Tony and the substitute

WHOOSH. Jimmy’s spitball soared. SPLAT. It smacked into the back of Mary Ellen’s neck. “Awesome!” I shouted, alternately punching both my fists in the air.

My name is Tony and today was the best school day ever! My favorite teacher, Mrs. Ivy, was out of town, and Mrs. Newberry, a substitute, came to teach the class in her place. Everybody knows what that means: NO RULES!! I mean, sure, Mrs. Ivy gave Mrs. Newberry some assignments for us to do, but instead I let Hank (the classroom rat) out of his cage to run around the classroom, which sent most of the girls running and squealing to the corner of the room. I was practically rolling on the floor I was laughing so hard!

So after putting a puddle of red paint on the seat of Mrs. Newberry’s chair during art, a food fight during lunch, disappearing into the woods behind the playground at recess, and a harmless little paper airplane competition during history, I was on the edge of my seat waiting for that last bell to ring so I could run home and tell my big brother all about my day. Mrs. Newberry, who had been sitting at the teacher’s desk with her head in her arms, lifted her head with a look of defeat on her face.

“Alright class,” she said wearily. “I will see you tomorrow. Mrs. Ivy will still be out—SPLAT.” Just then, the spitball to end all spitballs landed directly in the middle of Mrs. Newberry’s forehead, stopping her in mid-sentence causing her to go cross-eyed as she watched the wad of soggy paper sag toward her nose. The class sat in shocked silence. For a second, I even felt bad for her. But soon everyone burst into laughter and before my guilt could sink in, the bell rang out, signaling the end of the day. Yeah, like I said—it was the best school day ever. Or at least it seemed like it was.

The next day, I left for school prepared. My backpack was stuffed with two lunches (one to throw and one to eat), a paper airplane launcher, a brand-new pack of jumbo straws for bigger and better spitballs, fake snakes, bugs, and vomit, and my brand-new ultimate toilet paper sling shot. I couldn’t even sit down on the bus ‘cause I was afraid of smooshing the jell-o balloons my brother and I made the night before which were now filling every pocket of my cargo pants and the hood of my winter coat. I was determined to out-prank any kid in the 5th grade.

I carefully stepped off the bus and waddled down the 5th grade hall until I came to my classroom. Peeking around the side of the door, I checked to see if Mrs. Newberry was there and was hit with a waft of spoiled eggs. “What is that smell??” I asked Jimmy as I quickly scooted into the room. Jimmy smiled excitedly. “I dug a trash bag of old food from our garbage and hid it in one of the unused lockers.” He quickly jerked his thumb to the back of the classroom before turning around in his seat and assuming his angelic smile. “Brilliant!” I whispered back when I saw the padlock hanging from one of the lockers on the end.

Another busload of kids walked in. I quickly took my backpack off and hid the supplies in my desk. I wanted to be ready at a moments notice. I took the jell-o balloons out of my hood, hung the coat on the otherwise empty coat rack, and began carefully removing each balloon out of my cargo pants when I heard an all-too-familiar voice from the front of the room.

“Tony! What in the world are you doing?” I slowly turned, cherry jell-o in my left hand, lime in my right, and linked gazes with Mrs. Ivy.

She must have come back early from her vacation. Her naturally kind eyes were squinted in a way I had never seen. Instead of light and airy, her voice sounded cold and demanding. Mrs. Ivy had always seemed so happy to see us, and her good mood usually rubbed off on the rest of the class. But something was different. She wasn’t smiling. The class held its breath and watched in complete silence as she slowly made her way to the back of the classroom. She quickly snatched my balloons out of my hands, turned on her heel and marched to the front of the classroom. I soon realized I was still standing with my hands out as if I was holding something, so I lowered my arms and sank into my desk. Mrs. Ivy turned to look each student in the face.

“Class,” Mrs. Ivy said sternly. “Today we are going to learn the meaning of the word ‘substitute.’ Dana, will you read to me the definition of the word from your dictionary?”

“A person acting or serving in place of another,” Dana said softly from the back of the classroom.

I started to get a funny feeling in my stomach. I desperately wanted to disappear. I wanted Mrs. Ivy to be enjoying her vacation. I wanted a second chance to follow Mrs. Newberry’s instructions. I wanted Mrs. Ivy to come back from her vacation with a smile and souvenirs for her “favorite little Einsteins” as she used to call us. Would she even still call us that? I knew we had ruined it for good this time. And there I was with two lunches and some fake insects crowding up my desk.

“So, as a class,” Mrs. Ivy’s voice broke my train of thought, “you need to understand that a substitute in this room means someone who is actually taking my place as your teacher. Do you understand what that means?” She paused to squint around the room. No one dared to move or even blink. “That means that I chose Mrs. Newberry to act in my place while I was away. And the way to show me respect while I was enjoying my oh-so-short vacation was to follow the instructions I left with Mrs. Newberry.” Then she looked directly at me and said, “Instead, you chose to disobey me by throwing spitballs at Mrs. Newberry’s forehead.”

I slid as far down in my chair as I could go. I wished I were invisible. “I don’t know what else to say except that I expected a lot more out of my little Einsteins.” Her voice trailed off into a small whisper. And she muttered the worst thing she could have muttered in that moment. “I am very disappointed in you all.”

All of a sudden, the guilt I ignored the day before hit me like a train. Flashes of red paint, food fights, and the look on Mrs. Newberry’s face when the disgusting glob of wet paper hit her squarely between the eyes, flooded my brain. I could barely concentrate the rest of the day, thinking about how I let Mrs. Ivy down. I knew I had to do something to make it up to her. I would start with handing over my backpack of destruction and then write a letter of apology promising to never disrespect her or anyone she put in her place again. And I would mean every word.