Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas by Richard Scrimger Page A

the jacket hang over the first part of the group’s name. I can see the second part: IMP IZKET. Brad waggles his eyebrows at Patti, who simpers and sucks her braces. I think she even blushes.
    “Guess what, girls? I saw our supply teacher in the parking lot.”
    “She drives a car?” I can’t believe it. “You sure it wasn’t a horse and buggy?”
    He smiles uncertainly. “Horse and buggy?”
    “Don’t mind Jane,” says Patti. “What do you want to do now, Braddie?”
    Braddie? Braddie?
    The playground monitor is a ginger-mustached man, with a chest like a barrel and long bare hands thatstick out of the bottom of his sleeves like pitchforks. His eyes glitter behind little glasses. Mr. Gebohm.
    How can I convince him to let us have the gym tonight?
    Mr. Gebohm is the gym teacher and coach. He’s new this year. I don’t know him very well, and don’t like what I know. He’s a hard man. His expression is hard. His heart is hard. Even the
G
at the front of his name is hard.
    I walk up to him with my second-best smile. “Mr. Gebohm? I have a favor to ask you.”
    “Who are you?” he asks. “You don’t play basketball.” He turns away from me and scans the playground.
    I smile harder. “Jane Peeler. Actually, it’s about the gym that I want to talk to you.”
    “Gym?”
    “Yes. I wonder if–”
    “What Do You Think You’re Doing?” When Mr. Gebohm yells, he sounds like an advertising slogan. Every word counts. He hurries toward a knot of little kids. I follow.
    “Hey, Jane,” calls Michael from the climbing bars. “Watch this!”
    Why do I turn to watch? I don’t like Michael. I don’t like him when he’s being his normal loudmouthed self. I don’t see any improvement when he’s doing pull-ups on the climbing bars.
    “You Think You’re Going To Be Popular? You Think She Likes That?” Mr. Gebohm is yelling at Jiri.
    There’s a ring of little kids, grade ones and kindergartners, surrounding Jiri. There usually is. He gets along with them. In a way they’re all of an age.
    “Huh?” says Jiri. He’s giving a little girl a ride on his back. He’s smiling and panting earnestly, running up and down. She’s pulling his hair and telling him to go faster.
    Mr. Gebohm lowers his voice. “Did you hear me, big guy? I asked if you thought she liked it.”
    Jiri takes a second to work it out. “Uh-huh,” he says.
    “‘Uh-huh.’ What Kind Of Answer Is That?” He reaches his pitchfork hands toward the little girl, tries to pluck her off of Jiri’s back. She clings like a scab.
    I want to tell Mr. Gebohm to stop bothering Jiri. But I can’t. I don’t want to make him mad at me. He’ll never give up the gym if he’s mad at me. I look around for help. Brad is watching the whole scene. I wave. He turns away.
    “Are You Stupid, Kid? Is That It? You Are, Aren’t You? You’re Just Stupid.”
    “Stop that!” I say.
    The words pop out of me like sweat. I can’t help them. I can’t stand the idea of Mr. Gebohm calling Jiri stupid.
    Startled, he turns to me. “You?”
    I open my mouth, when I hear a familiar voice from the climber.
    “Take that!” it says. Next thing I know, a snowball hits Mr. Gebohm right in the back of the head.
    No snowballs are allowed on our school yard. None at all. I don’t know what they’re afraid of – little kids getting hurt, probably. I bet they aren’t afraid of gym teachers getting hit.
    He whirls around. “Who Did That?” he shouts. His eyes are slits behind his glasses. The snowball is melting down the back of his neck. I bet it’s melting fast – his neck is so hot. He’s so mad, there’s steam coming off him.
    “Oh, sorry, sir,” calls Michael, from the climber, with a smile on his face. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was aiming … um … somewhere else.”
    I relax. I don’t mind Michael getting in trouble. He’s used to it, and he can handle it.
    Jiri stands still with the little girl on his back.
“Do
you like this?” he asks,