The Unteachables: Chapters 24–32

Aggravated, Parker stomps on the gas and we lurch away, sideswiping a garbage can at the curb.

I bray a laugh at their receding backs. “Gee, guys, can’t you run away any faster?”

But instead of fussing, he’s watching me through the mesh of the playpen, listening intently, like he can’t wait to hear how it all turns out.

Bereft of speech, he threw his arms around me.

Christina’s face has turned ashen.

Please be advised that, pursuant to Article 12, Subsection 9 of the Greenwich Teachers Association contract, your services will no longer be required as of December 22 of the current school year....

I don’t blame them for the superintendent’s malice, but how could I ever convince them that this isn’t their fault?

As we grumble and seethe our way next door to room 115, I sidle up to Jake.

“This school only cared about me when I was scoring touchdowns!” Barnstorm blusters.

Rule 1, which Mateo calls the Prime Directive: Mr. Kermit is not allowed to know about our project.

As excited as we are, the ride is somber. With Mr. Kermit’s job on the line, the stakes are sky-high.

“Do you really think we can pull this off?” Parker asks dubiously.

On a flatbed tow truck parked outside the service bay sits the rusted remains of an ancient Chrysler that might have once been blue. Parts are strewn all around it, also rusted, some broken.

“Have some respect for the dead,” I put in morosely.

I read and reread Kiana’s essays, lingering over her well-reasoned arguments; I relish the discussions with Elaine and Aldo as they work their way through Where the Red Fern Grows; I listen for the faint sound of Parker whistling through his teeth, a surefire sign that he’s reading without having to struggle over every word.

“What kids? My kids? They won’t be there. Nobody entered.”
She looks evasive. “That might not be exactly true.”

Plus, with an entire car dealership at his disposal, he chose to bring this motorized roller skate.

Students stand like sentries in front of their projects, excited and nervous, ready to face the judges.

There’s a miniature wind turbine and batteries that store the electricity it generates, a Foucault pendulum, a replica of the internal gyroscope that provides telemetry guidance for a ballistic missile.

The kids are so amped that you can almost hear a power hum emanating from them.

Emblazoned on the driver’s door is the image of a leaping frog.

Sparks fling from the animal’s powerful back legs, spraying the full length of the chassis to the rear bumper.

As we pick up speed, Rahim’s banner unfurls from the car’s old-fashioned radio antenna.

As I streak back toward River Street, I leave a line of smoldering bushes in my wake. Black smoke hangs in the air.

Half the science fair is out on the lawn, gawking at me in horrified silence.

I barely remember their project—some windmill thingy. No one’s ever going to forget ours—definitely not the fire department, who had to spray down all those bushes and trees because of “conflagration containment,” whatever that means.

Since I’m going to be out of a job soon, maybe it’s time to reinvent myself as a weight-loss guru.

Disciplinary problems have virtually disappeared.

It’s time to put petty grievances aside and remember who our education system is supposed to serve—our children.

“Who wrote this?” I squint at the byline. “Who’s Martin Landsman, and how did he find out about my class?”
“Beatrice Landsman is the sub who covered your group on Monday. Martin is her son. I guess the kids gave her quite an earful.”

Where’s the happy? The joy? The triumph at beating back that overblown, self-important tyrant of a superintendent?

“Old Dan and Little Ann!” he gasps, waving Where the Red Fern Grows in front of him. “They’re dead! Both of them!”
“Heavy,” Elaine agrees, her expression solemn.

The kid is totally inconsolable. By eighth grade, most readers have already experienced plenty of devastating sad endings. But in Aldo’s case, this is the first novel he’s ever finished.

I turn to the Goodbunnies chart, pluck a puffy-tail from the Ziploc baggie, and affix it next to Aldo’s name.

Then, amid a smattering of applause, he walks to the front of the room, removes his one and only puffy-tail, and offers it to Kiana.