Standing Out
Chapter 8: Grumble, Grumble, Mutter, Mutter

I could honestly never understand what Mr. Ashworth was saying. It was yet another bleak February day and it had snowed outside. The roads were so densely packed with the storm’s precipitation that school had been cancelled for today. That didn’t stop Mr. Ashworth. He was determined to have his fourth grade class prepared academically for the state tests, or the PSSAs. He told us yesterday that even if it snowed and school was cancelled, that would only mean that it was cancelled on the premises. We would still be required to learn and we would do so outside at nearby Long’s Park. I wasn’t sure that was legal, but I also didn’t want him to send me back to the Special Needs Classroom.

Annoyed at his dictum nonetheless, I grabbed my backpack and all of my winter gear, walking infuriately to school. Since school was cancelled for all of the normal classrooms, the bus never came and I had to bear the cold and the snow as I walked for three-and-a-half miles to Long’s Park. Battered and wind-torn, many of the students who lived farther away from the school arrived much later than me and it took until about 11 o’clock to get started with Mr. Ashworth’s lessons, as unhelpful as they were.

“Okay class,” He began, acknowledging all of the distraught students whose parents were unable to drive them to his learning destination. “Thank you for showing up today. I know it is cold, but our learning is much more important.” Just about everyone glared at him.

Cindy, who sat at the park bench next to me, whispered in my ear. “I wonder if he’ll get fired when the school board hears about this.”

I replied gravely, “He’s clearly done this enough times that he knows he can get away with it.”

She shook her head sadly, “You’re probably right.”

“Now anyway, let’s get on with our math lesson. I hope you brought plates, so that I can teach you about pi!”

Everyone looked at him, suddenly alert. From the bench adjacent to mine, Billy yelled, “Great! I’m starving!” Mr. Ashworth glared at him. “You mean you’re starving to learn?” The class’ gaze shifted to perplexity.

Sara spoke what we were all thinking. “What kind of pie, sir?”

“Only the best,” He exclaimed and we all sighed with relief. “Mathematical pi, you know 3.14159…” He started singing the digits to this “pi.” Irritated that he had taunted us with food when we were all so hungry from walking, we turned away from his aggravating charade in disgust.

Cindy leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Doesn’t he know that Pi Day is March 14?”

“Now that you’ve made us hungry, can we just eat?” It was Jessabelle this time, her voice unusually desperate.

“After my lessons,” Mr. Ashworth growled threateningly. As he resumed his lesson about his fake pie and all we could understand from his deep-throated voice was “grumble, grumble, mutter, mutter.” We all just nodded, trying to appear as though we were engaged in his conversation with us. After much more incomprehensible language, he asked us, suddenly in English, “What kind of number is pi again?”

Charlie, our class clown, piped up, “I don’t know, Mr. Ashworth, but it sure is delicious!” We all laughed, especially when Mr. Ashworth started glaring. Every time he tries to execute that particular sign of annoyance, he scrunches his face up and squints so hard, that his eyes turn to slits and his face becomes a deep crimson.

Mr. Ashworth started his “grumble, grumble, mutter, mutter” ritual again, trying to shake off his embarrassment. Angry, he bellowed, “The answer was irrational! The digits to the right of the decimal keep repeating, onward forever without a clear pattern!”

“I’m not sure that pie is irrational sir, but I know that you are.” Charlie remarked. Everyone laughed again. Even in this bleak weather, tortured with Mr. Ashworth’s incomprehensible voice, Charlie lightened up the mood significantly, even if he was being utterly rude.

Cindy leaned over to whisper in my ear, giggling, “Every time I hear Mr. Ashworth speak, his voice is so muffled that I suspect he shoved fifteen burgers in his mouth.” I couldn’t help but giggle with her. She was right. That was a perfect way to describe how he sounded.

“Since you’re incapable of… we’ll just move on… science…” It was even harder to decipher Mr. Ashworth’s unusual language when he talked through gritted teeth. I just assumed that he was so disappointed in us that he was veering off into another direction with his lessons today.

“Let’s talk about the ecosystem. There is something called a food web with creatures in it that serve various purposes. For example, we have secondary consumers…” I zoned out. This was annoying and I didn’t even know what he was blabbering about. Why was he so determined to have us do well on these tests anyway? It’s not like they were going to hurt our current grades, anyway.

“Hey, Mya,” Mr. Ashworth sounded irritated. “What?” I looked at him puzzled. “I asked you a question and you clearly weren’t paying attention.”

Worried, I didn’t know how to answer him because I hadn’t listened to the question. Cindy nudged my shoulder and I turned to face her. “He asked you to give an example of a primary consumer. Try grasshopper.”

“Uh, is grasshopper one?” I looked at him innocently and he scrunched up his face to try to glare at me.

