“Danny. My name is Danny Ormont.”
“I want your given name…understand?”
“Sure, I understand. And, the name I’m giving you is Danny!”
“Never mind.” Unamused, the teacher pointed to her subsequent victim. “Next?
…Your Name?”
“Andy.”
“Andy? …Andy what?”
“And-dee band played on!”
The class laughed at his insolent remark.
“That’s enough!” The teacher slammed the desk, and her scholars jumped. “Think you’re funny, Drew?”
“Drew–er!”
“Drew? …Or, Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes…ma’am?”
“You’re trying my patience! …Drew or Andrew?”
“That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“My name.”
“What name?”
“Drewer, Andrew!”
“I asked you first!” the teacher stomped her foot. “Drew or Andrew?”
“Exactly!”
“What?”
“I just told you.”
“But, you haven’t said anything!” the woman insisted. “Drew or Andrew?”
“Bingo!” Andy cheered. “You got it!”
“Got what?”
“My name! My whole name!”
“I want your first name.”
“Then, stop calling my last name first!”
“OK! So, what is your first name?”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s not?”
“Correct.”
“Andre Dewer!” the teacher fumbled. “Andraw Dier! Andew Drier!”
The class burst into hysterics.
“Drewer,” the child corrected. “D-R-E…”
“Dewer, Drier – whatever!” the woman barked. “Tell me your first name!”
“Oh, Andy’s fine by me...”
“I simply will not tolerate nicknames! Is that perfectly clear, class?” Too afraid to speak, the group nodded in silence.
“Yes, Mrs. Fishbone,” Andy retorted.
“FISHBINE!!! It’s Mrs. Fishbine!”
Danny muttered something under his breath.
“I heard that!” the teacher snapped. “Care to repeat it?”
Andy was stoked. “I thought you heard him.”
“Never you mind,” she hollered. “…Out with it Daniel.”
“Bone, bine – whatever…” Danny muttered, staring at the floor.
“I’m warning both of you,” the lady scolded. “You’re skating on thin ice.”
The teacher proceeded to take attendance competing against a ubiquitous undertone.
“Quiet, boys!” She blindly accused with her nose wedged in her roll book. “Certainly my girls would never be so rude.” The boys sulked under the blanket of false accusation. The room was a morgue. The teacher completed her task serenaded by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights.
“After today’s follies,” Mrs. Fishbine sneered. “I expect all you boys to—”
“Are they ready to go?” asked a man, stepping into the room.
“Don’t you knock?” The stranger paid her no mind.
The man consulted his watch. “You’re running late.”
“Lucky for these boys.” She pointed to the back corner. “Lest they—”
“Really???” Danny blurted. “You mean, we don’t have to spend the day with you?”
“Don’t sound so relieved!” Mrs. Fishbine shooed the children like flies. “Class dismissed.”
“Quick!” Andy instructed, grabbing his friend’s arm. “Follow me!”
“Why the rush? I thought…”
“Tomorrow will be a full period,” she warned as the students rose. “Be prepared to work!” But, her ominous words were lost in a symphony of sliding chairs.
Hugging the wall, the two misfits skirted the masses to be first in line. The others promptly fell into formation, segregated by gender.
“Gotta beat the heat. Ole Fishfry’s gonna blow, and I...”
“Just a minute, gentlemen!” Mrs. Fishbine’s chilling words froze the boys in their tracks.
“Wow…” Danny gasped, exchanging glances with Andy.
“…See? Told ya!”
“Is something the matter, Edna?”
“You should know better than to question me, Stanley.”
“Don’t beat around the bush.” The man was in no mood for guessing games. “If you have something to say, say it!”
“These fine sirs have all forgotten something important!”
“Oh?” the man wondered, glancing around the room. “Their jackets?”
“No…their manners!” the prudish lady barked. “Ladies first!” Mrs. Fishbine demanded the boys take their seats while waving the girls toward the door. An excruciating minute passed in silence until the boys were permitted to follow suit. Watching her prisoners form a line parallel to their female classmates, Mrs. Fishbine relegated command to her counterpart.
