Chapter Ten

Eighth period. Woodshop. THE CLASS I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN.

It’s not a coincidence that the Woodshop classroom was in the farthest, darkest corner of the school. No one would just accidentally wander back there. Obviously school administrators didn’t want unsuspecting seventh graders getting lost (cue spooky music and evil laughter) ONLY NEVER TO RETURN. Nope, the only one who had to fear for her life was the innocent seventh-grade girl who was assigned Woodshop even though she specifically requested NOT WOODSHOP.

There was a beautiful wooden sign hanging on the door, its border intricately carved in folk-artsy vines. It read:

This did not make me feel any better about my personal safety.

I had barely recovered from this warning when the man himself emerged from the back of the workshop. Man is an understatement. Mr. Pudel is a… a…

“Monster!” he roared. “Sasquatch! Bigfoot!”

I was thinking Giant, but those other options would suffice.

“Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, allow me to officially introduce myself. My name”—he paused dramatically—“is Mr. Pudel.”

When Hope said it, I shook with laughter. When Mr. Pudel said it, I shook with fear. Not everyone was intimidated, however. This was a class full of tough kids. One of them started yipping like a teeny dog because this is how tough kids show how tough they are: with feats of stupidity. Why else would he mock a giant who could squish him like a grape underfoot?

“P-U-D-E-L,” Mr. Pudel spelled, pointing to the sign on the door. “Not P-O-O-D-L-E.”

More boys joined in on the yipping. Mr. Pudel ignored them.

“This is Woodshop. Not Industrial Arts or whatever fancy name the board of education wants to give it. Woodshop.” He paused and looked around the room. “Welcome to Woodshop.”

I also took this opportunity to look around the workshop. It was at that moment I realized that not only was I the only non-tough kid in the class, but I was the only girl! How did this happen?

I timidly raised my hand.

“Uh, excuse me, uh… Mr.…”

“P-U-D-E-L,” our teacher repeated calmly. “It’s Ukrainian.”

“Mr. Pudel… uh… sir.”

Mr. Pudel bearing down on me was bad enough. But all the tough kids had turned around on their stools and were staring at me, too. I couldn’t help but notice that they weren’t looking at me in the googly-eyed way the bus boys and the football team had looked at Bridget. They were looking at me like, “What the heck is she doing here?”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Uh,” I stammered. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be in this class.”

That’s when Mr. Pudel broke out into song.

“Whoooooo are you?” he sang. “Doot doot. Doot doot.”

It was only slightly less mortifying than when my dad sings, simply because I’m not related to my crazy Woodshop teacher.

“Uh, I’m. Uh… I mean, my name is…”

“Your shirt,” he said, gesturing with a beardy chin thrust. “The Who.”

I looked down, having totally forgotten all about my T-shirt.

“Whooooo are you?” he repeated. “Doot doot. Doot doot.”

I smiled weakly and willed myself not to faint.

“Jessica Darling,” I blurted.

Mr. Pudel reached behind himself and picked up the first piece of paper he laid his hand on. He “hmm-hmmed” over it for a second, then spoke.

“You’re on the class roster,” he said. “You’re supposed to be here.”

The “class roster” was definitely not a class roster. It was a delivery menu for Pineville Pizza Company. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one who pointed this out.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Because at that moment a latecomer walked through the door, a skinny redhead who looked as though he’d used a rabid squirrel for a hairbrush that morning. He muttered something as a greeting. I couldn’t make it out, but whatever it was did not escape the superior function of Mr. Pudel’s gigantic ears.

“What’s that?” Mr. Pudel asked, casting a shadow over the late kid.

“I said,” replied the late kid, “ ‘What’s up, Hagrid?’ ”

The room fell silent. Then Mr. Pudel broadsided us all with booming laughter.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA. I’ve been teaching here for fifteen years. I thought I’d heard them all. Hagrid! From Harry Potter! That’s a good one! HAHAHAHAHAHA.”

Mr. Pudel said it in a way that was sort of complimentary but also made it clear that he wouldn’t laugh so hard if he heard it again.

“I won’t answer to Hagrid or Paul Bunyan or Balrog or BFG or Jolly Green or Godzilla or any of those other names you’ll be tempted to call me behind my back. You will, however, answer to whatever name I call you. You see, I’ve got this rare brain disorder that makes it difficult for me to recognize faces and remember names.…”

A tough kid with a crew cut blew a farty raspberry.

“That’s bull—”

“Oh, is it, Mr. Mouth? I’ve got a doctor’s note to prove it!”

Then Mr. Pudel tossed aside the delivery menu, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out what was obviously a half-finished crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper.

“See? Proof! From a medical doctor!” He waved the paper around in the air before shoving it back in the drawer with a satisfied “Ha!”

At this point there was no doubt that there was something unusual going on in Mr. Pudel’s brain, and remembering our names was the least of it.

“So if I point at Aleck,” he said, gesturing at the crazy-haired latecomer, “and yell, ‘Hey, Aleck! Watch what you’re doing with that circular saw!’ Aleck here better watch out instead of whining that his name isn’t Aleck.”

“That’s not fair,” complained the boy now known as Aleck. “We deserve the same—”

“LIFE ISN’T FAIR!” Mr. Pudel roared, holding his right hand up for all of us to see. “I’m missing three fingers! You think that’s fair?”

Holy cow! No ring, middle, or index fingers! Instead of a wave, Mr. Pudel’s hand was caught in a permanent hang ten gesture. All of us—including Aleck and the rest of the tough kids—yelped something along the lines of “Holy cow!” and scrambled backward off our stools.

Mr. Pudel laughed heartily. Then his middle and ring fingers magically popped in place where they should be. We all screamed and fell off our stools again.

“Gotcha!” he bellowed. “I’m only missing ONE finger!”

The thing is, I know Mr. Pudel has probably pulled this prank at least a bazillion times in his life and he still thinks it’s as hilarious as the first time he thought of it.

We were all grateful when the bell rang. We had made it through Woodshop with our lives—and our fingers—intact. I was more determined than ever to meet with my guidance counselor—whoever and wherever that person was—and get me the heck out of this class where I so clearly did not belong!

I had almost made it out the door when a huge weight clamped on my shoulder and spun me around. I think Mr. Pudel was smiling at me, but it was hard to see any of his teeth through his beard.

“Gifted and Talented, right?” he asked.

I nodded meekly.

“Did you know that Woodshop connects real life with the classroom?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“It encourages problem solving and reinforces lessons learned in math, science, and social studies.”

I nodded again.

“I look forward to having you in my class,” Mr. Pudel said with a definitive tone that would override any guidance counselor.

Minutes later I ran into Sara at our lockers. She smelled like butter and brown sugar. While I was fighting for my life in Woodshop, my friends were in Home Ec baking chocolate chip cookies.

To quote Mr. Pudel: LIFE ISN’T FAIR.

Bridget got to the bus before I did. She was politely explaining to a boy in a backward baseball cap—a boy who was a shorter, scrawnier, not-as-cute version of Burke Roy—that, no, he couldn’t sit next to her because she was saving the seat for her best friend and, no, he couldn’t have a chocolate chip cookie because she had also saved it for her best friend.

“Woo-hoo!” she called out. “There’s my best friend now!”

And in that moment, after everything that had happened on my first day of seventh grade, I was so grateful that best friend was still me.