Pop Quiz

“Sit down children. Quiet down. Let’s begin our lesson.” Mr. Quelhorst spoke without making eye contact with any of us. I don’t think he knows any of us by name. Whenever a kid does something that he doesn’t approve of, he shouts their seat number instead of their name. At least he makes eye contact when he shouts at us. That’s progress, right? 

For us, today is day four of Mr. Q.’s class. It’s History class and I wish I was history. At this point, I have suffered through three 90-minute sessions of monotone lecturing, chalkboards full of notes, and eardrum-shattering numerals; only 87 more to go. Ugh.

By the way, my number is 13. If you care more than Mr. Q., my name is Matt. My older brother, Chris, seems to have lied about this class. He said that Mr. Q. was his all-time favorite teacher and that Mr.Q.’s class made sixth grade his favorite year. Right now, Chris is starting his final year of college to become, you guessed it, a History teacher. I wonder if Chris got a head injury that we don’t know about. When I see Chris tonight, I’m going to ask him about Mr. Q. and check his dumb head for lumps.

“Thirteen!” 

“Sorry, Mr. Q.” I say quickly.

“Pay attention! Stop daydreaming!”

“Yes, sir.”

***

“Sit very still Chris,” I say.

“What are you doing? Checking for lice? Man, I wash my hair all the time. There are no lice in my dorm room! Quit!”

Chris reaches around the chair and pulls me around, into a chokehold. I know a noogie is coming. Before it does, I squeeze out “I’m looking for knots on your head, Bozo. Mr. Q. Is awful.”

The noogie doesn’t come. “Awful? What do you mean?”

Chris lets me out of the hold, stands me up, and looks at me with sad eyes.

“I mean he’s awful. He’s boring and kinda mean. He doesn’t call us by our name, just our seat number.”

“Man. What happened?” Chris asks. “Mom! What happened to Mr. Q.?”

“Huh? Mr. Q?” Mom says from the kitchen. “His wife died over the summer. Cancer I think. Didn’t you know?” 

“Mrs. Q.! Oh, man. No, I didn’t know.” Chris deflates like a balloon.

“I’m sorry, honey. You must have been in Mexico on your trip when it happened,” Mom says walking out of the kitchen and over to Chris. “You were gone almost the whole summer. I guess I forgot to tell you,” She puts her hand on Chris’s shoulder for a moment and we all are silent. She sighs, and retreats to finish dinner. 

“That might explain it, buddy,” Chris says through watery eyes. “He loved her a lot. Man, I can’t believe she’s gone. She was a good teacher too. But Mr. Q., he was the best. I’m sorry that you don’t get to see him like I did. Man.” Chris breathes in and out. Then his face changes. “Has he told you about orange juice yet?”

“No,” I say, looking at him like a horn was growing on his face. “What are you talking about? Orange juice? What? Can I check your head again?” I reach for his hair.

“No, doofus. Just…,” he pushes me away. “Just ask him about Orange Juice. And tell him I said ‘Hey’.”

I take a step back and look at Chris. I think about how awful Mr. Q. Has been. But I hear myself say “Okay. Whatever, lump noggin.”

In an instant, Chris grabs me and turns me upside down, threatening to pile-drive me. And I love every second of it.

***

It’s Friday morning. Chris is in bed, while me and mom scramble, once again, to get out the door on time. She yells “Grab your lunch box” as I step out of the door. So I turn around and hustle to the kitchen. I look around but don’t see my lunchbox. I do see oranges piled up in a bowl. I don’t know why but I grab one, pocket it, and keep looking for my lunchbox. I finally find it in the fridge! It’s not the first time Mom’s put it in there. 

I rush out the door and we make it to school in record time. Fridays used to breeze by but now History class looms in my mind like a dark cloud approaching. The day slug-crawls to 1:30 pm; time for Heck on Earth. (Mom won’t let me say the other ‘H’ word.)

Mr. Quelhorst is sitting at his desk scowling as we file in like criminals conformed to silence. I notice how depressed he looks while I head to me desk. I guess he doesn’t have anyone to go home to and nothing fun planned this weekend. “That has to suck,” I think. Then I remember the orange. 

I fish it out of my backpack. It’s bruised and squishy. I should have kept it in my pants pocket or something. “I’m stupid. This is stupid.” If I give it to him, he’ll think it’s some kind of joke; giving him a bruised orange instead of an apple. 

