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She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last maths teacher had a nervous breakdown.įrom her first day, Mrs Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. Mrs Dodds was this little maths teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs Dodds, would give me the evil eye. He told us about the carvings on the sides. He gathered us around a four-metre-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.
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He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery. In-school suspension would’ve been nothing compared to the mess I was about to get myself into. Looking back on it, I wish I’d decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there.
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‘You know who’ll get blamed if anything happens.’ ‘You’re already on probation,’ he reminded me. ‘That’s it.’ I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat. He dodged another piece of Nancy’s lunch. The headmaster had threatened me with death-by-in-school-suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip. You should’ve seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.Īnyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn’t do anything back to her because I was already on probation. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don’t let that fool you. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He must’ve been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. And the time before that… Well, you get the idea.Īll the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly red-headed kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend, Grover, in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. I wasn’t aiming for the school bus, but of course I got expelled anyway.
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Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. See, bad things happen to me on field trips. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn’t get in trouble. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armour and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn’t put me to sleep. You wouldn’t think he’d be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class.
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He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. Mr Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. Most Yancy field trips were.īut Mr Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan – twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.