Scat (10 page)

By the end of the period, the letters he was stringing together with such difficulty actually began to resemble those in the English language. The next class was algebra, and its quirky formulas presented a different kind of challenge. Happily, Nick found the numerals and symbols easier to master with an untrained hand than the alphabet.

By the time he got to biology, his left arm throbbed and his fingers were cramping. A substitute teacher stood writing on the board, his back to the students.

"Still no Mrs. Starch?" Nick whispered to Marta.

"She took a leave of absence-you believe that?" Marta said. "Dr. Dressier made an announcement on Friday."

Strange, Nick thought. "Did he say why?"

"'Family emergency,' whatever
that
means. " Marta's cell phone began to vibrate and she turned it off. "He did say that the old witch would be coming back, unfortunately."

Nick wrestled the biology book out of his backpack. "What about Smoke?" he asked.

"Nobody's seen him. He must've quit school, or else Dressier kicked him out, " Marta said. "Either way, no great loss."

"Maybe he got busted for setting the fire."

"Libby says no. Her dad's assigned to the case, so she would've heard about it, " Marta said. "Hey, how's the arm feel, Lefty?"

"Excellent, " Nick lied.

The substitute was spelling out his name in large block letters: DR. WENDELL WAXMO.

Marta inhaled through her teeth. "No way!"

"Not
him, "
Nick murmured.

Wendell Waxmo was a legendary wacko. Nick and Marta had never had him as a teacher, but they'd heard all about him. Everybody had.

Because of his peculiar behavior, Wendell Waxmo had been banned long ago from the public school system. However, since private schools such as Truman were usually desperate for substitutes, Wendell Waxmo still got the occasional call.

The students let out a collective giggle when he turned to face them. Wendell Waxmo was wearing a faded black tuxedo with a bright yellow bow tie.

"All right, you little termites, what's so bloody funny?" he asked in a squeaky, brittle voice that was impossible to take seriously. He looked half as tall and twice as wide as Mrs. Starch, and his wispy red hair was arranged in a failed attempt to cover a bald spot the size of a dinner platter.

"Now please rise and sing the Pledge of Allegiance, " he said.

The students glanced at each other uncertainly. Nobody stood up. When Graham raised his hand, Wendell Waxmo called on him with an impatient snap of the fingers.

"We only do the Pledge of Allegiance in morning assembly, " Graham explained, "and we don't sing it, Mr. Waxmo."

"For me, you do."

So they all got up and sang the Pledge of Allegiance to the tune of "America the Beautiful. " It sounded totally ridiculous.

The class sat down, tittering.

Wendell Waxmo announced that he'd be filling in for Mrs. Starch until her return. He also said that he wished to be addressed as Dr. Waxmo, as he'd received an advanced degree from Biddleburg State University. Nick had never heard of the school, although Dr. Waxmo described it as "the Harvard of the Dakotas."

Graham again started waving a hand.

"What now?" Wendell Waxmo barked irritably.

"North Dakota or South Dakota?"

"Both. And western Minnesota as well, " Wendell Waxmo said. "Now open your textbooks to page 117. Today we're going to conjugate the verb
amar,
which of course means 'to love. '"

Libby Marshall couldn't contain herself. "But this isn't Spanish class. It's biology!" she blurted.

Wendell Waxmo's brow furrowed and he cocked his head. "You think I was born yesterday? You think I just fell off the turnip truck? What's your name, young lady?"

Marta passed a note to Nick:
This is fantastic! He's crazy

a bedbug!
Nick smiled and stuffed the note into his Pocket.

Libby Marshall was quaking under Wendell Waxmo's stare.

"I said, what's your name?" he persisted.

Nick raised his left hand and, not waiting to be called on, said, "She's right, Dr. Waxmo. This is a biology class. See, here's our book."

Wendell Waxmo stalked up to Nick, snatched the text, thumbed through it grumpily, and shoved it back at him.

"There's one on Mrs. Starch's desk for you to use, " Nick said.

Wendell Waxmo turned to see. "So there is, " he muttered, and spun back to face Nick. "And your name, young man?"

"Nick Waters."

"What's the matter with your right arm, Mr. Waters?"