Some kids sit, ready for class, but most are securing notebooks and pencils. I am just standing beside my desk looking at an orange in my hand like an idiot. One of the kids next to me says “What are you going to do with that? Throw it at him? Awesome.” 

Kids near us hear and are attracted to me like bugs to a zapper. 

“I’ll cover for you,” says a mean kid.

“Make sure you hit him in the head,” says one, usually nice, smart kid. “This class is the worst.”

“Thirteen!” yells Mr. Q and I drop the orange.

“What have you got, a ball? Come here now!”

“Crap,” I whisper to myself. The other kids fall silent, suddenly innocent. I pick up the bruised orange and make my way to Mr. Q. already defeated. Everyone stares at me. It felt like I was heading to my execution. “It’s an orange,” I say, handing it over.

“An orange? You know the rules. No food is allowed in my classroom.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, but it was a gift…for you,” I force out.

“Is this some kind of a joke? I’m not good enough for an apple?”

I don’t know what to say. “Um, no. I mean yes you are good enough. But, um…” I am drowning in emotions and my words aren’t saving me, so I stop, close my eyes, breathe deep, and blurt “My brother Chris says that you are the best teacher ever and to ask you about orange juice and… ‘Hi’.”

Mr. Q. stares at me. Maybe I have a horn growing out of my face.

“Chris Rainey is your big brother?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He smiles. It grows wider and wider and then he starts chuckling. I don’t get the joke, if there is one. Maybe he’s lost his mind, holding a bruised orange. Maybe he’s going to throw it at me. There is no telling now. 

His chuckling tapers off and he asks “Why ‘was’?”

“Huh? I mean, Sir?”

“This orange ‘was’ a gift for me? But not now?” he says.

“Yes, sir. It’s bruised now. It’s no good. I’m sorry.” I say. 

“No good? Why, um…Mr. Rainey, a bruised orange is perfect…for juicing. And thank you for helping me remember that. I have been through some hard times recently and it has left deep bruises on my heart. Children,” he stands and continues “I apologize for my behavior.”

The room is silent. I break the awkwardness with “That’s okay Mr. Q.” I didn’t know what else to say.

He sniffles. “And about orange juice…we have only been drinking orange juice for breakfast since the 1930s and do you know why?”

Silence. 

“Because we drink lemonade when?”

“In the afternoon, especially when it’s hot,” says the nice girl who wanted me to hit Mr. Q. in the head with the orange.

“Exactly! In 1900, California farmers had more oranges than they could sell. Ad campaigns helped sell lemons for lemonade and oranges to eat for breakfast, but after 30 years they wanted to sell even more oranges. The ad agency had a new idea. Drink your oranges! They figured they should try it with oranges if it worked so well with lemons. But the same farmers grew lemons and oranges. They didn’t want the fruits to compete with each other, so they aimed orange juice at breakfast. And it worked! We’ve been drinking our oranges in the morning ever since. Brilliant!”

It was pretty brilliant. Every kid looks around and finds smiling faces, until Mr. Q. said, “Okay class! Pop quiz.”

Everyone groans together. 

“It’s not that type of pop quiz, kids. Tear off a small piece of paper and write something special about yourself that no one in here would know, but don’t write your name on it. I don’t know anything about you and that’s got to change.” He rushes over to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a bag of pink balloons. As he hands one to each kid he says, “Put your paper in the balloon, blow it up, and tie it. If you need help, just let me know.”

“Why do you have balloons?” someone asks.

He freezes. “I was planning a surprise party for my wife last May that I never got to throw.” A tear streaks down his face. “She would have liked every one of you. I think she was the best teacher in the world, not me, Mr. Rainey.” Everyone looks at me. “But I used to be the most fun.”

After they were all inflated and tied, Mr. Q. sticks the balloons to a bulletin board and we play a game for the rest of class, throwing darts, popping balloons, and guessing whose unique trait was whose. I didn’t want the class to end. None of us did.

With two minutes left in class, Mr. Q. tells us to pack up and that he loves us. Then he says, “Next week’s Pop quiz is all about sodas! What’s your favorite? Where did they come from? And the next week’s Pop Quiz will be on, you guessed it… Grandpas!”

We all walk out laughing or with huge grins. Today we got the world’s best teacher back.