Charlie Bumpers vs. the Teacher of the Year

  CHARLIE

  BUMPERS

  VS.

  THE TEACHER

  OF THE YEAR

  Bill Harley

  Illustrated by Adam Gustavson

  Published by

  PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS

  1700 Chattahoochee Avenue

  Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112

  www.peachtree-online.com

  Text © 2013 by Bill Harley

  Illustrations © 2013 by Adam Gustavson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Design and composition by Nicola Simmonds Carmack

  The illustrations were rendered in India ink and watercolor.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harley, Bill, 1954-

  Charlie Bumpers vs. the Teacher of the Year / by Bill Harley; illustrated by Adam Gustavson.

  pages cm

  Summary: Charlie Bumpers is sure he does not stand a chance of getting along with his fourth grade teacher and despite his best efforts to be neat and well-behaved, he always seems to be in trouble until he discovers her secret.

  ISBN: 978-1-56145-847-9 (ebook)

  [1. Teachers—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Orderliness—Fiction. 4. Behavior—Fiction. 5. Family life—Fiction. 6. Humorous stories.] I. Gustavson, Adam, illustrator. II. Title. III. Title: Charlie Bumpers versus the Teacher of the Year.

  PZ7.H22655Ch 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013004850

  To my brothers John and Chris Harley, from the one in the middle

  It’s hard to believe the great number of good people who had a hand in bringing this book from idea to the page. It’s also hard to know where their suggestions end and my work begins. Thanks to all, but to these in particular: Ann Hoppe, whose idea it was; Kendra Marcus, who nursed it along; faithful readers Connie Rockman, Carol Birch, and Mary Gay Ducey; Nicole Geiger, who embraced it; Margaret Quinlin and everyone at Peachtree; Vicky Holifield, editor with the keen eye and gentle prodding; Michele Eaton; Linda and Irshad Haque, for providing a place to write in beautiful Ojai; and Debbie Block for believing in Charlie all along even when that wasn’t his name.

  Contents

  1—Disaster Boy

  2—Stupid Sneakers

  3—What a Bozo!

  4—Maybe There Was a Mistake?

  5—Surrounded

  6—Does Anyone Know Where Chile Is?

  7—Supreme Commander of Soccer Balls

  8—A Colossal Mistake

  9—The Egg is Wrong

  10—Aaaaaaaaaaaah!

  11—Thanks to the Squid

  12—Fastest Runner in the Fourth Grade

  13—The Hazards of Toilet Paper

  14—Dad Gets Serious (or It’s Not Funny!)

  15—Teacher of the Year

  1

  Disaster Boy

  My dad always says, “Charlie Bumpers, your closet looks like a tornado came through and decided to live there.”

  Ha ha ha. My dad is a riot. But he’s right. My closet is usually a mess. And the top drawer of my dresser. And my backpack.

  I mean to keep things neat. But then something else happens.

  I had a couple of hours to do the impossible. My mom told me that I had put it off long enough. I had to clean out my closet before she got back … or else.

  I didn’t ask what she meant when she said “or else.” And I didn’t want to find out.

  I’d already pulled out a bunch of clothes (like the sweatshirt with the Martian on it I’d thought was lost), a can of tennis balls, a Nerf football, seven socks (none of them matched), the Christmas card from Uncle Ron from when I was five (with the money taken out), two pairs of smelly old sneakers, and the dorky dress shoes I’d told Mom I couldn’t find so I wouldn’t have to wear them.

  Then I found my old soccer ball. The little one I got when I was five. Playing soccer’s my favorite thing to do. It’s a lot more fun than cleaning closets.

  I decided to give the old soccer ball to my little sister. She’d like it. When she likes something she squeals, and it’s pretty funny.

  But I still wasn’t done with my closet. I held my breath and went back in. I was down to the second layer.

  I dragged out my second-grade project on the solar system (now missing the planets Mercury and Neptune), the ancient tennis racket my dad said I could have, a Wiffle ball bat with a crack in the handle, my Dracula costume from last Halloween, a tyrannosaurus (stuffed) and a triceratops (plastic), a bunch of busted handheld games, three trophies from teams I’d been on, a broken kite, and …

  Never mind. You get the picture.

  I took the Wiffle ball bat and scraped everything else out of the floor of the closet. I had to get this job done before Mom got home.

  My brother Matt stuck his head in my room. “You are so dead,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Your closet looks better, but now your room is a huge mess. Mom’ll freak out!”

  I looked around. Everything that had been in my closet was now scattered all over the floor. “Where am I going to put all this stuff?” I moaned.

  “That’s your problem,” Matt said. “And it’s a big one.” Then he pulled his head out of the doorway and disappeared down the hall.

  “Thanks a lot!” I yelled. “Couldn’t you help me?”

  “You’re way beyond help,” he called back. “Good luck, Disaster Boy.”

  Matt is two years older than me. “Two years older, two years smarter,” he says.

  Matt will always be older than I am, but I have hopes that someday I’ll be bigger than he is and pay him back by giving him the giant noogie he truly deserves.

