Ann Martin: Baby-Sitters Club 122

"My," Margo said.

"Eskimo pie," Claudia offered.

"Very good," Vanessa commended them. She wrote their suggestions on her poster board. "Now more suggestions." After they filled the board with rhyming words, they worked together to compose a poem using them. Claudia told me she had a great time. If real school were as much fun as Vanessa's school, Claudia might not mind attending.

At five-thirty, Mrs. Pike returned with Mallory, whom she'd picked up at school. As they walked through the door, Mrs. Pike was saying to Mal, "You're so good at English, I'm sure it won't make a bit of difference to the eighth-graders that - " She was cut off by Claire, who hurled herself excitedly into her mother. "Mom, oh, Mom, how the time does fly/Just moments ago we said good-bye/Did you bring home an Eskimo pie?/Did you even try? I say with a sigh/I want to cry/No Eskimo pie/For poor little I." Mrs. Pike stared at Claire, stunned.

Mallory's hand flew to her cheek. "Oh, no, Mom! She's turned into another Vanessa!" Margo joined them and began to recite. "Why, oh, why do the songbirds fly?/Soaring so lovely up in the sky/Wish I could too - I try/I try/But no wings have I with which to fly." Mallory turned to Claudia, who stood beside the very pleased-looking Vanessa. "Claudia, what did you do to them?" she cried.

Claudia grinned as she replied, "To false conclusions do not fly/It 'twas Vanessa, but not I." Chapter 6.

Friday afternoon, after school, my friends and I arrived at the auditorium, ready for our second day of training. We expected Mr. Ziz-more to be there. Maybe Mrs. Amer too. What we didn't expect was the fifty or more teachers who sat waiting for us.

Mr. Zizmore quieted everyone down and then spoke. "Today you will meet with your master teacher to discuss the class you will be teaching," he explained.

I glanced at Ms. Walden. She sat with her arms folded, wearing a bland expression. She must have known, by now, that I was her student teacher. It would have been nice if she had nodded or smiled at me.

After our unpleasant meeting in the hall the other day, I didn't know what to expect. How would she feel about my teaching her seventh-grade gym class? Did she suspect that I'd take them all for a run down the hall?

Of course she didn't. But still . . . did she think I'd be a bad influence on the class?

Yesterday, when I'd gotten the assignment, I'd told myself it didn't matter. I could handle Ms. Walden. Now, though, looking at her face, it seemed a little scarier.

'All right, students please find your teachers," Mr. Zizmore instructed.

Seats creaked as everyone stood up. I noticed Mallory stepping from side to side nervously as she spoke to my English teacher, Mrs. Simon.

"Thomas," a voice barked from behind me. I knew it was Ms. Walden.

"Hello, Ms. Walden," I said, forcing a smile.

"So, you'll be teaching my class," she said flatly, taking me in with her steely eyes. "Sit down. I'm going to give you a few tips you'll find helpful." I nodded and sat.

"First of all, don't expect much from these girls," she advised. "This group isn't especially athletic." Maybe if they had a teacher who believed in them they'd do better, I thought. What an attitude - the girls can't do anything so don't even try. How awful! "Second," she continued, "some of them will try to fool you. They'll say they feel sick or they hurt their ankle. Things like that. Don't believe them. It's just a con job." If the class was fun they might not be so desperate to escape.

"I don't think it will be a big problem," I commented.

Ms. Walden's eyes narrowed. "Don't be so sure," was all she said.

"Third," she went on, "keep firm discipline at all times. The moment you let the class get out of control, it's all over. Gym isn't like other classes, where students are confined to their desks. There's room to move in a gym, and that inspires kids to act up. Don't let them. Keep them busy and keep them in line." With her attitude, it was no wonder she had problems with the class. Hopefully, she'd learn a better way to deal with the students after she watched me. No matter what I did, it had to be better than the way she was conducting this class.

"We're working on the soccer unit," she told me. "As I recall, you're a good player." "Pretty good." "Don't expect the same of them," she said. "There are one or two decent players. I suspect some of them may be more athletic than they let on. I heard that a few of them take karate." Things would be different once I was teaching. I was used to helping kids along. You should see some of the Krushers. Bad didn't even begin to describe them, at least in the beginning. But I've learned that even bad players have a lot of potential. You just need some patience and an upbeat attitude.

For the next half hour, Ms. Walden told me exactly how she wanted the class run - every last detail. She insisted I make sure the students were wearing the proper gym suit and sneakers. She told me exactly when she required them lined up to go out to the field. She told me what indoor soccer exercises to do if it rained. And on and on.

About halfway through I stopped listening. I had no intention of doing things Ms. Walden's way. Her way was the way that caused students to pretend to be sick. My way would show them they were better than they knew, and that gym could be fun and rewarding.

'Are you getting this?" Ms. Walden asked sharply, snapping me back to attention.

"Yes," I answered. "Definitely." "Good. There's something else you should be aware of. For this unit we're working with Mr. De Young's class." (He's one of the boys' gym teachers - a pretty nice guy.) "That means you'll have to coordinate your lesson plan with the student teacher for that class." "No problem," I assured her. "Who's that?" "Gary Retlin." Can/ Retlin! I hoped I'd heard her wrong.

I glanced over Ms. Walden's shoulder. Gary was talking with Mr. De Young.

No, I hadn't heard wrong.

At that moment, Mr. De Young must have told Gary I'd be his partner. Gary looked around the auditorium and spotted me gaping at him in horror.

In response, he grinned the most obnoxious, self-satisfied, irritating grin I've ever seen in my life.

"What's the matter, Kristy?" Mary Anne asked me at our BSC meeting that afternoon. 'Are you still upset about teaching with Gary Retlin?" "I think I'm in shock," I told her. "My hands are cold. I'm not thinking clearly. Those are symptoms of shock, aren't they?" "Yes," Stacey said, "but don't worry, Kristy. Let Gary know who's boss. You can handle him." "I'm the one who should be in shock," Mallory insisted. "Mrs. Simon told me not to worry, but I don't know. What if they think I'm a total dweeb?" "You're not a total dweeb, so don't worry about it," I told her.

"It'll be fine," Mary Anne said. "I'm excited about this. Mr. Redmont was so nice. I'm not half as nervous as I was before I spoke to him." "Mr. Peters was great too," Stacey said. "This is going to be a blast." "Even though I didn't want to teach, I'm looking forward to being the student of a student," Abby put in. "It'll be a change, anyway." "It has to be better than regular class," Claudia said as she bit into a Ring-Ding. 'Alan Gray is teaching my social studies class. Can you imagine what a circus that's going to be? I can't wait." "You want Alan to teach the class?" I asked.

"It beats working," Claudia replied.

Mallory let out a long, sick moan.

"What?" Jessi asked.

"Beats working! That's what the eighth-graders are going to say when they see me walk in. They'll destroy me. They'll goof off. They won't listen. I'll be so embarrassed, I'll want to disappear." "Mallory, you're a great baby-sitter," I reminded her. "The kids you sit for always listen to you. This isn't going to be so different." "Of course it's going to be different," Mallory disagreed. Her voice was becoming more shrill by the moment. "These aren't eight-year-olds - they're eighth-graders!" I said a few more things, trying to sound encouraging. It seemed the right thing to do. But I wasn't being completely honest. If I were in her shoes, I'd have been just as panicked.