Trapton School for the Unlearned

Cindy Saysmore is my single, solitary friend here at Trapton School for the Unlearned. It’s ok though. Cindy's extra, so she’s enough. My parents switched me to Trapton this year, and it’s been a whole thing.

My name is Sofia Sitzalone, and I’m in the fifth grade. I feel like I live with a brown paper bag over my head. I like Cindy. She says all of the things that I wish I could. We think just alike, but she is fearless. Miss Gruntles calls her ‘brazen’ and ‘Little Miss Saysmore’, but I vehemently disagree, in silent protest, of course.

“Sofia, get your head out of that childish diary and back into your math book!”

Grunts, as Eakin likes to call her, can manifest herself behind you like an icy apparition. I snapped the teddy bear journal grandma gave me shut and crammed it into the guts of my desk. 

Eakin Stinkers is a pretty regular guy. He sits in my row two seats back, and he’s obsessed with polishing his shoes. He’ll say just about anything for a laugh, especially at his own expense. “Oops, I Eaked A. Stinker.” is one of his favorite lines. His middle name is Allen. He’s untouchable.

The bell rang, so Grunts did her job.

“Stand up and chairs in, 14. Time to report to Miss Tarry's music class.” She barked the orders like any good guard dog.

We shuffled down the hallway of green paint and sandy floors like proper inmates: hands lifeless at our sides, eyes studying the back of the head in front of us, minds wandering to anything else. 

Miss Tarry meets us at the door every time, hands clasped together at her chest and smiling as if she hadn't seen us in years. She tends to take her time, and she looks exactly like a fairy. Her room is an explosion of random colorful objects and framed inspirational quotes. Instead of the usual full fluorescents, Miss Tarry has lighting of all kinds: a goose-necked lamp here, a spotlight there and there, a whimsical nightlight in every outlet- all iced with blue Christmas lights to fill in missing corners. Every section of her ‘realm’, as she calls it, demands attention all at the same time. 

“Welcome, my lovelies! Welcome! Welcome!! Welcome!!!”

We folded into the room feeling like pixies, but Skip Adsly lingered in the hallway. Gruntles demoted him to the end of the line yesterday, calling him a 'listless lollygagger'.

“Skip!!! Why don’t you skip your happy little caboose in here?! Is that a divisive behind your back?! Are you crazy?! Kindly hand it over!”

Adsly complied and slunk to his spot in the tenor section.

Miss Tarry incarcerated Skip’s cellphone in the top left drawer of her desk not without the usual melodrama. She then stood before the class, readjusted her feathered headband, smoothed her pleated skirt, took three deep breaths, and commenced.

“Firstly, I apologize on behalf of our most special friend, Mr. Skip Adsly, for his minor infraction. I would also like to publicly forgive him." She waved her right arm in the air as if wielding a magic wand. "Secondly,...well, I forget! On with the show!!!”

Miss Tarry starts every class period with the expression: 'on with the show!'

“Now, where are my altos? Guess what?! You get to start a song!!! That's right, my mid-range wonders!!! All of you little overlooked lovelies finally have a chance at the Bigtime!”

I’m an alto, so I sat up uncomfortably straight in my orange plastic chair. I think Miss Tarry is a natural alto too, but she tends to push herself into the first soprano range. I accidentally overheard outside the teacher’s lounge that she used to have her eyes on Broadway, so, I get it.

Miss Tarry is great. Just like Cindy Saysmore, she speaks her mind. My brown paper bag head is kind of a real problem for me. Miss Tarry and Cindy Saysmore give me hope that there is a way out...of the brown paper bag, I mean.

Eventually, the bell rang, so we stood up on cue. Life is a stage between the moments of 10:30 and 11:15am on Thursdays. Even Skip Adsly can’t escape the magic of Miss Tarry’s realm.

“Skip, darling, here is your super cellular device. Would you kindly be our fearless leader who is entirely undistracted by the vapid void of the video game?" She handed him a temporary line leader pass. "There you go! Ever upward! Excelsior!!!”

For a fleeting moment Skip looked both noticed and important. He led the charge like a Super Mario brother saving the princess or something.

Back in the brown chairs of Miss Gruntles' hovel, we began the important business of monitoring the clock. A little over an hour before lunch is always just enough too long to withstand. 

“Eakin A. Stinkers, what is your obsession with the wall clock?”

“It’s just that the passing of time inflatuates me, Miss Gruntles. That’s all.”

“I believe you mean ‘infatuates’, Mr. Stinkers.”

Everyone gets the jokes except for Miss Gruntles. She refers to him plainly as Mr. Stinkers. It's too much bear.

“What is so hilarious? No more clock monitoring! Eyes up here. Eyes on me. Mouths shut! Silence.”

This day has dragged on as usual, but I think I learned a thing or two, at least incidentally. I can’t wait to get home to Pants, my lop-eared rabbit, and to flop on the couch. It’s Thaco Thursday, so dad’s in charge of dinner.

“Sofia! If I see that diary out one more time, it’s going in the drawer for the rest of the school year!” Ugh. was the final word in my journal before submitting.

I glanced at Cindy, and her hand shot up like a weather vane in a tornado.

“Miss Gruntles, are you familiar with the 7 styles of learning?”

Before our hawk-eyed educator could interject, Cindy initiated her monologue. 

“You see, my friend Sofia here is a combination of the Solitary and the Social modes of the informational absorption process. Her second learning set is temporarily in a dormant phase. You must give her time and space for personal exploration.”

Cindy spoke in a calming tone this time, shaking her head intently like a therapist. She is such a goof! I fought to keep my smile inside.

“Cindy, sit down. No one said you could stand up.” Grunts sat at her desk and folded her hands. It was near the end of the day. She looked up at the clock.

Skip Adsly was still the final straggler when the last bell rang, but, today, he stuffed his cellphone in his back pocket. I even overheard him talking to Ernest Workman about video games on the way out the door. Miss Tarry can be a mystery at times, but I think she’s on to something.