"Nothing. It's just an experiment, " Nick said.

"I broke my right arm once. A dairy cow sat on it, " Wendell Waxmo said gravely. "Are you trying to be funny or something?"

"No, sir. It's a serious experiment."

Marta started to raise her hand, but Nick shot her a look. He didn't want everybody in class talking about what had happened to his father.

"Well, you'd better hope that a cloven five-hundred-pound beast never sits on
you,
Mr. Waters, because it's not humorous. " Wendell Waxmo strode to the front of the room and hoisted Mrs. Starch's book. "All right, everybody let's turn to page 117."

The students just sat there. They thought he was joking, but he wasn't.

"What are you people waiting for?" he snapped.

"It's not the Spanish book, Dr. Waxmo, " Libby Marshall said in a small but brave voice.

Rachel spoke up. "We're way past page 117."

"Is that right?" Something resembling a smile crossed Wendell Waxmo's face. "Obviously none of you have ever had the experience of being in my classes. Otherwise you'd know that on Mondays I always teach page 117-and
only
page 117-regardless of the subject matter."

Nick had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"Earlier this morning, for example, at the Egmont Day School, I substituted in Miss MacKay's advanced world history section, " Wendell Waxmo said. "By the time the bell rang, every one of those students had practically memorized page 117 of their history book. And that was a map of the Roman Empire!"

Substitutes were often flaky, but Wendell Waxmo was in a special category. "Every teacher has a system that works best for them, " he prattled on. "Mrs. Starch has hers, and I have mine, which is: Pick a page, then focus, focus, focus."

He flipped open the biology text to page 117, skimmed a few paragraphs, looked up brightly, and asked, "So, who can tell me how proteins function in a plasma membrane?"

For once Graham was too flustered to raise his hand. Libby Marshall answered the question in a dull tone: "Proteins release chemicals that allow certain cells to communicate with each other, and they also help move water and sugar through the membrane."

Dr. Wendell Waxmo was overjoyed. "Now that's what I'm talking about, folks! This little spitfire is cookin' with gas! I hope everybody's taking notes."

Marta cackled under her breath. "What for? Mrs. Starch tested us on this stuff three weeks ago."

"Don't tell him, " whispered Nick.

Whenever Wendell Waxmo spoke, his bony Adam's apple bobbed up and down, causing the yellow bow tie to jiggle.

"Quick now-what's a phospholipid molecule? You there!" He pointed at Graham. "Definition, please. " Graham looked helpless and lost. "I forget, " he said. Wendell Waxmo frowned. "Stand, young man. " Graham rose unsteadily. "Yessir?"

"Lullaby, please."

"But I don't know any lullabies, " Graham said, on the verge of blubbering.

Wendell Waxmo sighed. "A day without music is a day without sunshine. Sing after me, please:

Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Momma's gonna buy you a mynah bird.

And if that mynah bird don't talk,

Momma's gonna buy you a cuckoo clock... "

Marta leaned close to Nick and said, "That's not how it goes. "

"No kidding."

Wendell Waxmo wasn't exactly a born singer. After he finished warbling, the students sat in stunned relief that he mistook for appreciation.

"Your turn, young fellow, " he said to Graham.

"No, I can't."

"Pardon me?"

"I just can't, " Graham said again.

Wendell Waxmo folded his arms. "I'm in charge of this battleship."

"Yessir."

"And you will do as I say, or face the consequences."

Graham was plainly frightened by the threat, even though substitute teachers had very little authority. "I think I remember what a phospholipid molecule is, " he offered gamely.

"Who cares? Now sing, " Wendell Waxmo said.

"Hush,
little baby, "
Graham began with a pained grimace,
"don't you cry-"

Suddenly the door banged open and a boy stepped into the classroom. Nick didn't recognize him at first.

The boy's blazer was pressed and spotless, his khaki trousers were laundered and creased, and his necktie was perfectly knotted. His cheeks looked shiny and scrubbed, his hair was parted and neatly trimmed, and not a speck of grease or grime was visible on his hands.

"And who would
you
be?" Dr. Wendell Waxmo demanded.

"I would be Duane Scrod Jr., " the boy replied.

NINE

Marta jotted another note to Nick: He's
scarier now than he was before.