  I had almost finished hanging up my pants and shirts when I heard Ginger’s special bark that meant a car had just pulled into our driveway.

  Mom! Pretty soon she’d be coming up to inspect my closet. I panicked and started shoving stuff under my bed.

  “It’s me, Mabel!” my little sister yelled up the stairs, as if I wouldn’t recognize her earsplitting voice. “We’re home!” she squealed.

  “Hey!” I yelled back. “You want my old soccer ball?”

  “Charlie!” my mother called up the stairs. She sounded excited. “Guess what? I found out who your teacher is going to be!”

  “What?” I stopped stuffing sweatshirts behind my beanbag chair. I didn’t care if things were a mess anymore. “You know who my teacher is?”

  “You have Mrs. Burke!” she shouted. “Isn’t that great? Last year she was Teacher of the Year!”

  My heart stopped beating for a minute, then started up again really fast, like it was trying to jump out of my chest.

  It couldn’t be true. There was no way I could have Mrs. Burke.

  Matt was right. I was so dead.

  2

  Stupid Sneakers

  My stomach was turning over, but I still needed to finish cleaning my room before Mom came to inspect. Or at least get everything under the bed so she wouldn’t see it. I gathered up a bunch of pencils lying on the floor and opened the drawer of my desk to put them away.

  The drawer was a mess, too. When I was pushing things back to make room for the pencils, I saw the old markers I’d used last year.

  Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d stayed in third grade.

  Getting Mrs. Burke for the fourth grade was the worst thing that could have happened to me. First of all, she’s
a neat freak. Matt didn’t have Mrs. Burke for fourth grade, but he told me the kids in her class always talked about her. Everything and everyone in her class has to be really super neat and organized. Neat desks, neat notebooks, neat homework. Everything.

  It was hard enough for me last year with Mr. Romano. He’s one of the school’s nicest teachers, and even he always said my desk was a wreck. I was sure I wouldn’t last a day in Mrs. Burke’s class.

  Second of all, she’s really tall, so she can see everything. Her head is up so high it’s like a lookout tower—she can spot a kid horsing around anywhere on the playground or in the cafeteria in two seconds flat. And when she catches you doing something she doesn’t like, she has this scary way of snapping her fingers at you, POW, like a firecracker going off.

  But the biggest reason I absolutely could not have Mrs. Burke as my fourth-grade teacher was this:

  SHE HATES ME!

  Something happened one day last year—a complete accident—and ever since then Mrs. Burke has been watching me like a hawk. A hungry hawk, looking for a mouse to eat. And I was the mouse.

  There was only one way to save my life. I had to get out of Mrs. Burke’s class. I didn’t care if she was Teacher of the Century. I knew that sometimes kids transferred to other classes. That’s what I needed to do.

  Maybe I could get moved to Mrs. Ladislavski’s class. Everyone calls her Mrs. L. because her last name is so hard to pronounce. She’s funny and friendly. That’s who Matt had for fourth grade, and he says she’s the best teacher in the school.

  Or maybe Ms. Lewis, who was new last year and brought her dog to school one day and it threw up on Mrs. Rotelli’s rug. Mrs. Rotelli is our principal. You’d think a teacher would’ve lost her job when her dog threw up on the principal’s rug, but she didn’t.

  I’d even be happy to have our school custodian Mr. Turchin for fourth grade.

  Anyone but Mrs. Burke.

  I was thinking all these things when my mom came in my room. She walked over and looked at my closet.

  “Good job, Charlie,” she said. “You see? You can keep things neat.”

  I just nodded and hoped she wouldn’t look under the bed.

  “You’re going to have a great school year,” she said.

  Mom was wrong. She didn’t know about Mrs. Burke.

  On Saturday, Mom took the three of us to the mall to buy new clothes and school supplies. I knew this was probably my last chance to try and save my life.

  Matt was in the front seat. I was in the backseat with the Squid. My dad calls her “Squirt,” but I think “Squid” is funnier.

  “Mom,” I asked from the backseat in my best polite voice, “can you please call Mrs. Rotelli and ask her to transfer me to another class?”

  “What?” She frowned and gave me a look in the rearview mirror.

  “You know, switch me to another class.”

  “I know what ‘transfer’ means, Charlie. Why on earth would you ask me to do that?”

  “Because I really really need you to,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie,” she said.

  “I’m not being ridiculous. I can’t have Mrs. Burke. I’ll die if I have her.”

  “No one has ever died because of who their fourth-grade teacher was,” Mom said.

  “Charlie might.” Matt smiled back at me from the front seat. If I could have reached him without taking off my seat belt, I would have punched him. I’m glad I didn’t, though. If I had, he might have told Mom the real reason I didn’t want Mrs. Burke.

  “Why do you think you’ll die?” Mom asked.

  “Um … I … well, I think I might be allergic to her.”

  “You can’t be allergic to a person,” the Squid said, like she was some sort of expert on the topic.

  “It might be her perfume or something,” I said. “She smells horrible and I’ll choke to death if I have to be in her class.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Mom said.

  “Mom, please,” I begged.

  “I’m not calling your principal just because you didn’t get the teacher you want. Anyway, you haven’t even met her yet.”

