The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall by Tony Johnston Page B

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).
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œTo 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.
    â€œAfter 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.”
    â€œSo it’s Porta Potties or bushes?”
    â€œYou got it,” said Rufus. “The kids and teachers planned to swarm the bathroom today. Take over. But Klunk outsmarted them.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œHe’s called in Grease-ball Burgers. Free burgers all around. He can work away at the spoon while everybody eats.”
    â€œAim 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.
    â€œGotta go,” said Rufus.
    â€œWhat about fractions?”
    â€œBurgers 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!
    â€œHELP! 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.

XXIII
    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:
    Â 
“
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?
”
    Â 
    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!
    â€œSTOP!” 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.
    â€œSpoon,” 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.
    â€œPlease, spoon, come out,” Marthur pleaded, her eyes brimming. “Dr. Klunk is about to be eaten.” She thought of