“Yes, it is Mya. But somehow I think that a particular peer of yours gave you the answer.” He looked accusingly at Cindy. “How about we try a different question?” Cindy looked at me helplessly. “What lies at the top of the pyramid of energy in Ecology? I’ll even help you out. Your options are secondary consumers, tertiary consumers, primary producers, or quaternary consumers. What’ll it be, Mya?” He leered at me.

I took in a deep breath. I’ll just guess the one that sounds the fanciest and hope that I get lucky. I returned Mr. Ashworth’s cold gaze intently. “Quaternary consumers,” I smiled widely as my teacher’s face filled with shock. He clearly expected me to get it wrong so that he could embarrass me for not paying attention.

Mr. Ashworth started grumbling again and in tandem, we all started laughing again. “Lunch time” was all that he could mumble to save face. Shivering in the biting air, we all pulled out our lunch boxes and started to eat, somehow jovial.

Cindy turned to me in amazement as she gobbled down her sandwich. “I can’t believe you got that right, even when you didn’t know what the lesson was about!”

“I know. I’m still astounded. I seriously thought that I would get it wrong and he would have an easy time of taunting me for the rest of the day.”

“I still can’t believe that he forced us to come out here just so we would have to listen to him belt a pile of rubbish.”

“I will never understand that man.” Sara spoke this time. “The only reason that I’m excited for fifth grade is that I won’t have to be around him anymore. I can’t image why those state tests matter so much to him.”

Mulling it over, I thought of a possibility. “I bet our grades on the test are a reflection of him and his teaching abilities. The higher we score, the better he’ll look.”

Cindy nodded in agreement. “That makes total sense.”

“What are you saying about me?” We jumped in fear as we saw Mr. Ashworth hovering over us, indulging in our conversation.

“Nothing, sir,” I muttered hesitantly.

“Don’t lie to me.” He roared. “I heard everything.”

“We’re sorry, sir.” Sara made herself look as apologetic as possible.

“It won’t happen again.” Cindy assured him.

Mr. Ashworth scrunched up his face again and stalked away. “Grumble, grumble, mutter, mutter,”

We giggled quietly as we heard him begrudgingly mumble to himself. “I wonder how long he’s done that.” I spoke my thoughts.

“Probably for as long as he’s been a teacher,” Sara couldn’t contain her amusement.

“Lunch time is over!” Our teacher bellowed and we all groaned, stuffing as much food into our face as we could before he could yell at us again. When I got home, I plotted to report his behavior to my parents, hopeful that they could do something.

“Spelling lesson, everyone sit down.”

“How do you spell tachometer?” They are totally not going to ask us that.

Charlie shouted from his seat, “I don’t know, Mr. Ashworth. But I bet it’s pretty useful. I bet it can measure meat consistency of tacos to make sure that you’re getting the right value at the right price.” We laughed hysterically and Charlie smiled peevishly.

“No, Charlie.” My teacher’s voice was threateningly calm. “A tachometer measures rotation speed, not tacos. Now will someone give me a practical answer as to how to spell it?”

Cindy sighed and raised her hand. She was a genius so she probably knew. “Does someone other than Cindy have any clue?” Mr. Ashworth looked around helplessly. His eyes locked with no other raised hands, so reluctantly, he called on Cindy.

“It is spelled t-a-c-h-o-m-e-t-e-r.”

“Very good Cindy, as usual,” Mr. Ashworth had clearly hoped that someone else would answer for once. He peered down at his watch to check the time. “Okay everyone, you can go. It’s about 3:30 p.m. if anyone wants to know.” Glad to be free from his lessons, we all cheered, and then stopped abruptly. Most of us would still have to trek home on foot.

Cindy nudged me. “I know we live in different neighborhoods, but would you walk with me until we have to go our separate ways?”

“Of course,” I smiled at her. It wasn’t like I would have refused.

Sara, clearly sensing she was getting left out, stormed up to us. “I want to walk with you Cindy.”

Cindy laughed. “Okay.”

As we started walking home, Sara decided she wanted to start up some trouble. “Hey, Cindy, how come you have been hanging out with Mya so much? I thought we were friends.”

“We are, silly. Just because I’m friends with Mya doesn’t mean that I don’t like you.”

“Yeah, but why do you want to be around her?” That comment seriously hurt my feelings. I knew what Sara meant.

“Why wouldn’t I want to be around her?”

Sara bit her lip. Even she knew it would be rude to list all of the things wrong about me in front of me. “Ugh, never mind.”

Until we reached Sara’s neighborhood and she turned left onto Sycamore Drive, Cindy and I had remained utterly silent. Once Sara was out of earshot, Cindy spoke again. “I can’t believe her sometimes.”

I didn’t know how to reply so I just stared at my feet until I had to turn right onto Hibiscus Avenue. “Bye, Cindy!” I called to her.

“Bye, Mya!”

Still amused at what had happened today, I thought of Mr. Ashworth again. “Grumble, grumble, mutter, mutter” rang in my ears as I stepped onto the driveway leading to my house, walked up the steps, and opened the door.