Mrs. Ravenbach's Way Read online

  DEDICATION

  To the finest teachers on the planet!

  Esty Foster. Barbara Griffin. Lucille Maddox. Del Coggins. Virginia Hollins. Hamilton Hazlehurst. Robin Smith. Bart Allen. Rance Mosley. Beverly Roberts. Marc Lavine. Ann Wheeler.

  Especially the incredible Ken Robinson.

  and to

  The late, amazing John Seigenthaler, the late, amazing Tom Seigenthaler, Jon Amiel, Hillary Schoelzel, Ken Kwapis, Margaret Matheson, Kristina Lyons, Harvey Burrell, and Mariel Toussaint.

  Because you gave me hope.

  UN-DEDICATION

  Mrs. Patton, sixth grade English. After you taught me teachers betray confidences, it took me until graduate school to have a conversation with another teacher.

  Mr. Burgos, upper school head. You fooled the administration, but not the students. Among other things, thanks for hauling me out of Assembly and screaming at me in front of the whole school. Most kids don’t learn what morons some grown-ups are until a lot later.

  Awful teachers everywhere, may you boil in oil and your eyes melt and run down your face. You know, kind of like in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  There. That felt good.

  “It is very important that this book not be read by children. It would give them the wrong impression of their teacher. Actually, ha-ha, it would give them the correct impression of their teacher, which is not what the teacher is wishing to have happen. Do not let this book fall into the hands of the young children. It is not a good idea.”

  —Mrs. Leni Ravenbach

  Teacher, Fourth Grade

  Winner, 4 Golden Apple Awards for Excellence in Teaching McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children

  “What kid couldn’t use a Balao-class submarine and a bunch of flamethrowers? You kidding? Who wouldn’t want to blow up their teacher?”

  —Toby Wilcox

  Student, Fourth Grade

  McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children

  “We are Chermans—we haff no superiors.”

  —T. C. Boyle, The Big Garage

  CHAPTER 1

  I am a German woman. A wonderfully German woman.

  I teach the fourth grade. I love my students and they are loving me. My students are the most important thing to me in this world. My classroom is a place to be happy, a place to learn, a place to make the friends, a place to get to know the teacher. Nothing is quite like a classroom with everything in its place. Everything in order. Beautiful, delightful order. Nothing is more important than the order. The order, and the discipline.

  My classroom is a sacred temple. It is where I do my work. In a way, it is my religion. And if any pupils get in the way of my religion, of course, sometimes I am forced to crush them.

  * * *

  THE CHILDREN CAME IN FROM their recess all flushed and joyful with anticipation for the afternoon learning. They were always learning well after the recess except for the ones who fell asleep. Soon they all had taken their places at their little shiny desks with their little shiny ears and their little shiny minds ready for the knowledge that I was about to pour into their empty little brains.

  This was my favorite part of the entire fourth grade year.

  I said, “Now we start the spring semester! We are beginning the writing of our journals! You shall be joining James Boswell, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Virginia Woolf, and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest journal writers in history. Your thoughts are sacred. Anything you wish to write in your personal, confidential, private journal, it will be for you and you alone. Any thought that you have on any subject under the sun, anything at all you feel important enough to write down, you write it down.”

  The children were looking up at me with their eager little eyes, their fat little pencils clutched in their fat little fingers, all ready to open up their stiff new composition books and begin their journals.

  Except for young Tobias Wilcox, the new boy, natürlich. He was staring out the window and sticking a pencil eraser into his nose. Heaven only knows what else had been up inside that very same nose! I would never want to write with a pencil that had belonged to Tobias Wilcox.

  It was early in January, and young Tobias Wilcox had transferred from some awful school in some wretched city to the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children with all the energy of a dirty, overweight little tornado. He was not as fat as some children, of course. In fact, his parents might have not even noticed he was fat at all. His friends, if he had any friends, might also not have noticed that he was fat. But I am a fourth grade teacher, and I notice everything.

  I am not fat.

  I am German.

  “Your journaling will lead you to the most wonderful moment in the entire school year here at the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children. Your journaling will take you straight to the glory of . . . the All-School Poetry Contest!”

  The children cheered. Well, not all. Tobias Wilcox was pushing his pencil another inch deeper into his skull.

  “Partway through the semester you will begin to write your own poems to recite at the year-end Poetry Contest, and the material from these poems will come from your journal! You may write about anything that pleases you. You may write about a favorite childhood memory. You may write about your favorite pet animal, your favorite stuffed animal, your favorite pet relative, your favorite stuffed relative. Ha-ha. I made a little joke.”

  Everyone, save Tobias, laughed because I am amusing.

  “All of you must now write in your journals for thirty minutes about anything that comes into your mind, and then put them in your desk and we shall all go and see the sixth grade play. I remind you that no one will see what you write. Your journal will be yours to keep and take home with you at the end of the semester. All right, writers! It is time for you to pick up your pencils. It is time for you to write in your composition books. Thirty minutes by the clock: eins, zwei, drei, go!”

