It’s quiet in the house. Too quiet. When I think of quiet things, I think of ghosts, and when I think of ghosts, I get nervous.

I suppose there are nice ghosts and mean ghosts, just like there are nice people and mean people. But you never know which sort of ghost you’ll get, and once you get ghosts, there’s nothing much you can do about them. You’re haunted, and that’s that.

But there aren’t ghosts here, not really. At least I hope not. It’s noisy in class, and I guess I’ve just gotten used to the continual screaming. I wish I could put on the TV—the sound would make the room feel less scary—but Mom doesn’t let me watch television on school days.

Maggie gave us more homework than Ms. Bryce ever did, and Ms. Bryce gave us a lot. I have a pile of math work sheets, reading logs, and more.

Maggie says it’s not really homework since we’re assigning it ourselves, but it sure feels like homework to me.

Most of these sheets appear to be from Ms. Bryce’s files, but I think Maggie created a few on her own. There is a work sheet on “Why Homework Is Awesome!” and I’m pretty sure that’s a Maggie original.

Maggie explained that if she gave us more homework than usual, no one would suspect we didn’t have a teacher. I guess that makes sense, sort of. I just wish she didn’t look so happy about assigning it. As Maggie handed out new work sheets, her face was one giant grin. She kept insisting she was making a big sacrifice creating homework.

I’m not sure if Maggie really felt she was making much of a sacrifice at all.

We thought not having a teacher would mean less work, but it sure seems like we have a lot more.

I sit at the kitchen table with my homework, a glass of milk, and a plate of saltine crackers. I have a napkin, too. My mom doesn’t like me to make crumbs.

I sip my milk and then take out a new yellow pencil, freshly sharpened, and get to work. I don’t want to be the only one in class who doesn’t complete the assignments.

I don’t want to stand out.

But instead, I write a story in my notebook.

My story is about a kid who always stands out. I call him Cire, because that’s Eric spelled backward and he’s the opposite of me. He wears bright orange shirts to school, always talks as loudly as he can, and raises his hand for every question in class, even when he doesn’t know the answers. Often, he blurts out answers without even being picked.

Everyone hates him.

One day someone decides to teach him a lesson. Cire loves gum. He’s always chewing it. So someone puts a pack of gum in his locker, forcing it through the slats. When Cire opens his locker, he just assumes the pack of gum is his.

He puts a stick in his mouth. Cire doesn’t know the gum has been secretly filled with superglue.

As soon as class starts, their teacher, Mrs. Brick, asks a question. Cire’s arm shoots straight up. Before the teacher can even call on him, he starts to speak.

But his mouth is superglued shut. Although Cire tries to speak, he can’t open his lips.

Sweat forms on his forehead. Cire mumbles, “Mmmm … mmmmm,” but that’s all he can say.

“I don’t find this funny at all,” says the teacher.

“Mmmmm …”

Finally, the teacher points to the door. “If you insist on muttering nonsense, then you can go to the principal’s office right now.”

Cire stands up, still mumbling. The teacher frowns at him. “I hope you learn your lesson.”

Mrs. Brick smiles to herself. She’s happy that she can now choose other kids without Cire always interrupting. As he leaves the room, Mrs. Brick pats the outside of her pants pocket, where she can feel the special pack of superglue-spiked gum she brought to school that day, resting inside.

It’s not one of my better stories. I am about to rip it out of the book and throw it away when I notice a shadow hovering over my page. My mom stands over me. “What are you doing?”

“I was about to do homework,” I explain, quickly flipping to a blank page and lifting a work sheet. I don’t show Mom any of my stories. She’d just tell me they’re a waste of time.

“Do we write on the table without a place mat?” she asks with a frown. It’s not really a question. “You could get pencil marks on the wood.”

Our yellow vinyl place mats are next to me, stacked neatly on top of one another. I remove the top one and slide it under my notebook. “Sorry.”

“And what do we say about putting coasters under glasses?” she asks. Again, it’s a question but not a question.

I don’t see a coaster, so I put my glass on the copy of Hamlet that I’m still reading.

I’m not really reading it. I’m agonizing over reading it.

“Sorry, again,” I mumble quietly.

“Don’t mumble,” says Mom. “You sound like your mouth is glued shut.”

“I said I’m sorry,” I say again, louder and more clearly.

“Fine,” she says, satisfied. “Now give me a kiss.”

She bends over so that her cheek is within range of my mouth. I give her a quick peck.

She straightens up, but then she shakes her head at me. “Don’t slouch, either. It’s bad for your back.”

I sit up straighter.

“That’s better. I love you.” Mom leaves the room, and once she’s out the door I begin writing another story. This one is about a mom who always lets her son make messes at the kitchen table and sit however he wants to sit.

It’s a boring story, but it makes me smile.