Before school, I ignore my breakfast bagel while I scan through the thick book that’s open on my kitchen table. The book details the long history of Harvard University. I had requested it at our library, so the other week when I received the email informing me the book was finally available, I made Mom drive me to pick it up immediately.

I’m reading the book start to finish, of course. Harvard was founded in 1636, so there is a lot to read.

But getting into Harvard is not easy, even with a history of parents and relatives graduating from it. I still need to earn my spot. Sure, my friends are always telling me that I shouldn’t worry about college yet.

But if not now, when?

My father won a national science contest when he was only twelve years old. I’ll turn twelve soon enough. Okay, maybe not that soon. But really, now is the time to worry about my future.

Teaching a fifth-grade class after my teacher quits will look very impressive. No one else in my family ever did that. It’s crucial to have life experiences that make your college application stand out from the other ten thousand rolling across the desk.

Did you know Harvard gets more than 30,000 applications a year and only accepts about 2,000 of them?

That means they have (approximately) 28,000 denied applicants a year. That’s (approximately) 28,000 annual failures.

Winter break starts in a couple of weeks, and I’m electrified, thrilled, and aflutter. Mom, Dad, and I are going to visit Harvard. This will be my first time there. I want to see everything.

Mom says we should go to Disneyland or something instead. She says I’ll be bored. On the other hand, Dad says that the present is a present that needs to be unwrapped and used to invest in tomorrow. I couldn’t agree more.

But the present means today and not eleven days from now. Today is the day I start Operation Anti-Blockhead. I just hope everyone appreciates how I’m going to help them learn and unwrap each of their gift-wrapped presents.

Whipping my classmates into shape shouldn’t be a problem. Teaching is a snap. If Ms. Bryce could do it, then I can, too.

“Ready for school?” Mom asks.

“Am I ever,” I reply, strolling past Mom and to our garage.

Last year, the school bus had a flat tire and we arrived thirty minutes late. Never again, I said. School is too important. I like to ride my bike when I can, but it’s too cold to ride it now. So Mom drives me every morning. I always insist we leave early. That way I’m the first one to arrive in class.

I’ll have the room to myself for thirty minutes. I have plenty to do.

Ten minutes later we pull up (before many of the teachers!), Mom kisses me, and I hurry to class. Once inside, I sit at the teacher’s desk that is now my desk. I make a long list of responsibilities that need to be assigned.

I’ve also started searching through Ms. Bryce’s papers. Since she’s been a teacher for just about forever, she has lots and lots of papers. I’ll be adding my own touches to them, of course. The assignments must be challenging so my classmates rise from the depths of mediocrity and soar on the wings of academic alacrity!

That means they’ll be excited, fired up, and ready to learn.

Time flies and soon the warning bell rings in the hall, signaling four minutes and fifty-three seconds until class starts. (The bell is supposed to signal five minutes until class starts, but the timer is fast. I’ve clocked it against my watch.) Students pile in. Brian enters and immediately hurls an eraser at Kyle. Cooper lugs a big stack of comic books. Trevor flips a football back and forth in his hands. He tosses it to Gavin, who spikes it on the ground and then yells, “Touchdown!” I shake my head. Those boys are all 100 percent blockheads.

I wait until the bell rings, and then I stand up, pounding my stapler on my desk. It takes three hits before everyone stops their mindless yapping and looks at me. “Thank you,” I say. “I understand fun and games is, um, fun. But we can’t spend every day doing nothing but playing.”

“Why not?” asks Seth, way in the back of the room. Brian nods. So do Danny and Jasmine.

“There goes Miss Bossy again,” Trevor whispers to Gavin. I stiffen and try to brush off his comment.

“I would much rather goof off, too,” I say, my voice rolling with false enthusiasm. The art of persuasive communication is tricky. I’ve read that if you sympathize with your audience, they’ll listen to you more. So I continue with my most caring voice, even if I don’t believe a word of what I’m saying.

After all, I am caring. I am a lot more caring than I am bossy, anyway.

“Who wouldn’t rather play?” I continue. I clear my throat. “But our parents will grow suspicious if we don’t have homework and take tests.”

Brian hurls an eraser at me, but it misses and strikes the wall, bouncing harmlessly off the whiteboard. I don’t flinch. Leaders never flinch.

“I don’t want homework!” Brian complains.

“Neither do I,” I say, although I do want homework. I mean, I want to give homework. “But it is only work if a teacher assigns it to you. If we assign it to ourselves, then it’s kind of like playing.”

