The Magical Ms. Plum

  For Annie, who first listened

  and first believed. Thank you.

  Ms. Plum had the best class in Springtime Elementary.

  On a table by the window in warm, clean cages, Clyde, the hamster, skittered and chattered while a brown toad named Hip-Hop softly slumbered. They were nice animals and let everyone pet them.

  On the walls hung posters that showed interesting things like the world’s biggest milk shake. It was banana and filled a swimming pool! On the shelves well-loved books lay in cozy piles.

  Ms. Plum’s desk held a vase of plum flowers, an hourglass with plum-colored sand, and a basket. You can guess what was in the basket!

  But the best thing of all about Ms. Plum’s room was the supply closet. Inside, the wooden shelves sagged with colored paper, jars of crayons, bottles of glue, comic books, rulers, and rubber bands. It smelled of chalk and chocolate and something lovely no one could ever quite name.

  On this particular day, the day before the first day of school, Ms. Plum stood inside this closet, talking about her new third-grade students. But who was she talking to?

  “Oh, indeed,” said Ms. Plum in her practical way to the paper and gum and sparkly markers. “They will be wonderful. Hopers and schemers, helpers and dreamers, jokers and heroes. I can’t wait to meet each and every one.”

  The crayons didn’t say anything. The erasers were silent, too. School supplies make very good listeners, but they never say much back.

  Even so, there were odd murmurs and rustlings from the very back of the back of the closet, where the dark was as soft as black velvet.

  “Yes, of course!” exclaimed Ms. Plum, “They will be the best class ever!”

  And sighing happily, she plucked up a plum-colored marker and strode briskly back into the classroom to finish getting it ready for the big day.

  The next morning, the sun rose just as it should. And at 8:48 a.m., Ms. Plum stood at the front of her classroom, her hands resting neatly before her as her new students scuffled and tumbled into class.

  They looked at her and quickly looked away again, not wanting to show how excited or curious (or even a little scared) they were.

  Nearly every student at Springtime Elementary knew there was something about Ms. Plum’s class. But the kids who had her in other years never said much. In fact, if you asked about her, funny things seemed to happen to their mouths. Their lips would open and shut, twist and turn, and finally something would pop out, like “We learned a lot about hermit crabs.” But they would have this smile. A secret kind of smile, and suddenly, more than anything, you wanted to be in that class.

  It was true Ms. Plum had a nice sort of tidiness about her. Her gray-blond hair sprouted up like wings behind her ears. Her plum-colored glasses, perched on her large, friendly nose, sprigged up into sparkly points. The eyes behind those glasses were a light brown color and as bright as a sparrow’s. But it had to be more than her friendly look, didn’t it?

  Today, as the students settled into their new desks, Ms. Plum welcomed them to class and began to call roll. As the students raised their hands, Ms. Plum paused, studied each child, then wrote something on her list.

  “Now then,” she said, smiling with bright-eyed interest. “Who wants to get me a pencil?”

  Nadia was afraid to raise her hand.

  Mindy Minn was carefully arranging her things in her desk.

  Why bother? thought Jeremy. Why bother with anything at all?

  She should have a pencil already. Teachers are supposed to have pencils, thought Becky Oh.

  Darma gnawed at the bug bites on her knuckles.

  Jovi didn’t understand the question.

  Eric was trying to get Brad’s attention.

  Brad and Tashala were too busy arguing to notice anything.

  Carlos raised his hand, because offering to help the teacher showed them right away that you were one of the smart ones.

  But Ms. Plum pointed at Tashala and said, “Tashala, could you get me a pencil, dear?”

  Tashala, looking a little startled, stopped arguing and stared at her teacher. Ms. Plum cocked her head, her sparkly glasses catching the sunlight. She nodded toward the closet.

  Tashala stood up, went to the closet, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  And so began another year of Ms. Plum.

  But first, let’s back up a little. About … three minutes should do it.

  You see, Tashala Jones was going to be a cowboy. Not that she was going to be the boy part. Not that. But she intended to be rough and tough and wear spurs and chaps with no pink or purple anything.

