Wayside School Beneath the Cloud of Doom (Wayside School 4)

“What kind of shoes did Mary Bopkins like to wear?” Miss Zarves asked him.

“Who?” asked Myron.

The kids from Miss Zarves’s class giggled.

“No laughing,” said Miss Zarves. “We don’t laugh at stupid people. Don’t feel bad, Myron. You may be stupid now, but once you’ve been in my class for a few years, you’ll know the history of everybody. Mark, would you please tell Myron the answer.”

“A few years?” Myron asked, but Miss Zarves ignored the question.

Mark Miller stood up. “Which Mary Bopkins do you mean?” he asked. “The one born in 1801 in Boston, or the one born in 1954 in San Francisco?”

“Boston,” said Miss Zarves.

“Red boots,” said Mark.

“Excellent,” said Miss Zarves.

“Who’s Mary Bopkins?” asked Mrs. Jewls. “Was she famous?”

“Why?” asked Miss Zarves. “Does your class only study famous people? Do you think famous people are more important than people who aren’t famous?”

“But there isn’t enough time to study everyone,” said Mrs. Jewls.

“We don’t play favorites in my class,” said Miss Zarves.

She went to the back closet and took out several giant stacks of papers. “This is everyone born in 1837.” She went around the room, handing each student a stack of a hundred pages or more. “When you finish studying a page, please pass it on to someone else.”

Myron stared helplessly at his stack. “I can’t even read this,” he complained. “I think it’s Chinese.”

“Well, yes, a lot of people were born in China,” said Miss Zarves.

She handed Myron a Chinese dictionary and said, “You’ll need this.”

It is impossible to say how long Myron sat there, fumbling through the dictionary as the kids around him were passing around their sheets of paper.

He might have been there an hour. Or a day. Or a week.

Time passes slowly when you’re trying to read a Chinese dictionary.

Even if you’re Chinese.

He glanced up and spotted a pair of scissors on Mark Miller’s desk. He got an idea.

“Hey, Mark, can I borrow those for a sec?” Myron asked.

“Sure,” said Mark.

Myron took the scissors, then walked bravely to the front of the room.

He didn’t know if his plan would work. In fact, it really didn’t make any sense, but it was his only h-o-p-e.

“Excuse me, Miss Zarves. I can trim your fingernail for you, if you like,” he offered.

“My fingernail?” asked Miss Zarves, astonished by such a suggestion. “Which one?”

“The long one on the end,” said Myron.

Miss Zarves looked at her hand. “Hmm, now that you mention it, it has gotten long. I guess I hadn’t noticed, because it grew so slowly.”