when we washed cars to raise money for the outfield wall at Rambletown Field? It’ll be like that, except this time we donate the profits to something bigger!”
“That wall is pretty big,” Orlando murmured, rubbing his head.
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“Hmmm,” Mr. Swickle said. “Communityservice. I’ll tell you what. Everybody take your seats. If we get through attendance without any problems, I’ll make the necessary inquiries.”
We didn’t need to be asked twice.
We stowed our winter stuff and sat at our desks in no time flat. We folded our hands and beamed at Mr. Swickle like angels. After calling roll, he told us to get out our workbooks and copy down today’s poem. Then he opened the door between our room and the other sixth-grade class next door and asked the teacher, Mrs. Nedermeyer, to keep an eye on us.
“I have to talk to Principal Gorton about something important,” he explained. “I’ll fill you in when I get back.”
Without waiting for an answer, he dashed out of the room.
Through the open doorway, I saw Ducks and Ocho and the other guys settling in for class. Boy, would they be in for a surprise if we could pull off this thing.
CHAPTER 14
T he new poem was called “Watermelon.” It was by a guy named Charles Simic. Mr. Swickle had written that Charles Simic was a poet laureate of the United States of America. I guessed that meant he was like the president of all the poets.
Thinking of presidents made me look outside. Our frozen four were still up there. The curious crowd, I noted with satisfaction, was still there too, and getting bigger.
The poem was really short. It was about watermelons. The poet thought they looked like fat little statues of the Buddha. When the fruit was cut open, the red wedges reminded him of smiles.
I thought a smile was a cool way to describe a watermelon because eating one made you happy.
Biting into a real watermelon would have been nice. It would have meant summer and hot weather and no more slushy boots and wet mittens. It would have meant no mitts at all, except the baseball kind.
I finished copying the poem, and Mr. Swickle still hadn’t come back. The long red second hand on the big clock above the blackboard inched forward. In a race with a tortoise, it would have lost by a mile.
Finally, the hall door swung open, and Mr. Swickle walked briskly through the doorway. He nodded to Mrs. Nedermeyer. I tried to read his expression, but his face was like a crossword puzzle with no boxes filled in. It was blank.
“Well,” he said after about a hundred years had passed. “Yes, indeed.”
“Yes, what?” I wanted to shout.
“Principal Gorton has pressed the cafeterialadies into service. As we speak, Mr. Trombley and his men have begun setting up folding tables.”
Mr. Trombley is the school custodian.
“The first ever Rambletown Elementary School hot chocolate stand is a go!”
Room 12 exploded in cheers. Through the open door, the kids in Mrs. Nedermeyer’s class snapped their heads around and stared.
“Ahem,” said Mr. Swickle. He turned to Mrs. Nedermeyer, who looked as curious as her students. “Sudden change of plans,” he explained. “A fund-raiser to service the frozen hordes outside. The whole school will participate.”
“When?” asked Mrs. Nedermeyer.
“Now.” Mr. Swickle beamed.
An excited murmur broke out among her kids.
“I never got the memo,” complained Mrs. Nedermeyer. “My lesson plan is all made up. We’re ready for a big day of diagramming sentences. Definitive articles, noun markers,prepositional phrases.”
Whispers turned to groans in her room.
“There was no memo,” said Mr. Swickle brightly. “The kids just dreamed it up this morning. Principal Gorton agrees that we should seize the moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Carpe diem and all that.”
“What about my definitive articles?” asked Mrs. Nedermeyer. “My beautiful noun markers?”
“They’ll keep,” said Mr.
“That wall is pretty big,” Orlando murmured, rubbing his head.
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“Hmmm,” Mr. Swickle said. “Communityservice. I’ll tell you what. Everybody take your seats. If we get through attendance without any problems, I’ll make the necessary inquiries.”
We didn’t need to be asked twice.
We stowed our winter stuff and sat at our desks in no time flat. We folded our hands and beamed at Mr. Swickle like angels. After calling roll, he told us to get out our workbooks and copy down today’s poem. Then he opened the door between our room and the other sixth-grade class next door and asked the teacher, Mrs. Nedermeyer, to keep an eye on us.
“I have to talk to Principal Gorton about something important,” he explained. “I’ll fill you in when I get back.”
Without waiting for an answer, he dashed out of the room.
Through the open doorway, I saw Ducks and Ocho and the other guys settling in for class. Boy, would they be in for a surprise if we could pull off this thing.
CHAPTER 14
T he new poem was called “Watermelon.” It was by a guy named Charles Simic. Mr. Swickle had written that Charles Simic was a poet laureate of the United States of America. I guessed that meant he was like the president of all the poets.
Thinking of presidents made me look outside. Our frozen four were still up there. The curious crowd, I noted with satisfaction, was still there too, and getting bigger.
The poem was really short. It was about watermelons. The poet thought they looked like fat little statues of the Buddha. When the fruit was cut open, the red wedges reminded him of smiles.
I thought a smile was a cool way to describe a watermelon because eating one made you happy.
Biting into a real watermelon would have been nice. It would have meant summer and hot weather and no more slushy boots and wet mittens. It would have meant no mitts at all, except the baseball kind.
I finished copying the poem, and Mr. Swickle still hadn’t come back. The long red second hand on the big clock above the blackboard inched forward. In a race with a tortoise, it would have lost by a mile.
Finally, the hall door swung open, and Mr. Swickle walked briskly through the doorway. He nodded to Mrs. Nedermeyer. I tried to read his expression, but his face was like a crossword puzzle with no boxes filled in. It was blank.
“Well,” he said after about a hundred years had passed. “Yes, indeed.”
“Yes, what?” I wanted to shout.
“Principal Gorton has pressed the cafeterialadies into service. As we speak, Mr. Trombley and his men have begun setting up folding tables.”
Mr. Trombley is the school custodian.
“The first ever Rambletown Elementary School hot chocolate stand is a go!”
Room 12 exploded in cheers. Through the open door, the kids in Mrs. Nedermeyer’s class snapped their heads around and stared.
“Ahem,” said Mr. Swickle. He turned to Mrs. Nedermeyer, who looked as curious as her students. “Sudden change of plans,” he explained. “A fund-raiser to service the frozen hordes outside. The whole school will participate.”
“When?” asked Mrs. Nedermeyer.
“Now.” Mr. Swickle beamed.
An excited murmur broke out among her kids.
“I never got the memo,” complained Mrs. Nedermeyer. “My lesson plan is all made up. We’re ready for a big day of diagramming sentences. Definitive articles, noun markers,prepositional phrases.”
Whispers turned to groans in her room.
“There was no memo,” said Mr. Swickle brightly. “The kids just dreamed it up this morning. Principal Gorton agrees that we should seize the moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Carpe diem and all that.”
“What about my definitive articles?” asked Mrs. Nedermeyer. “My beautiful noun markers?”
“They’ll keep,” said Mr.
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