“ ‘If we assign it to ourselves, then it’s kind of like playing,’ ” says Brian. He repeats my words using an odd, high-pitched voice that I think is supposed to mimic mine, but sounds nothing like me. He’s way too whiny. I don’t whine. Bossy people might whine, but leaders lead.

I ignore Brian’s intended mockery. “Learning isn’t work if you learn on your own.”

“ ‘Learning isn’t work—’ ” begins Brian in his squeaky voice.

“Knock it off,” says Kyle. “She has a point.”

I raise an eyebrow. I never would have thought Kyle Anderson, of all people in the world, would listen to me.

I’ll need to reevaluate his 100 percent blockheadedness. Perhaps it’s only 98 percent block.

I flash him a grateful smile.

Brian sits down, but he looks annoyed.

“Our parents asked why we didn’t have any homework last night,” Danny says, looking at his twin sister, Jasmine. “We always have homework.”

“Mine asked me the same thing,” says Jade with a big frown.

“Mine too,” Madelyn adds. “And so did my orthodontist.” She points to her braces.

“When my parents asked why I didn’t have homework, I panicked and told them I had a huge test today,” whimpers Gavin. “If I don’t bring home a graded test soon, they’ll wonder what’s going on.”

More kids groan. Others mention similar concerns. Emmy’s parents almost emailed the teacher yesterday, asking if she’d left her homework at school.

I lean back, letting the class talk. They are convincing themselves of the importance of homework, which only makes my job easier.

“But we don’t have a teacher,” Danny says. “So how are we going to have tests?”

Kids continue to moan. They argue. They fear that even one more day without homework will trigger phone calls, school visits, and general chaos.

I smirk to myself.

“Only smelly sock haters want a teacher,” growls Brian. “Or smelly sock lovers, or whatever.”

This conversation has gone on long enough. I need to resume order. I slap the stapler against the desk twice. A few kids continue to complain. I stand behind my desk, stapler in hand, ready to bang it down again. But Kyle barks, “Quiet!” and the entire class silences. Kyle’s blockhead percentage lowers even more. Everyone looks at me.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I have a solution.” I pause so the class eagerly awaits my next words. I hold my tongue. The anticipation mounts. A few kids lean forward.

“Someone has to make a sacrifice for the good of the class,” I continue, my chin high. Heroic. Heroes always have jutted chins. “And that someone will be me. I don’t want to make this tiresome, laboring sacrifice, believe me.” I keep my smile from bursting out. Instead, I keep the very deep and sincere expression that I am faking on my face. “But I will. I will assign and grade homework. I will give tests. I, of course, would much rather play games. But I will take responsibility for keeping us out of trouble.” I give a deep, loud sigh and frown.

“You would do that for us?” asks Lacey.

“You’re so noble!” exclaims Paige.

I bite my lip to keep my smile from spreading too much. I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. I am making a sacrifice, even if it will help me, too.

“So what happens now?” asks Emmy.

I lift a piece of paper from the desk. I clear my throat. “First of all, we need to have a little discipline. We can’t be running outside taking extra recess, for example. I’ve assigned jobs. If we band together, then no one will discover our secret. Then, we’ll have the best year ever. Are you with me?”

The class cheers. Even Brian raises his fist. Kyle pounds his desk in agreement. Trevor and Gavin smile, too.

Convincing the class is easy.

Just like being a teacher is easy.

I go through my list with the class. Emmy will take attendance and lunch count every day. Eli will bring it to the office. Kyle will feed Soda, the room hamster. Madelyn will be our line leader for lunch. And so on.

I will grade, assign, lead the class, and hold the pencils for our daily detention drawing, which we should do every day, with today’s drawing now. Principal Klein will expect a detention note every day, and we shall not disappoint him.

The entire class gathers around me, and they each grab one of the twenty pencils clutched in my fists. “Who has the stub?” I ask.

“Not me!” says Brian.

“Not me!” says Trevor.

Adam raises his hand and groans. “I do.”

As Adam frowns, I pass out work sheets to the class. I’ve added extra questions to them, so they are more challenging. “And we’ll have a test Friday,” I say.

No one complains. Gavin says, “Thanks for the homework.”

“My pleasure,” I respond.

After I’ve passed out the assignments, I sit back at my desk. Lacey and Paige approach me. “We can help,” Lacey suggests.

“It’s really a one-person job,” I insist. “But thanks, anyway.”

“Maybe we can prepare some work sheets?” asks Lacey.

“Or come up with test questions?” suggests Paige.

“No, no. I will do it all myself,” I say. This will be a piece of cake.

I am Maggie Cranberry, and my future is looking so bright I wish I had worn sunglasses to school.