  For this first day of third grade, she wore her glossy new red cowboy boots, jeans, and a cowboy vest, so that everyone would know.

  “Howdy … Cow-butt,” whispered Brad, who was seated behind Tashala and had known her since second grade.

  “Shut yer trap, E-racer Face,” Tashala whispered back. And Brad did because Tashala had a mean left hook.

  But soon Brad couldn’t help reopening his trap. He began to murmur more cowboy insults. Tashala hissed back racecar driver insults, because that’s what Brad wanted to be, and neither noticed what Ms. Plum was saying till she pointed at Tashala and said, “Tashala, would you get me a pencil, dear?”

  She nodded at the supply closet at the side of the room, and Tashala, although a little surprised, went to the closet and stepped inside.

  She gazed at the jars of bright markers and fresh pink rubber bands, took a deep whiff of a strange, lovely smell (what was it?), and picked out a fat yellow pencil. Then she felt something brush against her ankle.

  She looked down. A horse, no bigger than her mom’s purse, swished its tail against her leg and pawed its hooves. It was chestnut-colored, with a black mane and tiny rippling muscles.

  “Look what I found!” Tashala cried, bursting out of the closet.

  The little horse galloped out behind her.

  “How lovely, Tashala.” Ms. Plum smiled and held out her hand for the pencil.

  Tashala stared at Ms. Plum, then stared at the little horse. Every kid in class stared at Ms. Plum and then at the little horse. Ms. Plum didn’t seem the least surprised to see a real, live horse shifting from hoof to hoof near Tashala’s ankle.

  Tashala handed over the pencil.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Ms. Plum. “Now remember, you’ll have to take care of the horse.”

  “Sure thing,” Tashala said, frowning a little behind Ms. Plum’s back. She didn’t like being told what to do, especially about cowboy things.

  All the students looked at Ms. Plum again. And she said, “Certainly,” because she knew what everyone wanted to do. The kids jumped up and clustered around Tashala and her horse.

  “You’re so lucky,” said Mindy Minn, who had known Tashala since kindergarten. Back then Tashala had called Mindy Miss Priss and had snatched away her pink-haired Troll doll.

  Of course Tashala would get a horse, thought Mindy. Tashala always knew how to get her way.

  All her life Mindy had wanted a horse—a real, live horse—but the closest she got was a blue plastic pony.

  “Giddy-up!” Tashala said. And to everyone’s delight, he galloped around the room, his hooves rattling against the floorboards. When he got to the front of the room, he reared up for a majestic moment, pawing the air.

  Everyone clapped.

  “I wish I had a little horse,” sighed Mindy.

  Tashala snorted. “Yeah, a pink-y horsey with purple hoovies. This here’s a real horse.”

  Tashala wouldn’t even let Mindy pet the horse, because Mindy wore pink sparkly headbands and had a backpack decorated with prancing pink unicorns. Tashala hated all that pinky-pinkness. Not even a cowgirl would have anything to do with pink un
icorns.

  Tashala gave the horse some water and Oaty-O cereal for chow. Then Ms. Plum told Tashala to put the stallion away in her desk. Tashala’s desk was just big enough for the small horse.

  Ms. Plum turned to the blackboard and wrote down their subjects for the year:

  - Don’t Try This at Home!

  - How Many Atoms Can Dance on the Head of a Pin?

  - Weird, Wonderful, Wacky Words

  - What’s That in Your Hair?

  Tashala sat slumped down, her cowboy boots stuck out in front of her, looking as pleased as a gopher with a peanut.

  Then Eric, who always had something to say, said, “P.U.! What’s that?”

  “No talking, please,” said Ms. Plum.

  But now all the kids were sniffing and making faces.

  Eric pointed his nose in Tashala’s direction. “It’s her,” he announced. “Tashala stinks!”

  “Do not!” said Tashala, but she was sniffing and frowning, too.

  “We mustn’t be rude, Eric,” said Ms. Plum.

  “But she smells like a barnyard,” said Becky. “Can’t you smell it?”

  Ms. Plum sniffed carefully. “Open your desk, dear,” she said.

