Trevor Lee and the Big Uh Oh! Page 3

  Then she put a checklist on the board. To show all the things we would need to accomplish before Family Night.

  “It helps to make a list,” The Boog said. “You set a goal, then divide it into smaller tasks along the way. It makes it easier for you to reach your goal. Plus it’s a lot of fun to check off each task as you finish it. Gives you real satisfaction!” And she swept her arms in the air like she was hugging a ghost floating above her.

  I shot one of my looks at Pinky. And twisted my finger around my ear. The international symbol for crazy.

  Then The Boog went on. “Each of you will have special jobs to do this week and throughout the year,” she explained.

  After that, The Boog introduced the Helper of the Week board. And pointed at me. Since my name was on the Helper board.

  Again, rude.

  I would have to write the governor about this. Or maybe the President of the United States of the Americas. Do you have his address?

  Anyway… So, I bet you’re wondering who got these so-called “special” jobs?

  Sally May got to take the attendance slip to the office and read the morning announcements.

  “It’s cause I’m the teacher’s favorite,” she stood up and declared. The Boog told her to sit down.

  Sally Fay looked like she was gonna cry.

  Elmer got to clean the board.

  He’s good with simple tasks.

  Bobby Sue got to lead the recess and lunch lines. She’s the tallest in the class.

  Pinky got nothing.

  Walter got nothing.

  Brandy, Penelope, Bo, and the rest of the class. Nothing.

  But feeding the hamster. Giving it water. Cleaning out its cage. Of hamster poo. And hamster throw-up. And other gross hamster stuff. That went to none other than… Trevor Lee.

  That’s me.

  Now let me tell you, there’s another important thing everyone knows about me. Even more than I hate school, I hate rats. I have an I hate rats t-shirt. I hate rats baseball cap. I hate rats underwear with I on the front and hate rats on the back. One word per cheek. That’s the same underwear I wore backwards last year on the first day of school.

  And a hamster is nothing more than a hairy rat. Like my Uncle Lum. At least that’s what my mother calls him. But not when my daddy can hear.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “When does this rat cleaning begin?”

  “Now, Trevor Lee. And every morning this week.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have to read to do this job,” I mumbled under my breath. And scooted over to the cage.

  So here I am. Me and that hairy rat.

  No, not my Uncle Lum.

  The hamster.

  Of course, no one told me how to feed, water, and clean the cage of a hamster. I think that’s like child neglect or something. I should report it to the authorities.

  Then I spotted a blue index card. Taped to the outside of the cage. This just might be the cleaning directions. Only I couldn’t read them. I could, however, make out a few words. It. The. Pick up. Top. And Back. Based on that, I had an idea of what to do.

  “Hurry up, Trevor Lee,” said The Boog. “A good helper is a fast helper.”

  Okay…

  So, not only did I have to clean this nasty hamster cage, I had to do it like I had a motor attached to my be-hind.

  I held my nose with one hand and lifted the cage door with the other. The hamster scurried under the cedar shavings.

  “Come on, you nasty rat,” I whispered.

  He peeked one eye out from under the shavings.

  And showed his teeth.

  Like an evil Easter Bunny.

  I had to get him out of the cage to clean it. Even I knew that.

  So, I slowly put my hand—the one formerly holding my nose and saving me from stink injury—inside the cage. There are probably a trillion million billion gazillion germs in there.

  I could die of some tropical disease like swamp rat fever or something. That sure would teach The Boog.

  Next I tiptoed over to the hamster with my fingers.

  I then carefully raised my hand. It was above the hamster like an umbrella in a hurricane.

  Now it was time to touch the hamster.

  I mean, really folks. Who forces a child to touch a hairy rat?

  With one quick swoop and a little squeak (from me, not the hamster) I grabbed it.

  He wiggled inside my hand.

  Like a hairy worm.

  There was no way I could clean the cage with the other hand.

  Where could I put this hamster?