  Other than the comforting sound of my antique ivory knitting needles going click, click, click, nothing is quite like the sound of a roomful of Number 2 pencils busily, happily, wonderfully scratching away on lined composition paper. All those wonderful thoughts flowing like little rivers from those tiny little brains. Wunderbar!

  I set down my knitting and walked around. The children were biting their little thumbs, biting their little lips, furrowing their little brows. Each one thinking, and working, and writing, and sweating, and enjoying the wonderful process of putting thought onto paper for time immemorial.

  I noticed in the back corner, young Tobias Wilcox was writing nothing. Nichts. Why was I not surprised?

  “Tobias?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “You have written nothing in your journal.”

  “I don’t have anything to write about.”

  “Together you and I shall think of something wunderbar. When I was your age, I wrote in my journal about my Grossvater, my grandpapa. What an extraordinary man! I miss my Opa so very, very much. Reading my journal entries about my beloved Opa brings him right back to me, as if he were sitting there, sharing with me his hot cocoa and Schnaps. You have a grandfather, do you not?”

  “I did. He died.”

  “Or a grandmother, perhaps?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “What an uncharitable thing to say!”

  “She’s real bossy. I don’t really want to think about her. I sure don’t want to write about her.”

  “No hot cocoa and Schnaps with Grossmutter? How unfortunate. Why don’t you write about what excitement you have for going to see the sixth grade play, Poppy’s Grand Adventure, this very afternoon?”

  “I’m not excited.”

  I was unable to keep the surprise from my voice when I said, “Please?
Excuse me?”

  “It’s a school play made by kids in school. I’ve never seen a good one, and I’ve been to a ton.”

  “Perhaps the plays at the school which you have attended last semester, perhaps those plays were . . . less than wonderful. At the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children, school plays are always wonderful. I’m sure when you see the play, you will change your mind.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’ve seen the rehearsals. It’s quite thrilling. The waterfall effect is absolutely wonderful.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Perhaps you could be writing about your dog. Do you have a dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So, write about him.”

  “Her. I don’t want to. She scratched me this morning.”

  “A goldfish, perhaps? They do not scratch.”

  “No.”

  “A kitten, or a cat, or a bunny rabbit, or a rooster? Do you live on a farm? Do you have pigs?”

  “No.”

  “No, ma’am?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Pigs are wonderful creatures. Highly, highly intelligent. Smarter, in fact, I dare say, than some fourth grade students I am knowing.” I studied him long and carefully. He missed the irony. Fourth grade students are not the world’s greatest appreciators of irony.

  I said, in my most authority-figure voice, “You. Must. Write. Something.” We regarded each other with mutual suspicion. I think he thought I was going to smack him. I know I thought I wanted to.

  As he stared at me, he picked up his pencil and began to write. Wunderbar! I was not the slightest bit interested in what the child was writing. I was only interested that he was writing. Something. Anything at all.

  The thirty minutes flew by! It was so quiet except for the breathing, the sniffling, the pencil scratching, and the bottom scratching. With children, there is always the bottom scratching. It was such a blissful, idyllic moment that I was loath to disturb it, even to go to the gymnasium and see the wonderful sixth grade play.

  I smacked my hands together so loudly that every child sat up and went, “Ow!” Clementine Gardendale was so startled, she fell out of her chair. Sharp, sudden noises get the attention of children so much quicker than gently saying, “Class . . . ?” When I had their complete attention, I said, “Class, it is time for the sixth grade play.”

  The play was wunderbar.

  Poppy’s Grand Adventure was truly the most amazing theatrical performance I have seen in my twenty-four years of teaching fourth grade at the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children.

  I asked the students to please raise their hand if they thought the play deserved a ten out of ten. Every student raised their hand so high, so proudly into the air, and waved it around because they all felt Poppy’s Grand Adventure deserved a ten out of a possible ten, for a perfect score. I agreed with them heartily because the play had been so delicious and so wonderful. I was about to move on to the next part of my marvelous lesson plan when I noticed young Tobias Wilcox had not raised his chubby little hand.

  I found this exceedingly strange.

  I said, “Who in the class thinks Poppy’s Grand Adventure merits a nine?” Little Tobias did not raise his hand. So I asked the class again, I said, “Who in the class thinks Poppy’s Grand Adventure is an eight out of ten? Ten being the best.” I was dumbfounded. Tobias did not raise his hand. “Who in the class, anyone in the class . . . who thinks Poppy’s Grand Adventure is a seven out of ten . . . ?”

  I did not understand why this little boy was not raising his hand. Perhaps he did not hear me. So I said to him, I said, “Tobias, do you hear me?” He nodded. Obviously he heard me; obviously he understood me. But he had not voted. I did not understand. I carefully said, “Is there anyone who thinks the play Poppy’s Grand Adventure is a . . . six out of ten?”

