Miss Blossom
It was all I could do the next morning not to go racing up to the monkey bars on the Pepperdine playground and report to Peatmouse, Creampuff, and Banana my conclusions that our new teacher might actually end up being Miss Switch. But I’d have to give them my reasons. They’d naturally think I’d gone sailing right off the deep end. I would have to contain my excitement.
When we all strolled into Room Twelve, the new teacher was at her desk. A few other sixth graders had arrived ahead of us and were all at their desks staring at her with their eyes popping, as if somebody had come up from behind them and yelled, “Boo!” The teacher turned and gave us a big toothy smile as we came in. All four of our jaws dropped.
The teacher was not Miss Switch. She was not Mrs. Fitzgerald, either. She was not even very old Mrs. Potts. She was definitely not anyone I had ever seen before, and definitely not even like anyone I had ever seen before, especially at Pepperdine Elementary School.
She had this huge mountain of seriously yellow hair piled on top of her head in a circle as big as a sausage, and mile-long eyelashes that looked like they had been borrowed from a pair of centipedes. As for her mouth, it was so big and red my first thought was that she must have been stung by a bunch of bees. Not only that, you could hardly see her dress for all the frills and the lace and bows all over it. It was pink, and to be honest looked like somebody’s really old party dress they’d put out for a yard sale. And to top it all off, this teacher’s name, written in curly letters on the blackboard, was—Miss Blossom. Miss Blossom? Help! Peatmouse, Banana, Creampuff, and yours truly all smiled weakly at Miss Blossom, staggered over to our desks, and collapsed into them.
Now, no one has to tell me looks aren’t everything. Take Miss Switch, for example. So I felt we were going to have to give Miss Blossom a chance. I had to hand it to her. She must have been studying the seating chart, because she knew our names right away. But the first thing she did wasn’t too promising.
“Billy,” she said, addressing Billy Swanson in what I can only describe as a high, chirpy voice. “Your desk is entirely too small for you. I think you should move to the large one that no one seems to be occupying. I think you’ll be much more comfortable in that one, dear.”
Billy, of course, had carefully chosen for himself the desk most strategically placed for his spitball-shooting operation. We all knew he wouldn’t want to move. On the other hand, nobody had ever worried about if he was comfortable or not in his desk, and no one had ever called him “dear” as far back as any of us could remember. This had its effect. His face pinker than Miss Blossom’s dress, he hoisted himself up and shuffled over to the appointed desk.
So far, so good. Except that Melvin Bothwick’s hand instantly shot up into the air. “Billy is big as he is because he failed kindergarten,” announced Melvin with the usual smug look on his face.
“Now, now, Melvin,” said Miss Blossom. “If we have something really important to say about others, we must come up and tell me privately. But it isn’t nice to tattletale. I’m certain you have not made Billy happy by what you just said.”
No, indeed, Melvin had not made Billy happy. And Billy displayed his unhappiness by blowing several fresh, well-chewed spitballs in Melvin’s direction
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Miss Blossom, Billy is blowing spitballs at me,” Melvin whined.
Miss Blossom shook her head at him. “Melvin, didn’t we agree that it isn’t nice to tattletale?”
Melvin sat there glowering, because he hadn’t agreed to any such thing.
But Miss Blossom rolled on. “I’m sure Billy didn’t mean to blow spitballs at you, and won’t do it again, will you, Billy?”
“Oh, no!” Billy said with the kind of grin on his face that the class was all too familiar with. We knew more spitballs would be flying before you could say the word “spit.”
I couldn’t help thinking how Miss Switch had handled Melvin when he had taken pleasure in revealing to the whole class that my middle name was Peevely She had made him write “My name is Melvin Tattletale Bothwick” one hundred times in front of everyone.
As the day progressed, it was clear that keeping the class in line was not Miss Blossom’s strong point. The spitballs were whizzing around the room. Some of the other boys started blowing spitballs as well. I have to admit I shot off one or two myself. I mean, in self-defense. A couple of the girls joined in, but mostly they were busy snickering, whispering, and passing notes. I had no doubt they were hoping to get sent back to see Adorable Dorry.
But that never happened. Nobody got sent. All Miss Blossom did was bat her centipede-leg eyelashes and smile sweetly at us. At that moment, I was ready to welcome Mrs. Potts back with open arms.
“What a mess!” Peatmouse observed as we were leaving that afternoon.
“Yeah!” we all agreed.
“Are you sure Miss Switch isn’t coming back, Broomstick?” Banana asked. For some reason I was always considered the Miss Switch expert. Actually I was more of an expert than any of them knew, but as I’ve said, I could never reveal why.
“I’m sure,” I said. And I was getting surer all the time. After all, as I wrote Spook, the girls swooning over Mr. Dorking could hardly be considered a dangerous situation, and I didn’t think Miss Blossom—hair, eyelashes, mouth, and all—could be, either. As for what had happened with my computer, that message on computowitch.com could have been meant for anyone. I just happened to be the one to
