The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall Read Free Page B

rocket fueled with cranberry juice. The rocket sizzled around the ceiling. All eyes were fixed on it. All but Marthur’s. She pretended to spit her gum into the wastebasket while she looked all around. The eggs were nowhere in sight! Of course, Ferlin wouldn’t just leave them out for somebody to pick up. Maybe break. Where
were
they?
    Marthur stooped down, fumbling like she’d missed the wastebasket. And—what was this?—on the handle of a small cupboard, she saw the selfsame design as on the egg carton: that funny old spoon. She gave the handle a little tug, and—oh my!—it opened. Inside the cupboard was the purple carton.
    Slowly—so slowly—she placed one hand on it. Marthur nearly stopped breathing. What if the eggs yelled for help? (If they could say good night, they could scream bloody murder.) She had to take that chance.
    Trembling, she sneaked a peek at Ferlin. With a ruler (which looked a lot like a wand) the teacher was urging the rocket onward in a blast of rainbow stars. It surged around the light fixtures and began orbiting one. Ferlin watched in scientific triumph, oblivious to Marthur.
    Suddenly, Marthur got the sweats. Ferlin
knew.
Ferlin always knew. Heart thumping and cartonless, Marthur raced back to her desk.
    All day she festered. During recess she searched for a colorful bird or a beautiful blossom—the slightest sign that things would be okay. She saw some nice stuff. But the fact remained: As soon as she stole those dancing eggs (and she had to), she’d be a thief.
    Â 
    At noon everybody in the whole school was stuffed into the lunchroom, creating a fabulous hullabaloo. The little kids were eating pretty nicely. The older ones gobbled. Rufus and the bruisers were done eating. They were cruising for trouble.
    Rufus grabbed a gob of paper-covered straws. “Watch me, guys!” He dipped a straw in somebody’s mashed potatoes, blew like crazy, and shot the wrapper to the ceiling. The paper stuck. “WHOOPEE!” Rufus roared.
    Rufus’s minions grabbed straws, loaded them with potatoes, and shot the wrappers at the ceiling. Soon wrappers and wrappers and wrappers hung down like flimsy little stalactites. The rest of the kids just gawked.
    â€œI’m gettin’ Klunk!” Rufus yelled at them. “I’m telling what you guys did!” He and his rowdies scuttled away. Their laughter rang in the halls.
    What were the kids going to do? They couldn’t get the straw wrappers down. Klunk was going to blame them for the mess. Marthur was sitting with her friends, eating a peanut butter sandwich (with no peanut butter). Suddenly, she spronged up. She knew where her father kept a ladder. In a flash she hauled it out, scrambled up, and yanked the papers down. Two fifth graders held the ladder for her.
    Then—zippo!—Marthur stashed the ladder and scooted to her seat. She put a finger to her lips. The kids sat like sphinxes, waiting.
    Klunk roared in, his spies behind him. “Okay,” he blustered. “Number facts for a week for this little straw caper!” (He didn’t know any number facts; that didn’t matter.)
    â€œWhat caper?” The kids started buzzing, looking puzzled.
    Klunk pointed a fat finger at the ceiling. “That—” He nearly choked. “Rufus, you moron! You
oxy
-moron! There’s nothing up there!” He spluttered and stalked out. All the kids glanced at Marthur. They clapped—silently.
    â€œHey, brain-o!” Rufus bellowed louder than usual. He was burned. He couldn’t figure what had just happened, but he suspected Marthur. “You said you’d share your lunch with me.
Eggs.
Remember?”
    He stood by a trash can, tipping it farther, farther, farther....
    â€œ
Don’t do that!
” Marthur screamed. “You’ll get them. After school.”
    â€œI better.”

VII
    School was out. Kids were streaming from the dark brick corridors