No Talking Page 6

  “Well, it’s not a problem in the gym,” said Mrs. Henley. “Actually makes it easier, me not having to yell and all. I’ve got no complaints. If they want to be like they were this afternoon the whole rest of the year, it’s perfectly fine by me.”

  “It’s not fine by me.” That was Mrs. Akers talking. “I only get them for music two or three times a week, and I need to make every minute count. And I asked Jim Torrey, and he feels the same way about art class. I went along with it this afternoon, and we had some fun, too. But I can’t afford to waste more class time. I can’t teach them songs if they won’t sing more than three words in a row.”

  “I just realized something,” said Mrs. Overby. “You know what that little rascal Dave Packer did yesterday? Instead of giving an oral report, he stood up at the front of the class and coughed for two, maybe three whole minutes. And he was pretending, I’m sure of it. So he wouldn’t have to talk! This really has to stop.”

  Mr. Burton said, “But don’t you remember? We’re talking about the Unshushables. These kids have been driving the whole school nuts for years and years. And suddenly, like some amazing gift from elementary school heaven, they all stop talking, and what are we going to do? We’re going to start ’em right up again. That doesn’t make sense. Why not wait a little? You know, see what happens. Just for another day or so. What’s the harm in that?”

  Mr. Burton honestly didn’t think it was a problem. But even if he had, he would have asked the other teachers to back off anyway. He was hoping the quiet time would go on long enough for him to gather more information for that paper he needed to write for his Human Development class.

  The principal had heard enough. She was glad to get everyone’s opinion, but she didn’t want the teachers turning against each other. This was her school, and like everything else, this decision was her responsibility.

  Mrs. Hiatt said, “Thank you for your thoughts—very helpful. But this is not a voting situation. And I’ve made my decision. You know I’ve been trying to get these kids to quiet down ever since they were in first grade. So it’s tempting to go along with this activity of theirs and hope it will lead to an improvement. But I think that would be wrong. The sudden quiet might seem easier than all the noise, but neither behavior is really what we want. These children need to learn to be quiet when it’s right to be quiet, and they need to talk and participate at the right times too. We don’t want an all-or-nothing situation—which is what this is. What we need is real balance, real self-control. If we let them keep up this game or contest or whatever it is, I think we’ll be sending the wrong message. So we need to have an assembly tomorrow. I’ve noticed that Lynsey Burgess and Dave Packer seem to be the ringleaders. And I—”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Marlow interrupted, “I think it’s more like Dave and Lynsey are sort of team captains. They’re keeping score, counting words. And it’s the boys against the girls. I intercepted a note.”

  The principal raised her eyebrows. “A note? You didn’t tell me that.”

  Mrs. Marlow shrugged. “It was this afternoon. In my classroom.”

  Mrs. Hiatt said, “It might have been helpful if you’d told me about this sooner.” The principal paused, letting everyone feel how displeased she was.

  And in that moment, Mr. Burton thought, Women—always keeping little secrets.

  But he immediately corrected that thought. Because anybody who hangs on to stereotypes about girls and boys . . . shouldn’t. Especially if he’s a teacher.

  The principal said, “Anyway, that’s good to know. And I think I see a way to approach the problem. So at the start of homeroom, please bring all the students to the auditorium.”

  It was quiet for a moment.

  Then Mr. Burton said, “What are you going to do if the kids don’t respond? To your approach.”

  Mrs. Hiatt looked at him, a trace of frost in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m just saying that we’ve got five years of experience with this group. They’ve never obeyed very well when we’ve told them to stop being noisy. Why should it be any different when we tell them to stop being so quiet?”

  Mrs. Hiatt stared at Mr. Burton a moment, and in her mind a little voice said, Leave it to a man to say something negative.

  But, of course, she immediately corrected herself.Because that kind of thought can get a principal in trouble. On a school faculty, it’s never supposed to be girls against boys. In fact, that’s called discrimination, which is against the law.

  So Mrs. Hiatt looked around the table, smiled, and said, “All I can promise is that I’ll do my best to resolve this situation in the most orderly way possible. And I know that each of you will do the same. See you all first thing in the morning.”

  As the teachers left the conference room, there wasn’t much talking.

  In fact, there was none.

  CHAPTER 16

  ORDERS

  It was a bright November Wednesday, and the morning playground at Laketon Elementary School rang with the usual shouts and laughter of children.

  But there was another layer of schoolyard activity going on—if a person knew what to look for. Because all around the swing sets and the jungle gym and the baseball diamonds, small groups formed up as fifth-grade friends passed notes and gestured and play-acted, trying to tell each other what had been happening since Tuesday after school; trying to tell each other all the clever ways they’d gotten along without talking. The fifth graders were so glad to see each other. They felt like they had spent Tuesday night in lonely prison cells, practically in solitary confinement.

  There was also some contest business being conducted. It was time for the first test of the overnight honor system. As agreed upon beforehand, boys who had spoken illegal words reported to Lynsey, and the girls reported to Dave.

  As Dave received the morning confessions from a short line of sheepish girls, he felt pretty good. He added fifteen more points to the score against the girls.