  I looked to the right. I looked to the left. I looked up. I looked down. I even did the hokey pokey and turned myself around. No safe place to put that hamster.

  Then I had a genius idea.

  Plop. Down went the hamster.

  Now I could focus on the job of a Hamster Helper. After all, that was my “special” job.

  I decided I could do it in four easy steps.

  Step 1: Clean the cage.

  Gross, but done.

  Step 2: Add food.

  Done.

  Step 3: Give fresh water.

  Done. Done. And done.

  Step 4: Get the hamster back into the cage.

  Easy, but there was one issue. A big one. I couldn’t quite remember where I put the hamster.

  Think, Trevor Lee. Think!

  Oh, right. It is…

  “Miss Burger,” yelled Sally May. “Trevor Lee has a hamster on his head.”

  “Trevor Lee!” The Boog shouted.

  Just as she did, the hamster woke up from its nap in my hairy-head nest. And dove off.

  I chased after it.

  Sally May jumped onto her chair. And screamed some more.

  Sally Fay fake fainted. Boom. Face down on the floor. I swear that girl spends more time on the ground than dirt. She really needs to get a grip.

  I ran some more until Pinky stopped me. Cause I was just running in circles. Yelling “Calm down everyone. I got this under control. No need to call the cops.”

  “Buddy,” said Pinky. “You have a bigger problem than a runaway hamster. You have hmmm-hmmm in your hair.”

  “I have what in my hair?”

  “Hmmm… hmmmm.”

  “You got hamster poo in your hair!” yelled Sally May as she covered her face with her hands.

  Some days are like a big, red rash right where you don't want it.

  Chapter 6

  A fter recess there was one less helper on the Helper Board. Me.

  I would remember to forget to tell Mother and Daddy about this. And unless Pinky and I could come up with a plan to get me out of Family Night, there was a chance The Boog might tell ‘em. She’s sneaky that way. I can tell.

  Darlene, the school secretary, washed out my hair and I was back in class. Just in time for The Boog to hand out our reading parts for Family Night.

  We were going to read “The Little Red Hen.” I knew the story. We read it in 1st Grade. But this was one of those wacky retellings. The one in which the Little Red Hen’s friends get a lawyer.

  And sue her for not giving them any of the bread she made.

  The Little Red Hen and Her Lazy-Butt Friends

  Once upon a time, the little red hen decided to make some yummy bread. To eat with her yummy tomato soup. “There’s nothing better than some piping-hot fresh bread,” she thought.

  To begin, the little red needed to gather the wheat. So, she asked her friends for help.

  “Who will help me gather the wheat?” she asked. “I know it’s a bit tiresome, but I could surely use the help.”

  “Not I,” said the lazy dog.

  “Not I,” said the lazy cat.

  “Not I,” said the lazy pig.

  So the little red hen gathered the wheat. All by herself.

  Next, the little red hen needed to thresh the wheat. She asked the three little pigs for help. “Who will help me thresh the wheat?” she asked. “Beating the wheat can be a lot o
f fun. And it’s great exercise,” she said.

  “Not I,” said the pig with straw.

  “Not I,” said the pig with sticks.

  “Not I,” said the pig with bricks.

  So the little red hen threshed the wheat. All by herself.

  After that, the little red hen had to knead the bread dough. She asked Cinderella for help. “Who will help me knead the bread dough?” she asked. “It’s a lot more enjoyable than sweeping chimney dust.

  “Not I,” said Cinderella. “I have a ball to go to. And pretty glass slippers to polish.”

  So the little red hen kneaded the bread dough. All by herself.

  Then, it was time for the little red hen to bake the bread. She asked Jack and Jill for help. “Who will help me bake the bread?” she asked. “It’s really an easy task, but I could use the company.

  “Not I,” said Jack.

  “Not I,” said Jill.

  “We have to run up a hill. And fetch a pail of water.”

  So the little red hen baked the bread. All by herself.

