.

“Gotta go,” said Rufus.

“What about fractions?”

“Burgers first.” He cracked a crooked smile and ran.

Marthur didn't feel like a burger. Or anything. Not even bacon.

All she could think of was Dr. Klunk somehow jimmying the spoon from the bathroom wall. Somehow becoming king. She scuffed along the halls lost in those dark thoughts.

Then, by chance (or was it?), Marthur found herself outside the boys' bathroom. The door was blocked by barbed wire and lots of prickery cactus. Everything was still.

Then a bloodcurdling yell came from inside. Dr. Klunk!

“HELP! IT'S GOING TO EAT ME ALIVE!”

What was going to eat him? The spoon? How could a spoon eat anything? Marthur didn't ponder that long. Dodging the prickers, she just rocketed in.

Marthur skidded in and found Dr. Klunk cowering in a corner. He was shrieking the tiles off the walls. “It's gonna eat me alive! It's gonna eat me alive!”

Ferlin's grimly griffin loomed beside Klunk, booming a ditty as if it were a hymn:

 

“
Forsooth I shall eat thee, thou wretched foul man.

I'll devour thee so sweetly—and SLOW as I can.

First I'll rip off thine head, then rend thine black heart.

O' hey
,
nonny nonny, the feast will be bonny
.

O' hey, nonny nonny, is't thou ready to start?
”

 

Its tawny eyes glowed. Its razor beak gleamed. Its sickle claws glinted. The fig-loving beast was about to seize him (and squeeze him) like a great big fig and devour him, wraparounds and all! Poor Dr. Klunk! Marthur didn't like him, but she didn't want him
eaten!

“STOP!” she yelped. She looked around wildly for something to fend off the griffin—but not injure him. And so it was, in a mad lunge, that Marthur grabbed for the spoon.

“Spoon,” she cried in a frazzle, “I
really
need you! Not for me! But for my principal!”

The room grew oddly quiet. So did Klunk. Marthur could almost feel the silence. Like light. Time hung suspended. Marthur felt strange. And wistful, holding this fistful of mysterious spoon. Then an eerie humming—a silvery tintinnabulation—began spooling through the boys' bathroom, so beautiful it wrenched her heart. It sounded like music from afar—like the lovely thrumming of a star.

“Please, spoon, come out,” Marthur pleaded, her eyes brimming. “Dr. Klunk is about to be eaten.” She thought of her father's worthy poem, and she held fast. Marthur closed her eyes. She tugged on the handle with all she could muster. The spoon slipped out, as though it had been stuck in butter.

The spell was broken. The griffin sniffed Klunk's coat. Then, as delicately as a lady tasting tea cakes at a party, it plucked a fig from Klunk's lumpy pocket, ate the sweet fruit, and ambled out.

Marthur stared at the beautiful spoon glittering and glowing in her hand. She was absolutely and utterly mystified. Slam-Bam Sammy (and everybody else) must have loosened it up.

Klunk suddenly came to himself. “I HATE figs!” he snarled. “My pockets are stuffed with the rotten things! Who planted that beast bait on me? I bet it was that infernal Ferlin woman!”

Then Dr. Klunk looked down. He saw the wondrous spoon in Marthur's hand. His eyes bulged like an evil toad's. He licked his chops and leered from ear to ugly ear.

“Well, well, well,” he sneered. “What have we here?”

Dr. Klunk snatched the spoon from Marthur. He grinned grotesquely.

“Thanks, little missy.” And he hotfooted it for the office.

Klunk snapped on the school loudspeaker and blurted: “Attention! Stop stuffing your faces, everybody! Get to the auditorium!”

His voice screaked like a short circuit. Everybody moved quick. (Even the burger guys.) Maybe an earthquake was coming. Or a tidal wave. Or an invasion of frogs. In no time, all of Horace E. Bloggins School was packed into the auditorium.

“I yanked the spoon from the bathroom wall! See?” Klunk blustered, waving it like a shillelagh. “I now proclaim myself—”

“The fattest liar on the face of the earth!” blared Rufus. “I saw the whole thing. Marthur pulled out that old spoon!”