  That grinning little boy’s hand shot straight up into the air! It did not make any sense. The play was obviously perfection, and sweetness, and light, and airy, and joy, and happiness, yet this peculiar little boy was giving it only a six. I was most amazed. The other children in the class were also most amazed.

  Well, the Hackamore twins were not amazed. To be amazed by anything, they would have to be hit by a truck.

  I leaned down and I said, “You are voting to give Poppy’s Grand Adventure a six?” He nodded his lumpy little head. I could tell he was being intentionally rude just from the way he nodded.

  He said, “Or a five.” I must tell you, he had the nastiest tone of voice I have ever heard. Nasty, nasty, nasty. It was all I could do to keep from slapping him across his nasty little sticky face.

  For twenty-two years now, I have taught fourth grade, and I can tell you this: That child, with his headstrong attitude and unpleasant disposition, he was headed straight for the penitentiary. I’d seen it before, trust me.

  He was still looking at me. I turned away. I was preparing to give my finest lecture of the entire year, on Mr. Carter’s amazing discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. My most favorite word in the world is “wonderful,” because it is what Mr. Carter said when they asked if in the tomb he could see anything. He said, “Yes, wonderful things.” The fourth grade is all about seeing and learning wonderful things.

  I was striding back to my desk, ready to take out my green leather-bound lecture book and do my thrilling PowerPoint presentation about Mr. Carter and the wonderful things he saw inside Tutankhamun’s tomb. I was the happiest teacher in the United States of America, and perhaps the entire world, and then . . . I heard this deep, little-boy voice behind me, scraping, like dragging a coffin across a gritty stone floor.

  “Mrs. Ravenbach?” Tobias Wilcox had the most disgusting voice. I fastened my eyes upon him, hoping that my gaze alone would silence the impertinent youth.

  I was to be disappointed.

  “Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you want to hear why I gave it a six?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Well, I’d like to tell you.”

  “Must you?”

  “When I was at my other school, my teacher always wanted to hear what we thought . . .”

  You can imagine my opinion of that teacher.

  I noticed all the other children leaning forward with anticipation, hoping to hear this little boy’s opinion. I had no choice but to sigh and say, “So, Tobias. Why did you give Poppy’s Grand Adventure only a six out of a possible ten?”

  “I’ve seen lots of plays, and it was awful. The plot was dumb, the acting was crummy, there was no suspense, and mostly it was just boring. You didn’t think it was boring?”

  “I should say not.”

  “Everybody just wandered around, waiting for the next song. There was no story.”

  Richard Kaliski raised his hand. I said, “Richard?”

  Richard, who was a brain, said, “Toby’s right. There was no conflict and no character development. Nothing but exposition and more exposition, and junk happened with no rhyme or reason. It sounded like a totally crummy first draft.”

  I did not know what “exposition” meant, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask a child in front of a roomful of other children.

  I said to Richard, “You gave the play a ten.”

  “I changed my mind. I agree with Toby. It was a six. If that.”

  What I did not need, more than the other many things I did not need, like dental surgery or a bleeding stomach ulcer, was a mutiny.

  “Thank you, Richard. Thank you, Tobias.”

  “Toby.”

  “I am always happy to hear what you children think. It makes for such energizing class discussion. Now. Get out your exercise books. It is time we end our conversation on Poppy’s Grand Adventure and commence our examination of pharaoh Tutankhamun and the discovery of his wonderful tomb.”

  I am an excellent teacher. The subject was successfully changed. Like a
jagged stone thrown in a freezing cold lake, the ripples of revolt didn’t last long.

  But.

  I had been alerted.

  Young Tobias Wilcox was a terribly obstinate little boy. Little boys who believe in the free thinking, and doing things their own way, and misunderstanding the important role of the teacher in their lives, are in danger of getting off track and must be taught that there is a better way.

  The correct way.

  Mrs. Ravenbach’s way.

  CHAPTER 2

  That little boy, he was going to be the death of me.

  It is my considered opinion that a child who wants to go his own way will have difficulties in the life. In fact, if things don’t work out precisely correctly for him, he might end up in the penitentiary. From what I could already tell about young Tobias Wilcox, if he did not “straighten up and fly right,” there was an extraordinarily good chance his little life was not going to work out precisely correctly for him. At least, that has been my experience. And experience, you will come to know, is something I have quite a lot of.

  In the third grade and the second grade, and in the first grade, and of course, before that in the Kindergarten, everything is always wonderful for the child. Everyone loves the child and the child always does well, and the teacher always tells the child and the parents how special the child is, and the parents are happy, and the child is happy, and the teacher also is very happy. This is because preschool, Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, and third grade, they are easy.

  A child who shows up for the Kindergarten, first, second, and third grade, if he can go to the toilet by himself, he can excel. Many parents foolishly believe their Kindergarten, first, second, and third grade students will grow up and win the Nobel Prize.

  For the fourth grade student, this is no longer true.

  Fourth grade is when the schooling becomes real, when the schooling becomes difficult. It is when the students learn that they can actually fail.

  Sometimes the fourth grade is a wonderful experience.