  Tashala lifted the lid. “Yuck!”

  The chestnut stallion had gotten rid of his Oaty-O’s the way all horses get rid of their oats. Manure lay all over the inside of Tashala’s desk. There was even a big steaming pile on her new notebook with the giant silver spurs on the cover.

  The horse flicked up his tail and neighed a triumphant neigh.

  “Now then, you need to clean that up,” said Ms. Plum.

  “But it’s, it’s … poop!” protested Tashala.

  “Indeed. And I think it’s time for more Oaty-O’s, too,” said Ms. Plum.

  “But then he’ll … you know! Again!” cried Tashala.

  “Well, he is a horse,” said Ms. Plum sensibly.

  Ms. Plum handed Tashala a brown paper bag and a little scoop.

  Holding the scoop as far from herself as she could, Tashala clumsily scraped up one of the piles and dropped it into the bag. She hurriedly scooped up another pile, but it fell and landed with a juicy plop on her new cowboy boots.

  “Dag nab it!” she said. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she began to sniffle, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

  Mindy raised her hand. “I could help Tashala clean it up, Ms. Plum.”

  “I’m sure Tashala would appreciate that,” said Ms. Plum.

  Mindy jumped up, took the scoop from Tashala, and quickly cleaned up the piles. She even cleaned off and shined Tashala’s boots with a paper towel.

  Tashala sniffed. “Thanks, Mindy,” she whispered.

  “I’ve changed a lot of diapers,” Mindy explained. “I have twin baby brothers. They’re a couple of poop machines.”

  “Now, don’t forget, Tashala, you’ll need to muck out your desk every few hours or so,” said Ms. Plum.

  “Can I still help?” asked Mindy.

  Tashala looked at Mindy Minn and then down at her little horse. “I think you should have him,” she said.

  “You do?”

  Tashala straightened her shoulders. “Fair is fair. It’s the cowboy code.”

  Mindy carefully lifted up the stallion. He seemed calm and happy in her arms. She took a deep breath of his dusty, oaty horse smell.

  “Can I give him a name?” Mindy asked.

  Tashala swallowed and nodded. She knew it was going to be the pinkest name ever.

  And it was. But when Mindy announced that the horse was named Sir Prance-alot, Tashala squashed back her wince and gave Mindy a hearty cowboy slap on the back.

  Mindy gave her such a hearty arm punch back that Tashala almost fell off her chair.

  “Oh my gosh! Sorry! I have four older brothers,” Mindy explained.

  “No harm done,” said Tashala, rubbing her arm. “You pack quite a wallop there, Mindy.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Mindy, blushing a pretty pink.

  And suddenly they both grinned.

  At recess, Lucy and Nadia ran up to their friend Madison.

  “You won’t believe what happened in Ms. Plum’s class today!” Lucy said.

  “It was amazing,” said Nadia, her eyes wide.

  And Lucy tried to say, A little horse came out of the closet. It fit in Mindy’s arms!

  But somehow out popped, “Horses poop!”

  “So?” said Madison.

  Lucy tried again. Her lips twisted and her tongue curled. She seemed to be trying really hard to say something. But out came, “Horses, they poop!”

  Lucy looked at Nadia.

  Nadia tried to say, It was brown with a black mane. It was real, but it wasn’t scary like a real horse. It was as small as a cat.

  But out came, “Horses poop a lot!”

  Then she and Lucy nodded hard.

  Madison stared at them like they were crazy.

  Lucy looked at Nadia, and Nadia looked at Lucy. All they could do was smile. The secret smile of those who had Ms. Plum.

  Eric Soderberg had the fastest mouth in Ms. Plum’s class. You had to be fast when there were eight people in your family all talking at once at the dinner table. Eric was the youngest Soderberg, so at home he barely ever got a word in edgewise.

  At school it was different. Eric talked all the time and was always “stepping on other people’s lines.” That’s what Ms. Plum called it. She said it meant that Eric was always finishing up other kids’ sentences, giving their answers, and finishing their jokes.

  That morning during break, Brad tried to share his new joke.

  “Where do crocodiles keep their money?” he asked.