The throng gasped so deeply, it nearly sucked all the air from the room. Marthur was flabbergasted (and touched) that Rufus had spoken up for her.

“He's spouting bunk!” shouted Klunk.

Rufus had a reputation for prevarication. So now—heavens to mercy!—nobody believed him! It got very quiet in the auditorium. Everybody looked worried out of his mind. Holy hasenpfeffers! Klunk was going to be king. Nothing could stop him!

Suddenly the air rang like a gong. “Feign not, blackguard! I, too, bear witness,” intoned a voice that only a Spoon of Power could possess. It was passionately angry. It was a right regal spoon and would not brook the shenanigans of the blasted buffoon.

With a wrench, it wrested itself from Klunk's grasp. For a moment it shivered in midair right in his face. Then—it thwacked him on the head, like cracking a great big hard-boiled egg.

“Ow!”

Klunk ran.

The archaical (but nimble) spoon gave chase.

“Rotter! Rogue! Rascal! Scoundrel! Scalawag! Wretch! Blackguard! Churl! Miscreant! Villain! Vile varlet! Blot! Blight! Blister! Plague! Calumnious knave!” it raged.

Whack!
It smacked him again.

“Ow!”

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Everybody cheered.

“Enough!” cried Marthur. “Stop!”

At once the venerable spoon obeyed.

“Your wish is my command, O faire liege lady-king.”

It slipped itself into her hand.

“I am called X-Cauliflower, Your Highness,” the spoon apprised her. (
X-Q
Marthur realized.
Like on the egg carton!
)

“I am called Marthur,” whispered Marthur shyly.

She glanced up. She saw her dear father beaming at her—and crying. She saw all the kids she'd ever helped cheering and cheering. She saw Ferlin arrayed in full regalia, smiling and proudly twirling her mustache. (That is, she would have been if she'd had one. She was twirling a frizzy hank of hair.)

Ferlin looked at Marthur with love. “Hail!” she said.

“Please, don't do that.” Marthur blushed.

“Looky there!” somebody shouted. Twelve eggs, now solid gold, came razzmatazzing in. Rufus was with them. He waved his hands just so, and the eggs split open to reveal twelve golden dragons, fizzing and spritzing like sparklers.

“Behold the Dragons of the Realm,” said Ferlin, as the creatures swelled, bigger and bigger. “They will protect you from anything, my king—and provide fine fireworks for your coronation.”

“They're good at that.” Marthur laughed. “But I can't be king,” she whispered, embarrassed by the fuss. “All I did was pull out a spoon.”

“Ah! But you acted out of mercy and kindness,” said Ferlin. “Just what a good monarch needs. You could have let the griffin gobble Klunk.”

“I can't be king,” Marthur insisted. “I'm only ten. I don't know anything.”

Ferlin said gently, “The rules for kinging are pretty much like the rules for teaching.”

Marthur was amazed. She finally said, “Except for homework?”

“That's up to you, King Marthur.”

And so (Hold fast!) Marthur's dream came true. Though she was not a teacher, she was a king—which was more or less the same.

What a magnificent time for the Snapdragon family! For everybody!

One week later, amid a great hubbub of excitement (with X-Cauliflower beside her), King Marthur took charge of Horace E. Bloggins School.

Immediately, King Marthur made some changes:

She gave illuminated textbooks to every single kid at Bloggins. She asked the woodshop class to make a round table, so there would be no special seats at meetings. She made Dr. Klunk the janitor. Her adored father became principal. (Not many schools had a principal
and
a king, but the Snapdragons were a team.) Of course, Ferlin remained Marthur's dear adviser.

What about Rufus Turk? He was named the Bloggins Dragon Keeper, in charge of all school special effects. For “gallantly bearing witness under no duress whatsoever,” Ferlin presented Rufus with his own personal dragon. (That really wowed his father!)

Last, so that no kid would ever go hungry, King Marthur proclaimed:

 

The cafeteria will forever serve
—

FREE BACON!

T
ONY
J
OHNSTON
's numerous books for children include
It's About Dogs,
illustrated by Ted Rand,
Very Scary,
illustrated by Douglas Florian, and
The Day of the Dead,
illustrated by Jeanette Winter. She lives with her family in California.