  Lynsey felt good too. By holding up fingers, four boys admitted that they’d spoken a total of twelve forbidden words—which seemed suspiciously low to her. But the rules were the rules, and she had to trust that the boys weren’t lying—just like Dave had to trust the girls. And Lynsey admitted to herself that there might be a few cheaters on both sides. So it probably evened out. Anyway, she wasn’t worried, because she was pretty sure that the girls were still winning.

  When the first bell rang, everyone went inside.

  Dave was in Mr. Burton’s homeroom. When the second bell rang and all the kids sat silently at their desks, the teacher said, “Please line up at the door. We’re going to a special fifth-grade assembly this morning. If anyone would like to guess what it’s about, just speak up.”

  No one did, but Mr. Burton could tell from the looks on their faces that most of them had a pretty good idea. He smiled and said, “But don’t worry. Who could be upset with such beautifully behaved children? Not me, that’s for sure.”

  After his group had filed into the auditorium and taken their seats, Dave turned and looked for Lynsey. She was sitting next to Kelly, and they were passing a note back and forth. She didn’t look concerned at all.

  Dave turned away quickly, so she wouldn’t notice him looking at her. If Lynsey wasn’t worried, he wasn’t going to worry either—even though this assembly had to be about their contest. It had to be, didn’t it? There had never been a special assembly at Laketon Elementary School before, at least not that he could remember.

  And there had certainly never been an assembly that had begun in complete silence like this.

  Lost in his thoughts, Dave didn’t notice Mrs. Hiatt walking onto the stage. And she said something too, but he missed it.

  Scott Vickers elbowed him in the ribs, and Dave snapped back to the present—just in time to see the principal looking right at him.

  “Dave, I said I want you up here too.”

  In a daze, he looked around quickly and saw that Lynsey w
as already walking down the far aisle. So

  Dave lurched to his feet, scooched past his classmates, and hurried down the aisle and up the four steps onto the stage.

  Mrs. Hiatt stood between them, and she said, “Now, as you know, students, we always begin an assembly with the Pledge of Allegiance. So, Lynsey, Dave, you will lead us in the Pledge this morning. Everyone, please stand up.”

  The whole fifth grade rose to their feet. In silence.

  Dave glanced across at Lynsey, and she glanced at him. And the look they exchanged was clear: What should we do?

  Lynsey gave a tiny shrug, and then they gave each other an even tinier nod. All of this happened in less than a second, and that’s all it took for each to know that this was the right time for a temporary truce.

  Dave and Lynsey looked out across the faces of their friends, nodded, put their right hands over their hearts, and turned to face the flag: signal sent, signal received.

  These kids hadn’t talked for more than eighteen hours. Every fifth grader took a deep breath, and if the pictures of Washington and Lincoln on either side of the stage had been painted with hands, they would have used those hands to cover their ears.

  “I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG

  OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,

  AND TO THE REPUBLIC

  FOR WHICH IT STANDS,

  ONE NATION, UNDER GOD, INDIVISIBLE,

  WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.”

  The kids spoke with one voice, almost shouting, incredibly loud, amazingly powerful—probably the most rousing Pledge of Allegiance ever heard in a public school during the entire history of the nation. The auditorium echoed, and it seemed to take a moment for the room to stop shaking.

  As Dave and Lynsey hurried back to their seats, Mrs. Hiatt, her ears still ringing, said, “Thank you. That was . . . excellent. I have called this special fifth-grade assembly so that every one of you gets the same message at the same time. As of right now”—and here, the principal paused and swept her eyes over the upturned faces in front of her—“the contest, or game, or whatever you’d like to call this sudden quietness, or this three-words-in-a-row business you’re all doing—as of right now, it’s over. Ended. Stopped. It was interesting, and I hope you learned something, and we all hope that you also enjoyed yourselves. But I have decided that it needs to stop. What you’ve been doing has made it very difficult to have normal, productive classroom activities. And, of course, that is why we’re all here, to learn as much as we can every day. So, is that clear?”

  The room was silent, and then a scattering of kids replied, “Yes, Mrs. Hiatt.”

  The principal said, “Is what I am saying clear to everyone?”

  This time the whole group responded, “Yes, Mrs. Hiatt.”

  But there was no sudden rush of whispering, no undercurrent of talking in the auditorium, no joking and laughing—none of the usual behavior that the Unshushables were famous for.

  The group remained silent.

  And Mrs. Hiatt realized something: Yes, the kids had all responded to her, and just now they had all obediently said, “Yes, Mrs. Hiatt.” But—that was only three words. And now it was still completely silent in the auditorium.

  So, to really prove that they had actually agreed to behave normally, well . . . she would have to get them all to start talking . . . normally.

  But the principal instantly decided that this did not feel like the right moment to push it. Better to let the teachers work it out with smaller groups, one class at a time.

  So she smiled at the fifth graders and said, “Thank you for listening so carefully, and now I hope you all have a wonderful day. Teachers, you may take your first-period classes now.”

  Mrs. Hiatt watched the classes leave, one by one. It was a very orderly exit. All the kids were behaving extremely well.

  But it didn’t feel right. It was just too quiet.