  “In a riverbank,” Eric said quickly.

  And everyone laughed like it was Eric’s joke.

  Ms. Plum looked up and asked, “Who can get me some lined paper from the supply closet?”

  Carlos’s hand shot up first.

  But Ms. Plum crooked her finger at Eric.

  Carlos started to say, “Hey, that’s—”

  “Not fair,” Eric finished for him. “Sorry, dude.”

  Eric grinned and went to the supply closet. He opened the door and stepped inside. He took a deep whiff of the yummy, nameless smell and picked out five sheets of lined paper. Next to the stack of paper he saw a little green parrot staring at him. The parrot had bright black eyes and a red spot on his head. Was he real? The parrot cocked his head left, and then right. He was real!

  “Wow!” said Eric. “That’s so—”

  “Awesome!” squawked the parrot.

  Then the parrot fluttered up to roost right on top of Eric’s head. Eric could feel the claws digging into his scalp.

  “Don’t bite!” squawked the parrot.

  That’s just what I was thinking, thought Eric, but even so, having a talking parrot was worth the risk.

  “Look what I found!” cried the parrot as Eric hurried from the closet.

  Eric had been just about to say that very same thing.

  “Cool!” said the kids.

  Ms. Plum smiled cheerfully, took the lined paper from Eric, and nodded for him to sit down.

  Eric caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the back of the room. The parrot on his head made him look like a pirate.

  “Ahoy, mateys!” screeched the parrot. For such a little bird, he was awfully loud.

  “We will now review some important facts and statistics,” said Ms. Plum.

  The class sat up straighter. Ms. Plum’s important facts and statistics weren’t like anybody else’s.

  “How many people in the world have the same birthday as you?” she asked.

  Eric raised his hand. He always had his hand up to answer class questions, even when he wasn’t really paying attention. But before he could make up an answer, the parrot squawked, “I can see Becky’s underwear!”

  Becky glared at Eric.

  “The parrot said it,” cried the parrot.

  “But you thought it, didn’t you?”
said Brad.

  But before Eric, or his parrot, could answer, Ms. Plum called them back to attention and asked, “Well, who can tell me how a jar of peanut butter can make you rich?”

  Eric raised his hand again.

  “Mindy smells pretty,” said the parrot with a parroty sigh.

  The class started to giggle.

  “Shut up!” said the parrot. “Not you,” said the parrot as Eric gestured wildly to the class. “Him!” said the parrot as Eric pointed an accusatory finger at the bird.

  Eric tried to make his mind go blank.

  “I’m thinking nothing, nothing, nothing,” murmured the parrot.

  “What else is new?” said Brad, and the class cracked up again.

  “That’s not funny!” cried the parrot. “I tell better jokes than you.”

  “You mean you steal better jokes,” said Brad.

  “Geez, I really have to go to the bathroom,” said the parrot. “I wish I hadn’t eaten those beans last night.”

  The class roared as Eric reached up and tried to grab his beak. The parrot scrambled out of reach, his claws digging like pins into Eric’s scalp.

  “Ms. Plum! Help me! How do I get rid of him?” the parrot squawked.

  Ms. Plum said, “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Eric. You’re a smart boy.”

  Eric glanced up at the parrot, who was now preening his feathers in a smug sort of way, and Eric’s eyes got a kind of gleam. The parrot began to murmur softly, dreamily. “Nice birdie. Birdie go away. Far, far away. Back into the closet, okay?”

  Eric gave Ms. Plum a questioning look. Ms. Plum nodded, and he slipped from his desk and walked toward the closet.

  “Here you go,” crooned the parrot. “Back in the nice warm closet. Birdie bye-bye.”

  Everyone could still hear him murmuring as Eric slipped inside the closet and then burst out again, slamming the door shut behind him. The parrot was gone from his head.

  Eric opened his mouth, hesitated, then said softly, “Is he gone?”

  Everyone listened carefully. No sound from the closet.

  “Why don’t you check?” said Tashala. “Look in the closet.”

  But Eric shook his head. “That’s okay,” he said, and he slipped back to his desk.