“They’ll never fit through the doorway like that, Edna,” the man sighed. “C’mon, single file, please…” The man directed the students to come forward, alternating rows in boy-girl fashion as they passed over the threshold. Once out in the hallway, he escorted the children to the safety of his class.
Science Class:
The children entered the room and plastered their backs the wall. Danny was overcome by a sense of solace welcomed by a fountainhead of warmth.
“I am Mr. Foster,” a soft voice said. “Please, take any seat you like.” The cadets remained at attention awaiting further instruction. Mr. Foster was perplexed. “Please…I won’t bite,” he smiled. “I promise.”
One boy spoke on behalf of the rest. “Maybe you’d like the girls to go first?”
“There’s no favoritism here,” Mr. Foster assured. “You are all equal.”
Reluctantly, the students dispersed. Friends flocked to adjacent seats and wiggled behind desks arranged in a large horseshoe configuration. Danny and Andy found neighboring chairs along the back wall followed by the feather-haired boy. The bully positioned himself one seat over from the new kid forging a no man’s land between the two. Instantly, all the seats were occupied except for that hot seat. The horseshoe appeared to be in desperate need of dental work with its broken smile split in the middle.
“I confess,” the man said. “It may take me awhile to learn your names.” At his cue, the children introduced themselves while the teacher took roll.
“We’ll be exploring math and science together…” Mr. Foster began. The students detected a high degree of sincerity in his words. He had the patience of all the saints put together. Unlike any teacher before, Mr. Foster addressed the children as if they were his peers. He was neither condescending nor crass. Soon, the class was hypnotized by his melodic cadence.
“…So, this year, we’ve decided to try something new,” Mr. Foster concluded. “Often, science will be taught along with the math.” Eyes popped open and jaws dropped in surprise. “Why do you think we’d do this?”
Not one hand was raised. The children were still too timid to volunteer their thoughts. As he awaited answers, the teacher studied their leery faces.
“Ok, everybody up!” Mr. Foster raised his palms, motioning for his students to rise. “C’mon, up and at ‘em.”
Hands caressed aching brows, furrowed in confusion. Darting eyes frantically scanned puzzled faces, but not a clue could be found.
“Make a big circle in front of the desks,” Mr. Foster directed. “Spread out a little…there, that’s better…now be seated.”
Quietly, the children did as they were told and sat crossed-legged on the floor.
“Now, that ought to help everyone relax,” Mr. Foster took a seat on the floor, as well. All eyes were glued upon the teacher wondering what he might do next. “Let me share a little secret,” Mr. Foster hinted. “Everyone huddle up.”
r /> The students squeezed together, shoulder to shoulder, until it hurt. Rising upon their knees, the girls and boys leaned inward, gravitating toward their teacher.
“Sharing is the secret to good grades,” Mr. Foster whispered. “Class participation is critical.” The students hung on his every word.
“We’ll be sharing ideas in open discussions,” Mr. Foster continued. “So, we must not be afraid to share our thoughts.” Noggins nodded like bobble-headed dolls. “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes,” Mr. Foster encouraged. “That is called learning!” His words tickled his students’ ears, and a light chuckle eased the tension. “So, why teach science and math together?” Mr. Foster repeated. “Have we gone mad?”
The class laughed freely now as protocol melted into pleasantries. Hands flew in the air. Mr. Foster pointed to the participating children one at a time.
“Because, like, in science you have to count and measure stuff?” one girl suggested.
“Good,” Mr. Foster praised. “What else?”
“Maybe you’re always trying to find answers?” a boy offered.
“All these are great ideas,” Mr. Foster confessed. “But, there’s something more.”
The class was lost in thought when Danny raised his hand. “Because the math comes from the science!”
The class looked at Danny as if he had sprouted three heads.
“Well done!” Mr. Foster exclaimed. “What made you think of that?”