  “I have, too,” I said. “I saw her in the cafeteria and the halls all the time last year. She’s really scary. When she snaps her fingers, it sounds just like firecrackers going off.”

  Matt was grinning back at me, but at least he was keeping his mouth shut.

  “Don’t worry, Charlie,” my mom said as she turned into the mall parking lot. “When you get to know her, things will be fine. I think you’re lucky to have her. After all, she was Teacher of the Year.”

  “Dictator of the Year,” I mumbled.

  Matt butted in. “You’ll have to be in a play, Charlie. Her class does one every year. You’ll probably have to be a bunny or something.”

  “I don’t want to be a bunny,” I said. “I don’t want to be in a dumb play.”

  “I’d love to be a bunny,” the Squid said.

  “Okay, okay. That’s enough about Mrs. Burke,” Mom said as we climbed out of the car. “Let’s go get our shopping done—and I don’t want any arguing like last year.”

  I didn’t say anything else because moms don’t understand, little sisters don’t know, and big brothers are bozos. I find the word “bozo” very useful when I have to describe someone. Like my brother Matt. Who is a bozo.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re out of this style in black,” the man in the shoe store said, holding out a box. “But we have your size in white.”

  I had picked out some really cool black sneakers with red soles that were on display in the window. “No thanks,” I said. “I only want the black ones.”

  “Charlie, these are the exact same kind but they’re white,” Mom said.

  I could see they were white. “I know, but I want the black ones,” I said.

  Mom shook her head. “We’ve looked all over this mall for shoes for you and these are going to have to do. You had white ones last year and they were fine.”

  “No, they weren’t,” I said. But Mom paid the man, handed me the shoe bag, and herded us all toward the mall exit.

  All I could think about were my best friend Tommy’s great new sneakers. They were all black, even the laces.

  On the way back to the car, my sister chanted in a voice low enough that Mom couldn’t hear, “I got blue shoes, I got blue shoes …”

  “Mom,” I said when we got in the car, “can’t we try another mall? I really wanted black ones like Tommy’s. I hate white sneakers. They’re so stupid.”

  “Please don’t use that word.” Mom hates it when we say “stupid.”

  Sometimes, though, stupid is the only word that fits. Like when you’re talking about stupid white sneakers.

  Mom pulled out of the parking lot.

  “I don’t blame you, Charlie,” Matt said. “White sneakers are dorky. Everyone is going to make fun of you.”

  “Matt, stop it,” Mom said.

  Matt shrugged. “Okay. But I really do feel bad for Charlie. Those sneakers are just about the dorkiest—”

  “Shut up!” I said.

  “Charlie!” Mom was using her I-mean-it voice. We aren’t supposed to say “shut up,” either.

  Matt twisted around so Mom couldn’t see his face and gave me his evil older brother smile. “Too bad I’ll be in middle school this year,” he said. “I won’t be there to protect you when people make fun of your shoes.”

  I stared at him and mouthed the words, Shut up, stupid. Then I gave up and stared out the side window.

  In a way, Matt was right. It was too bad he wouldn’t be at my school anymore. Even though he bugged me at home until I wanted to scream, he’d always looked after me on the bus or in the hallways at school. And his friends would always wave and say hi to me. Now none of them would be at King Philip Elementary.

  I would be stuck there alone with Mrs. Burke.

  And my stupid white sneakers.

  3

  What a Bozo!

/>   By the time we got home from shopping, I was mad at everyone and everything.

  I took my new clothes into my room and threw them on my bed. I pulled out the shoebox and opened the lid a crack, hoping that maybe the clerk had been wrong and had miraculously found a black pair in my size.

  Boogers! The shoes were still white. They were blindingly white. Disgustingly white. Horribly white.

  I hated those stupid sneakers. Maybe my old sneakers would be okay to wear. At least they weren’t snow-white anymore.

  I got down on the floor and searched under my bed. It took me a long time to find them because they were buried under all the stuff I’d cleaned out of my closet. But the moment I pulled them out, I realized that I couldn’t wear them this year.

  These were the shoes that had made Mrs. Burke hate me in the first place!

  I stuffed them back under the bed.

  I pulled the new sneakers out of their box again and looked at them.

  They were the right kind, but the wrong color. And then it hit me. Why do they have to stay this color? One time my mom hadn’t liked the color of a pair of her shoes, so she’d dyed them.

  Why couldn’t I do that?

  I got my black marker and colored a little spot on the back of the heel of one of the sneakers.

  It looked pretty good! I colored a little more on the side.

  It still looked pretty good.

  Pretty soon, half the sneaker was black.

  Now it didn’t look so good.

  But there was no turning back. I had to color the whole shoe.

  Then my marker ran out.

  I looked all over the house and finally found another one in the jar on my mom’s desk. When I’d colored in the top of the second sneaker, I realized that the new marker looked like a different shade of black, sort of a really dark gray. Who knew that there were different colors of black? But I kept going until I had covered the entire shoe.

  I even colored the shoelaces, which took a long time. I didn’t color the bottoms, since they were already red.