The soybean green walls at school are covered with paper snowflakes and candidate posters. Mandy is running for Ice Crystal Princess. I smile as I look at her poster, which reads GOOD THINGS COME IN LITTLE PACKAGES.
Matt left early for school so he could tape his posters to the walls. Wherever I turn, I run into a smiling Matt Huckaby. Instead of being Mr. Show-off in class, now he’s Mr. Nice Guy: volunteering to tutor kids who need help, running errands for the teachers. He’s working overtime to make sure he gets recognized.
In last period, we’re all given two paper snowflakes: one for Ice Crystal Prince and one for Ice Crystal Princess. I stuff mine inside my backpack. I don’t care who wins.
The Great Escape is busting with kids. Because it’s bitterly cold outside, more parents have put their children into the program. Mrs. Bixby has to work double hard to watch everyone. Even so, she can’t keep up.
“Ow,” Mandy yells as a book bounces off the back of her head. “This is ridiculous, Mrs. Bixby. I can’t finish my homework with kids throwing stuff and yelling. You need an assistant.”
“I’ve already checked, Mandy. There’s no money to hire one.”
A pencil flies past my nose. “Hey,” I say to the kindergartner that threw it. “Cut it out.”
“Who did that?” Mrs. Bixby says, looking around. “You could put an eye out.”
The kid who threw the pencil gives me a please-don’t-snitch look. “Not sure,” I say. The boy telegraphs thank you with his eyes, then lowers his head over his book.
“I got it!” Mandy says to Mrs. Bixby. “You could use students. Those of us in fifth grade could be your helpers.”
“Can’t break the rules,” she says. “Everyone must practice their spelling and math; then do their homework.” She shakes her head as she looks around the hectic room. “Besides, the other kids wouldn’t do what you tell them. They only listen to grown-ups.”
Right. Like they’re listening to you.
The noise is deafening. Kids are yelling to go to the restroom. Others howl for games and coloring books. Some complain because it’s past snack time and they’re hungry. The first-grade table starts throwing crayons at the kindergartners. I have a mountain of homework, and I feel like there’s a hundred coyotes howling at me.
“There’s no way we can study!” I yell, jumping to my feet. “You gotta give Mandy’s idea a try!”
Mrs. Bixby comes to a stop in the middle of the room. All the kids freeze in place. The quiet is extraordinarily loud.
“It’s just”—I look at the faces around the fifth-grade table—“I don’t want to haul all these books home through the snow. Do you?”
“Yeah,” Mandy says. “We’re never gonna get our homework done if you don’t let us help, Mrs. Bixby. You can be the boss; we’ll do other things. Like hand out snacks. Or take the little ones to the restroom. And Frankie Joe’s as tall as you are, so he can reach the games at the top of the storage cabinet.”
“He’s older than everyone else, too,” Luke yells. “He’s almost a grown-up.”
“Yeah, and he’s a good tiebreaker!” Little Johnny says from across the room. “He’s the tiebreaker in our house. He’s a real good tiebreaker.”
“And fast,” Mark says from the fourth-grade table, “because his legs are so long.”
“Let Frankie Joe be in charge,” Mandy says, grinning at me. “He can delegate to the rest of us.”
“But I’m Student Council representative,” Matt protests. “I should be in charge—”
“Oh shut up, Matt,” Mandy says.
“Vote! Vote!” kids begin to yell. “All for Frankie Joe?” Hands shoot into the air.
At that moment, Principal Arnt walks into the room. His mouth falls open as he takes in the bedlam. “What’s going on here? I can hear the commotion clear down at my office.”
Mrs. Bixby’s mouth thaws out so she can talk again. “Why, we’re just reorganizing, Mr. Arnt. You see, I’ve just appointed a student to help me out. Frankie Joe Huckaby’s going to organize the fifth grade to assist with snacks and games and restroom duty. That way I can handle study assignments.” She pauses to catch her breath. “And we did it the democratic way, with an election. That’s what the noise was all about.”
“Oh,” Mr. Arnt says. “Well now, that sounds like a good idea.” As he turns to leave the room, he stops and looks at Mrs. Bixby again. “Did you say Frankie Joe Huckaby?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said.”
Quickly she turns to me. “Well don’t just stand there, Frankie Joe,” she whispers. “Start delegating!”
“Mandy, you’re in charge of snacks! Um, you two, line up those who need to go to the restrooms—one line for girls, one for boys! The rest of you, pick up crayons and erasers!” I take down a handful of games from the storage cabinet and hand them to Matt. Looking dazed he passes them out to waiting kids.
As Mr. Arnt leaves the room, Mrs. Bixby remains frozen to the floor, a look of shock on her face. “Why it’s working,” she mumbles. “It’s actually working.”
The only one in the room more dumbfounded than Mrs. Bixby is me.
Suddenly Mrs. Bixby smiles at me. “I’m proud of the way you took charge, Frankie Joe. Very proud.”
“Thanks.”
Mom would be proud of me, too, I think. I can hardly wait to tell her.
I like being in charge. It makes me feel . . . taller.