Like Marta and the rest of the class, Nick couldn't stop staring at Smoke. The transformation was incredible.

Wendell Waxmo said, "You're tardy, Mr. Scrod."

"Sorry. My bike threw a rod. " Smoke set down his backpack and removed a thin plastic binder, which he presented to the substitute.

"Here's my essay, " he said. "Five hundred words, just like Mrs. Starch asked for. Actually, it's five hundred and eight."

A ripple of high amusement passed through the room. Wendell Waxmo opened the binder to the front page, upon which the title of the essay had been centered:

The Curse of the Persistent Pimple
By Duane Scrod Jr.

Wendell Waxmo made the foolish mistake of saying the title aloud, which caused an avalanche of laughter.

"She told me to make it funny, " Smoke said defensively.

seemed uncomfortable being so sharply dressed, and the center of attention.

"What kind of nonsense is this?" Wendell Waxmo rolled up the binder and shook it in the air. The tuxedo made him look like an orchestra conductor. "Are you telling me that
Mrs.
Starch assigned you to write a research paper about pimples? Get serious."

Despite the teacher's hostile attitude, Smoke remained surprisingly calm. "You want me to read it or not?"

"Out loud, you mean?" Wendell Waxmo scowled. "I don't think so, Mr. Scrod. Take your seat."

With a sniff of distaste, Wendell Waxmo deposited the acne essay in his scuffed briefcase.

Smoke sat down and, to the astonishment of his classmates, produced a pen and a notebook. In all the time that Nick had known the kid, he couldn't remember ever seeing him take notes.

"It's not really him, " Marta whispered. "It's gotta be an imposter."

"Or a secret twin brother, " Nick said.

Dr. Wendell Waxmo seemed miffed that his limelight had been stolen. He scuttled up to Duane Scrod Jr. and said, Young man, I intend to find out if you're telling the truth about this preposterous pimple project, or if it's just some Prank you thought up to have a few cheap giggles at my expense."

Smoke looked puzzled. "Why would I do a dumbass thing like that?"

"Because kids always try to take advantage of substitute teachers, that's why. To prey on them, as it were. You think we're here just for your sport and entertainment."

Wendell Waxmo inched closer.

"I know your type, son, " he said, "but I insist on respect. Why else would I go to all the trouble of dressing up this way?"

Smoke shrugged. "Because you're a total whack job?"

The class exploded, and Wendell Waxmo turned purple. Then he did something that caused the students to swallow their laughter: He jabbed a pale knobby finger at Smoke's nose.

"You, " he said, seething, "owe me an apology!"

Nick and the other students fully expected Smoke to chomp the substitute's offending finger in half, as he'd done to Mrs. Starch's yellow pencil.

But Duane Scrod Jr. shocked them all. He didn't nip, nibble, or even spit on Wendell Waxmo. Instead he clenched his jaws, took a slow, tight breath, and said, "You're right, bro. I'm sorry."

Which prompted Marta to jot another frantic note to Nick: He's
turned into an alien!

If the truth were known, Dr. Dressier had the names of four other substitutes who were completely sane and normal. He chose Wendell Waxmo instead, knowing full well that the man was more or less out of his mind.

It was Dr. Dressler's belief that once Bunny Starch found out who was teaching her classes, she would immediately terminate her leave of absence and rush back to rescue her students.

In the meantime, the headmaster braced himself for angry phone calls from Truman parents complaining about Wendell Waxmo's distracting wardrobe, bizarre teaching style, and loony impulses to break out in song.

For now, though, Dr. Dressier had a more pressing problem.

"Would you care for some coffee?" he asked Jason Marshall.

The detective said no thanks and took a seat. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

"Not a word. He just showed up for class this morning, " Dr. Dressier said, "out of the blue."

"Did you notice anything different about him?"

Dr. Dressier chuckled uneasily.
"Everything
about him is different. He's like a whole new person."

"What do you mean?" the detective asked.

"He looks like a real student is what I mean. He looks like he actually wants to be here."

"But that's a good thing, right?"

"Certainly, " Dr. Dressier said, though privately he was both alarmed and suspicious. When the bell rang, he nervously poured himself another cup of coffee.