The Wednesday Wars Read Online Free PDF

any, I thought, and you're very welcome.
    I picked up a tray in each hand.
    "One tray at a time," said Mrs. Bigio.
    I looked at her. "That will take me twelve trips to the third floor," I said.
    "So, Mr. Samowitz is teaching you some arithmetic after all. Don't drop any."
    It took me the rest of lunch recess to carry the trays—one at a time—up to the classroom. Mrs. Baker smiled sweetly as I brought each one in. "Place them on the shelf by the windows. The cool air will keep them from getting soggy."
    I thought of my father and the future of Hoodhood and Associates. I did not complain. Even when Mrs. Baker asked me to open the windows a little wider and I had to move all the trays—one at a time—so that I could reach over the shelf and jerk all the windows open a little wider, I did not complain.
    "Thank you," said Mrs. Baker, as the school clock clicked to 12:30 and the classroom began to fill and Danny Hupfer came to punch me on the shoulder because he thought the cream puffs might be for us, which they weren't. He figured that out when Mrs. Baker told us to take our
Mathematics for You and Me
books, line up by the door, and then head to Mr. Samowitz's class.
    Let me tell you, it is hard to care much about set theory when there are twelve trays of brown, light, perfect cream puffs cooling deliciously on a shelf back in your own classroom. Twelve sets of cream puffs divided by twenty-three kids plus Mrs. Baker meant half a set of cream puffs for every person in that room. And don't think we weren't all figuring out that same equation. And don't think we weren't all worrying that Mr. Samowitz's homeroom class, who had walked past us with
English for You and Me
in their hands, was trying to get those same hands on our cream puffs.
    But they didn't, and when we came back in after set theory, the cream puffs were still there, cooling in the circulating air coming in beneath the clean lower windows. But Mrs. Baker acted like the cream puffs weren't there at all. And I suppose that in the end it didn't really matter that they were there. They may as well have been over with the Wives of Vietnam Soldiers at Saint Adelbert's already, for all the chance we had of getting one.
    When 1:45 came, half the class left, and Danny Hupfer whispered, "If she gives you a cream puff after we leave, I'm going to kill you"—which was not something that someone headed off to prepare for his bar mitzvah should be thinking.
    When 1:55 came and the other half of the class left, Meryl Lee whispered, "If she gives you one after we leave, I'm going to do Number 408 to you." I didn't remember what Number 408 was, but it was probably pretty close to what Danny Hupfer had promised.
    Even Mai Thi looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, "I know your home." Which sounded pretty ominous.
    But I knew I was safe. It was just as likely that President Lyndon B. Johnson himself would walk into the classroom as Mrs. Baker would give me a cream puff.
    Actually, though, someone did come to the door after everyone had left. It wasn't President Johnson. It was a fifth grader from Camillo Elementary. He was carrying a box.
    "There you are, Charles," said Mrs. Baker. "Did you get them all?"
    "I think so."
    "From Mr. Petrelli's class? And Mr. Samowitz?"
    Charles nodded.
    "And did you remember Mrs. Harknett downstairs?"
    "Yes."
    "And Mr. Ludema?"
    "I got them all," Charles said.
    "Thank you. You may put them here on the desk."
    Charles put the box on Mrs. Baker's desk. He looked once at me—kind of sadly, I thought—then left, brushing his hands off.
    Chalk dust fell from them.
    "Mr. Hoodhood," said Mrs. Baker, "recent events have led the junior high school teachers to conclude that we need to be keeping our chalkboard erasers much cleaner. So I asked Charles to gather them from the classrooms and bring them here each Wednesday." She gestured toward the box on her desk. "Would you take care of them, please?"
    If there ever was a time to