  CHAPTER 17

  ALLIANCES

  As he walked toward his first period class, Dave felt relieved. He was glad Mrs. Hiatt had put an end to the contest. He was especially glad that he wouldn’t have to actually mark a big L on Lynsey’s forehead. Or the reverse of that. Now he could just think about his schoolwork again. Because he really was a pretty good student. That’s why he was in the high math group.

  But as he went into the math room, he didn’t talk to his friends, and they didn’t talk to him. And none of the girls were talking either. No one was actually sure that the contest was over. And no one was taking chances. Including Dave.

  The bell rang, and as everyone took their seats it was still completely quiet.

  Mrs. Escobar got right down to business. “All right, students, we’re still working on metric conversions, and, let’s see . . . who’s got an answer for the first homework problem?”

  Lynsey raised her hand, and when Mrs. Escobar nodded, she said, “Three hundred twelve.”

  Mrs. Escobar frowned. “‘Three hundred twelve’ what?”

  Lynsey said, “Degrees Celsius.”

  Mrs. Escobar looked at Lynsey. “You heard what the principal said a few minutes ago?”

  Lynsey nodded.

  “About how this little game needs to stop?”

  Lynsey nodded again, and then raised her hand.

  Mrs. Escobar nodded, and Lynsey said, “But why?”

  “Why?” said the teacher. “Because it’s not good. For anyone. It slows down our classwork. Like right now. We should be doing math, and instead we’re talking about . . . not talking.”

  Lynsey said, “Math is numbers.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Escobar, “but we need to use words to talk about how we’re using numbers. You know that. You all know that. So stop this. Right now.”

  Lynsey stood up and pointed at the dry erase board. “May I?”

  Mrs. Escobar said, “Go ahead.”

  Lynsey had her homework paper in one hand and a marker in the other. She wrote out the numbers for the first problem and then showed the three steps she used to get the correct answer.

  She turned to Mrs. Escobar, and when the teacher nodded, she said, “How’s that?”

  Mrs. Escobar was starting to boil over. “I am not amused by this, Lynsey. I know what you’re doing, and I will not stand for it. Now stop it!”

  Lynsey stood at the board. She pointed at the problem. “Is it right?”

  Another three words.

  Dave knew that look on the teacher’s face. It meant trouble, serious trouble. And not just for Lynsey. He held his breath, waiting for the explosion.

  But the very next moment, Dave amazed himself: He raised his hand.

  Mrs. Escobar had to grit her teeth, but she managed to say, “Yes?”

  Dave pointed at the solution on the board and said, “Mine is different.”

  Without asking permission, Dave was on his feet. He grabbed the marker from Lynsey and scrawled his work onto the board. He had the same answer, but he had worked with fractions instead of decimals.

  Mrs. Escobar said, “How many of you did it the way Dave did?”

  About half the hands went up.

  “And the way Lynsey solved it?” The other half went up.

  The teacher nodded. “That’s good. Does everyone see why it can be done both ways?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Okay, here’s a tougher question: Kelly, which way was easier, Dave’s way or Lynsey’s way?”

  Kelly said, “Lynsey’s.”

  “Really?” asked the teacher. “How come?”

  “Fewer steps.”

  And all around the room, Mrs. Escobar saw heads nodding, saw the special light that shows up on a kid’s face when understanding happens.

  She smiled. “That’s right. Decimals really do make things easier.”

  Tyler raised his hand and said, “With a calculator.” Which got a laugh from the whole class.

  And as they laughed, Dave and Lynsey looked at each other for about half a second. Not quite a friendly look, but similar.r />
  Then Dave thought, This means the contest is still on. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  The class sailed through the rest of the conversion problems—miles to kilometers, kilograms to ounces, acres to hectares, on and on. And every student responded using three words or less, or with written answers on the board.

  Mrs. Escobar knew the kids weren’t obeying Mrs. Hiatt. She knew they were still counting words, still keeping silent unless called on.

  But honestly, at this moment, she didn’t care. She was in the middle of an amazingly productive class period—and everyone was so focused, so alert, so engaged. Compared to the classroom experience she’d had with these same kids just twenty-four hours ago, well, it was like night and day. And she liked the day much better.

  • • •

  And what was happening in the other first-period classrooms on Wednesday—classrooms where Lynsey and Dave were not on hand to provide some leadership?

  As science class began, Mrs. Marlow had already decided to make an example of the first kid who gave her a three-word answer. And it happened to be Kyle.

  “I asked you to tell me about the order Lepidoptera,” the teacher said.

  Kyle nodded. “Butterflies and moths,” he repeated.

  “And that’s all you know?” she said.

  He nodded again. “Pretty much.” Which got a giggle from the class.

  Mrs. Marlow grabbed a notepad and picked up a pencil, reading out loud as she wrote: “Dear Mrs. Hiatt, Kyle has refused to obey your instructions. He is not participating in class discussion, and he—”

  Kyle raised his hand, and Mrs. Marlow snapped, “What?”

  “I’m participating.”

  “No,” she said, “you’re deliberately using as few words as possible, and you are disobeying the principal.”