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

twisting around to look up at her. He has whiskers – the only one in grade 7.
    The girl shrieks and pulls his hair. “Go, Jiri, go,” she cries. He trots off.
    Mr. Gebohm crooks his hand at Michael. “Come Here, You!” he says.
    I think about asking him the favor, but now doesn’t seem like the right time. I turn back to the school. Patti has Brad in a headlock. He doesn’t seem to mind.

First class after lunch is math. Our three-million-year-old supply teacher reads a question from the textbook in her ancient, reedy voice, and then looks up and says: “So, what’s the answer?” The question is one of those word problems, where two trains are rushing away from each other at different speeds, and Agatha is three times as old as Gerald will be in two years, and the white box weighs more than black box but only half as much as the red box.
    “If one mousetrap catches one mouse every day,” she reads, slowly, “and two mousetraps catch four mice, and three traps catch nine mice, and four traps get sixteen mice, then how many traps will be needed to catch twenty-five mice?”
    Jiri drops one of his letter blocks. He uses them to spell out the words he’s practicing. GOAT BOAT ROAD are some of them this week. I know this because I helped him yesterday. In our class the quick learnersget to help the slow learners. I’m usually one of the quickest, and Jiri is always the slowest.
    “Pick that up,” says the teacher. “In
my
day we didn’t get colored blocks to play with, and if we did, we wouldn’t have dropped them. What’s your name?”
    “Me?” says Jiri, bending quickly to pick up the block. “My name is Jiri Holocek my family comes from Prague that is in Europe.” He says this all in one breath, the way he always says it. He has a big smile. “Pleased to meet you,” he says.
    She frowns. “Did you hear the question, Jiri? How many traps would it take to catch twenty-five mice?”
    I look around the class and see my own embarrassment reflected in other people’s faces. I wish Michael were here to help, but he’s still in the principal’s office for throwing snowballs. “Uh, it’s not fair to ask Jiri that question,” I say at last.
    She peers at me. “And why not? In
my
day teachers could ask students questions. They were even encouraged to do it.”
    “Uh, Jiri is….” All right, I don’t know how to put it. “He’s …”
    “No problem, Jane,” says Jiri. “I can answer the question.”
    I squirm uncomfortably. “But …” I begin, and then stop.
    I poke Patti, sitting in front of me. She shrugs her shoulders and doesn’t turn around. Justin fiddleswith the zipper at the top of his sweater. Brad is sharpening his pencil, collecting the shavings in a neat pile on the corner of his desk.
    “How many traps then, Jiri?” asks the teacher.
    Jiri smiles. His glasses are filthy. His whiskers shine. “One,” he says.
    “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Standards, standards. Today’s standards are nowhere near what they were in
my
day. Why, the next number in sequence –”
    “Of course, you would need almost a month,” says Jiri.
    “What?” she gasps. “What was that?”
    “You said that one mousetrap catches one mouse a day,” says Jiri, patiently. “So that in twenty-five days you would catch twenty-five mice, with one mousetrap. Do you see?”
    “But … but I meant….” She’s having trouble getting his thoughts in order.
    Silence. I can’t help it. I laugh.
    I’m not alone. Around the room smiles are popping out, shyly, like early crocuses. Zillah, from in front of Michael’s empty desk, taps her fingertips together. Her black nails are very striking.
    The bell rings for gym. The teacher’s jaw closes with a snap.
    “Line Up For Dodgeball!” shouts Mr. Gebohm. “Along the wall.”
    Mr. Gebohm has changed into gray gym shorts – no, what I mean is, he’s changed his clothes. He looks more natural than in the long pants he wore on the