  Finally, it was time to eat the little red hen’s bread. “Who will help me eat this yummy, piping-hot bread?” asked the little red hen.

  “I will,” said her lazy friends.

  “I will,” said the three little pigs.

  “I will,” said Cinderella.

  “I will,” said Jack and Jill.

  “Well, you did not help me

  make the bread,” said the little red hen. So I will eat it. All of it.”

  “ALL… BY… MY… SELF.”

  And that’s just what she did. Until the big, bad wolf showed up! “We’ll sue you,” shouted the little red hen’s lazy friends.

  You see, the lazy friends had hired the big, bad wolf—the best and most crooked lawyer in the land—to force the little red hen to give them some of the bread.

  But it was too late. The big bad wolf had already eaten the bread. And drank the soup. He said it was his lawyer fee.

  So, the little red hen’s lazy-butt friends all went to bed. Hungry.

  THE END

  So about those parts for Family Night.

  Walter is the best reader in our class. So, he was assigned the whole first page to read.

  Sally May and Sally Fay asked if they could read together. They dress alike. Talk alike. Probably even snore alike. So, The Boog said “yes.”

  Pinky, Elmer, Brandy, Penelope, Bo, and the rest of the class each got a paragraph. A whole paragraph.

  That’s like three or four long sentences. There is no way I could read that much.

  Then it was my turn.

  “I have the most important page for you to read, Trevor Lee,” said The Boog. “The last page.”

  I gulped.

  I saw how long the first page was. I could only imagine how many words were on the last page. That’s like the end of the story. When everything happens.

  “Pinky,” I said. “I can’t bear to look. You look and tell me what it says.”

  Pinky flipped to the end of the story. In big letters it read “THE END.”

  Chapter 7

  A fter assigning our parts, The Boog called each of us over to the reading table. One student at a time. To practice for Family Night and to reread to her one of the books we were supposed to read over the summer. She said it was a reading assessment. Whatever. I guess she was too lazy to read it herself.

  “I already read this,” I told her when she handed me the book. I fibbed. Which is not the same as a full-out lie if you tell it to save your little be-hind from terror, torture, or any other T-word. Like T-Rex. “I don’t want to bore you again with the same old story. Maybe I could just tell you a story?”

  “I like listening to all my students read, Trevor

  Lee,” The Boog said. I stared at her nose waiting for it to grow. Like Pinocchio’s. From the big lie she just told.

  I looked down at the page. And stared at it.

  I saw lots of long words. I’ve had this fear of long words every since 1st Grade. I didn’t think a word should ever be longer than three or four letters. Like cat. Or ick. Or duh. It was when words got all fat that reading got hard. I think there ought to be a law: No words bigger than butt. Unless it’s your name, of course.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit warm in here to read?” I asked. And fanned my face like it was July.

  “Put your finger on the first word,” she said. Ignoring me.

  I did.

  My fingernail had some dirt under it. So I picked at it. Then I tapped on the word. I wiggled my finger around the word. I stared at the picture praying it would reveal the word. And I waited.

  “Focus,” The Boog said. “Tell me the first sound in the word.”

  “I’ve never heard it make a sound, ma’am,” I said. “If it could talk this reading thing wouldn’t be so hard.”

  “Let’s do it together then,” she said. “The letter ‘g’ makes the “guh” sound.”

  “Like you’re guzzling grape juice,” I said. “Guh, guh, guh.” I pretended to drink a big glass of the purple stuff.

  “And these two oo’s together make the “ew” sound,” The Boog added.

  “Like you just caught Sally May out of her seat. Ewww Sally May, you’re in trouble!” I laughed.

  Sally May turned around and stuck her tongue out at me. But The Boog didn’t see it.

  “That’s right,” The Boog nodded. “Now try sounding out the whole word.”

  “Guh, guh, gewwws. Goose?” I asked.

  “Perfect!” The Boog smiled.