“Because you really can’t have one without the other.”
“Excellent!” The instructor smiled. “You’re right on the money, Danny.”
“Daniel, if you prefer.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Not me. It’s Mrs. Fishbine.”
“Mrs. Fishbine prefers to be called Daniel?”
“No!” Danny giggled. “She doesn’t care much for nicknames, and I just thought...”
“So, don’t call her Nick,” Mr. Foster smiled. “Besides, this isn’t her class.”
Danny felt the reigns of command slacken. Never had he met such an affable teacher. “You’re right!” Danny flashed a bashful grin. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“So!” The man rubbed his hands together. “Is everyone prepared for launch?”
“Lunch?” a voice cheered.
“Launch…” Mr. Foster boasted. “The great space race blasts off tomorrow!”
“There won’t be a tomorrow if Mrs. Fishbine has her way,” a husky boy muttered.
“Yeah, no tomorrow…” his echo lamented.
“Why so glum? Is school really that terrible?”
“It is when we must fear the Fish.”
“Mrs. Fishbine?” The man scratched his head. “How did this lady make you all so miserable?”
“All it took was one word – homeroom.”
“You must be mistaken. Did she actually say that?”
“Well, no…not exactly, but that’s what she meant.”
The children burst into a boisterous squabble. Mr. Foster raised one finger to his lips and waited. The message was clearly received. Silence had prevailed. “Please, one at a time!” the man insisted. “I believe I was talking to… to…?”
“Barnegat, sir.”
“Barnegat?”
“Yo!”
“Yes, sports fans!” his partner touted, posing his thumb like a microphone. “It’s jammin’ Jimmy Barnegat, defensive tackle, first string.”
“Oh, I see, and you are…?”
“Thompson,” he squeaked. “Billy Thompson.”
“So, you like football, do you, Billy?”
“How’d you know?”
“Just a wild guess,” Mr. Foster smiled. “What position do you play?”
“Safety,” the boy grimaced. “…Or, water boy depending on the coach’s mood.”
Everyone laughed–including the teacher. “Now, as I was saying, this will be your homeroom…”
“But, Mr. Foster!” The jock raised his hand after the fact. “She did say first thing…”
“Yes, that’s right…only on Tuesdays.”
“Wonderful!” the sports anchor cheered. “She didn’t say that!”
“Tuesdays – first period,” Mr. Foster clarified. “You’ll still go to her class each day.”
“Darn…” Billy sighed. “I knew it was too good to be true.” Barnegat shot his buddy a dirty look.
“There, that’s settled.”
“That may be what she meant,” Barnegat doubted. “But, that’s not what she said.”
“Check the schedule if you don’t believe me,” Mr. Foster asserted.
“Schedule? Heck, I didn’t even get a program…ouch!” Barnegat elbowed his friend in the ribs.
“Didn’t Mrs. Fishbine provide your class schedules?”
“The warden?” the stocky one scoffed. “She gave us nothin’ but heartache.”
A chorus of “yups” and “uh-huhs” bubbled from the cynical crowd.
The teacher excused himself from the circle. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Well, she was a little harsh on us,” Barnegat explained.
“Yeah,” Billy shook his head. “That ref made some bad calls…”
Barnegat cocked his elbow once more, but Thompson was quick to counter.
“I see…” The man rummaged through his files. “Ah, here they are!”
“What’s this, ladies and gentlemen?” the broadcaster goaded the crowd. “Why, it’s unprecedented, sports fans! He’s pulling out the rule book!”
Barnegat cringed. “Off sides, Billy, off sides!” he whispered, jabbing his friend in the side.
“Here, read this,” Mr. Foster declared. “Take a class schedule and pass the rest.”
Wisps of surprise spread like wildfire long before the news fell in Danny’s lap. The boy handed off the stack, catching snippets of an ensuing debate: …this isn’t right …see for yourself …she made it pretty clear…
Danny studied the discombobulated agenda, but it defied logic. Only one thing was crystal clear. Printed on the top line was the name of the true homeroom teacher, Mr. Foster. Still, the usurper’s motives puzzled Danny only half as much as this enigmatic timetable.
