IT DIDN’T. Last, I mean. I was so happy being kind of cool that after lunch I’d sort of forgotten I had a DOUBLE music lesson with Mr. Mann. That’s right, less than 48 hours after I’d zinged him between the eyes with The Spiderzz album sleeve, the evil school timetable had come up with a double period of music.

I tried to psych myself up to survive 80 minutes of learning about Belgian opera singers of the nineteenth century, but it was impossible. No one can psych themselves up to survive Belgian opera singers of the nineteenth century. Not even Belgian opera singers.

As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about.

When Mr. Mann arrived for the lesson, I could see there was something different about him. I don’t mean the bandaid he had taped across the bridge of his nose. I mean that he walked different and talked different and looked different. If someone had asked me exactly what it was that was different about him, I wouldn’t have been able to pin it down. He was just different.

Kasey jogged my elbow as Mr. Mann began writing names on the blackboard behind his desk. “Check out the daks,” she whispered, chuckling.

Although I thought I spoke fluent Strayan, “daks” had me beat. What could it mean? Ducks? Darts? Donkeys?

“The pants,” Kasey hissed, gesturing to Mr. Mann’s legs.

“Pants? How do you get ‘pants’ from ‘daks’?” I whispered.

“Will you just take a closer look?” Kasey snapped. Eye-roll, 6.5.

I took a closer look. Mr. Mann’s daks were gray, just like all his other pants. Okay, these pants were a bit looser than the kind he usually wore maybe, but I still didn’t get what it was that had Kasey—

“Yoga pants!” I yelped.

Mr. Mann looked up from his list of Belgian opera singers. “Did someone say anything?” he asked.

I swallowed hard and picked out a name at random. “François van Campenhout!” I yelped again—I was in full yelp mode—trying to make it sound a bit like “yoga pants”. It wasn’t very convincing, but it was too late to stop now. Kasey covered her eyes and groaned.

“What about him?” Mr. Mann asked. He was smiling pleasantly enough, but it wasn’t fooling me. Mr. Mann was like a snake (not a good snake either, but one of the bad, eaty-bitey kind), waiting for me to get closer before he pounced, and I had nothing on François van Campenhout to help me. I’d only seen the dude’s name for the first time eighteen seconds ago. This is François van Campenhout, btw:

After the whole being-hit-right-in-the-face-with-an-album-sleeve incident, Mr. Mann didn’t need an excuse to make mincemeat of me. This Belgian opera singer stuff probably meant I was toast unless I came up with a real good reason RIGHT NOW why I’d shouted out François van Campenhout.

“I, uh, like him?” I said. “His, uh, singing and all?”

A vein in the middle of Mr. Mann’s forehead twitched. “You like him?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yeah, uh-huh. He’s, uh, cool.”

Kasey was trying to put as much distance as she could between us. Traitor. It seemed I was digging a hole so deep it would take twenty guys with a backhoe to get me out.

“François van Campenhout died in 1848, Mr. Khatchadorian,” Mr. Mann droned. “There are no recordings of his voice in existence. None.”

Gulp. There was no escape. Kasey was leaning so far away from me she was almost out the door.

But, as I considered my options (there were none), I noticed something strange going on with Mr. Mann. He twitched, shook his head, and licked his lips as though he was fighting an overpowering urge. I figured he was fighting an overpowering urge to strangle me on the spot.

Oh boy, I thought, this is it. I could almost see the headlines: Dumb Kid Sparks Teacher Frenzy! “He Just Went Nuts!” Says Witness. Substitute Teach In Middle School Meltdown!

Then, just as I was about to fess up that I’d shouted “yoga pants” and not “François van Campenhout”, and beg forgiveness for being such a total loser, Mr. Mann threw back his arms, put his chin in the air, and started singing a rock version of the Belgian national anthem at the top of his voice.

None of us had seen that coming.