  We continued on through the rest of the words in the sentence. I could tell The Boog was as flat out exhausted as I was when I got to the end. So she let me escape back to my desk.

  Just in time for math. No, not numbers math. Wordy math. Or what Pinky calls “when math went wrong.” Even though he’s good at it. That’s why he’s my best friend.

  The Boog had already written three wordy problems on the board.

  “Read the problems carefully,” she said. “Like a number detective. Then write your answer on a piece of paper. But remember… you must write a number AND a word. You can’t just write the number 4. You have to tell me 4 what, like 4 apples or 4 bears. Everyone understand?”

  We all nodded whether we understood or not. It’s the quickest way to shut a teacher up.

  So, here’s the first problem:

  4 kids each get 2 apples. They eat ½ of their apples. How many were eaten?

  I looked at the words. I only recognized kids and get. So, I went to my back-up plan. I added up all the numbers. That was easy. 4 plus 2 equals 6. Then I divided in ½. And wrote my answer.

  3 kids

  I was sure I got it right. I was a math wizard, after all. I was so sure I did something I hadn’t done all year yet.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Trevor Lee,” The Boog said in a surprised, high-pitched way. “You want to answer #1?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I smiled confidently. “It’s 3 kids.”

  Everyone giggled.

  Except Pinky.

  “I think you might have misread the problem,” said The Boog. And hushed the class with one of her stink eye looks.

  Then she read aloud the problem.

  How many were eaten?

  3 kids

  I buried my face in the palm of my hand. How had math so quickly become the worst part of my day?

  We spent the rest of the day getting ready for our Apple Picking Field Trip. And me recovering from my math horror.

  The Boog pointed to our checklist of Family Night preparation steps. To help us remember what we needed to do. And “feel good” about completing another task toward accomplishing our goal. It wasn’t my goal. So I didn’t really care. But it sure got The Boog all worked up. Teachers like to repeat the same nonsense (I mean “information”) over and over and over. Until you start hearing it in your dreams. I guess they teach them that in teacher school. Or the principal makes them do it. Maybe
old people are just real forgetful.

  Then The Boog passed out small apple cut-outs. Made from red construction paper. She asked us to write a word on our apple that could describe an apple.

  “Remember,” she said. “Your parents will read these on Family Night.”

  There she goes on about that Family Night. The Boog just can’t give it a rest.

  It seems that our work will be on display all over the classroom for Family Night. Along with photos from our field trip. Pictures of me holding an apple. Me biting an apple. Me in an apple bubble bath. Or something like that.

  “We’ll hang these under a sign that reads 3rd Grade GREATS,” she announced. “Our class slogan!” And she held her hands in the air again. Like she had just won a race.

  “Should be 3rd Grade GREATS Stink,” I whispered to Pinky.

  “Or, 3rd Grade GREATS Stink Like Sally May’s breath,” whispered back Pinky.

  “Or, 3rd Grade GREATS Stink Like Sally Fay’s Feet,” I laughed.

  “Trevor Lee,” interrupted The Boog. “Do you have a comment?”

  “Love the class slogan,” I smiled and put my two thumbs up. I’m a quick thinker.

  Pinky put his two thumbs up, too. That’s why he’s my best friend.

  “Wonderful,” said The Boog.

  I think she bought it.

  “But you’ll get more writing done, Trevor Lee, when your hand is moving. Instead of your mouth.”

  She has a point.

  The Boog then walked around the room and read what everyone put on their apples.

  Walter wrote “scrumptious.” That kid is a brain.

  Sally May and Sally Fay both wrote “delishus.” The Boog said they spelled it wrong. She wrote what she said was the correct spelling on the board:

  D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S

  That sure didn’t look right to me. Note to self: Check to see if The Boog really went to college.

  On my apple, I wrote “red.” It was one of the few words I knew I could spell right. And drew a worm with a smiley face. Sally May said it was gross. So, Pinky drew a worm on his apple, too. That’s another reason why he’s my best friend.