“There it is in print, folks…” Mr. Foster declared. “Now, what do you say?”
“Well,” Billy consoled, “at least she won’t get the homeroom advantage!” Barnegat grunted at his fanatical friend; the others snickered at his jock-like jargon.
The man rejoined the circle “Wanna know a secret?” Mr. Foster scooted closer, and the children did the same. “You know, you don’t have to fear Mrs. Fishbine – just respect her.”
Barnegat frowned. “Easy for you to say, coach.”
“Not so easy. It’s all give and take. How do you think I became your homeroom teacher?”
“…And, all-time Champeen!” Billy blurted into his thumb. “Three cheers for the Champ!” The class erupted into applause. The man took a bow, but the ruckus persisted. At last, the man motioned for time out. “Would the Champ care to say a few words?”
“Sure, Sport…” Mr. Foster spoke into the imaginary mic. “Just don’t dump punch all over me!” Laughter rippled across the room.
The announcer shuttled the mic between host and guest. “Talk now, punch later.”
“I just want to say I’m playing this game under protest.”
“But, Champ, you won…”
“True, but I must get to the bottom of this.” Mr. Foster consulted his watch. “I’ll simply ask her at recess. Speaking of which…” The eager crowd sprang to their feet and stampeded toward the exit.
“Champ demands rematch!” Billy blurted into his thumb. “Film at eleven!”
Morning Recess:
On the teacher’s cue, two lines materialized at the rear exit – one for girls and one for boys. Mr. Foster escorted his students into the schoolyard where they polarized into two main groups. The girls gravitated to the playground to gossip while the boys
congregated for kickball. Danny headed toward the kickball field when he spied Andy. The free thinker daydreamed on a bench beneath a lone oak in a vast no-man’s land forged between the polarized masses.
“Wanna play some kickball?” Danny took a seat beside his new found friend.
“I’m tired of kickball…”Andy sighed. “It’s the same thing every year.”
“Don’t they play anything else?”
“No, they never grow tired of it.”
“Maybe it’s time someone taught them something new.”
The two scratched at the dirt, mulling over this idea in silence. Nearby, Mr. Foster and Mrs. Fishbine watched over the playground like shepherds tending a flock.
“Edna, did you give my students their class schedules?” Mr. Foster asked.
“Our students, Stan, our students! Besides, dispensing of schedules is a homeroom chore.”
“I see. Speaking of which, what did you happen to say about homeroom?”
“Homeroom?” She collected her thoughts. “…Oh, you mean about Tuesdays?”
“That’s not what they heard.”
“They weren’t listening.”
“So, you did explain about homeroom?”
“I said it once. Weren’t you listening…Stan?”
“Did you actually instruct the children to report to you each morning?”
“Had they been listening, as asked twenty times before mind you…they would have known better.”
“Then, you did try telling them?”
“Honestly, why should I try if they’re not going to listen?”
“I’m sure they would have listened if you honestly tried…”
The lady shrugged. “Must we quibble over such trivialities? Clearly, they were not paying attention!”
“I assure you, they would have listened…had you merely asked.”
“Maybe next time they’ll try listening in the first place!”
“Maybe next time you’ll give them something worth listening to!”
“Unlike you, Stan, I refuse to talk if they refuse to listen.”
“And, they are not going to listen if you are not going to talk!”
“But, I was talking…”
“Barking orders doesn’t count, Edna. You have to talk to them, not at them.”
“Don’t bark at me! I’ll start talking after they start listening!”
“Give ‘em a break, ok?” the man offered. “Meet them halfway. Heck, you were young once…weren’t you?”
“Stanley! …Bite your tongue!”
“At my old school,” Danny continued. “We’d play baseball and frisbee and stuff.”
“Where was that?”
“St. Swithin’s School for Boys. We had to make our own fun.”