Zero Tolerance Meets the Alien Death Ray and Other (Mostly) Inappropriate Stories Read Online Free PDF
Author: David Lubar
rapidly over the past few years that
students swallowed up every available space. Even the cafeteria
fell victim to the overcrowding. With the help of a temporary wall,
it had been turned into four cramped classrooms at the beginning of
the marking period. Because of this, Keenan ate his lunch in Mrs.
Ferule's class. Room 103. The art room. Keenan didn't mind. Instead
of desks, there were large tables. And there were lots of
interesting pictures on the wall. Keenan liked looking at art.
Especially other people's art. He didn't think he drew or painted
very well, himself.
"Whatcha got?" Howard asked as lifted the
lid on his lunch box. A whiff of peanut butter flavored the
air.
"Don't know." Keenan flipped his own lunch
box open. "Phooey. Looks like mom was in a rush this morning."
Usually, his mom made him a sandwich. Today, he found himself
staring at a handful of crackers and a small package of cream
cheese, along with a plastic knife and a paper plate.
"I got peanut butter and jelly," Howard
said. "And a chocolate cupcake." He unwrapped the cupcake and ate
it, starting at the top and working his way down.
Keenan took out his lunch and spread the
cream cheese on the crackers. Since he had a long lunch period and
a little bit of food, he took his time. For fun, he swirled
patterns into the surface of the cream cheese, like he did with ice
cream when it got soft. He'd just finished spreading cream cheese
on the last cracker and placed it with the others when Mrs. Ferule
walked past and glanced down at his plate.
She let out a gasp. Keenan let out a sigh,
figuring he was about to get a lecture on the importance of a
balanced meal. That didn't seem fair, especially when he was
sitting next to Howard, who was wearing half a cupcake on his
face.
But Mrs. Ferule didn't mention fruits,
vegetables, or nutrition pyramids. Instead, she snatched the plate
from the table. "Keenan, that's fabulous!"
He spun around in his seat. "Huh?"
"I've tried and tried to get my classes to
understand art. I was sure I'd failed. But this — Keenan — this is
true art." She rushed to the front of the room and put the plate on
her desk.
"That's not art," Keenan said. "That's my
lunch."
Mrs. Ferule ignored him and continued to
gush with enthusiasm. "Look at the majestic sweep of the strokes,
the simple yet complex use of pure white against a textured field.
You have the boldness of a young Picasso, and a style that could
rival Van Gogh. Brilliance! Genius!" she shouted.
"Lunch...?" Keenan said, his stomach
rumbling.
"I must tell the world!" Mrs. Ferule grabbed
the plate and dashed from the room.
Keenan leaned out the art-room window and
watched Mrs. Ferule skitter across the street to the KDDA TV
building. A moment later, she rushed back, followed by a camera
crew from the six o'clock news.
The room filled with people. Someone thrust
a microphone in Keenan's face and started asking him questions that
didn't make any sense at all. He made up some answers, but he had
no idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The reporters seemed
happy.
More people showed up — this time from the
newspaper. Then a group from the local radio station crammed into
the classroom. Keenan heard the principal boasting to them about
the school's dedication to the arts.
There was no telling how long the excitement
might have lasted, but one of the reporters shouted something about
the bank being robbed and everyone raced out of the school and
zoomed down Broad St. toward the center of town. Keenan checked the
room. Mrs. Ferule was nowhere in sight. Neither were the crackers.
Far down the hall, he heard her saying something about taking this
treasure to the museum.
Someone tugged at his sleeve.
"Can I have your autograph?" Howard asked,
holding out a pen and napkin. "I never knew anyone famous
before."
"Only if I can have half your sandwich,"
Keenan said. He still didn't understand art, but he'd already
learned that fame was nowhere near as satisfying as
students swallowed up every available space. Even the cafeteria
fell victim to the overcrowding. With the help of a temporary wall,
it had been turned into four cramped classrooms at the beginning of
the marking period. Because of this, Keenan ate his lunch in Mrs.
Ferule's class. Room 103. The art room. Keenan didn't mind. Instead
of desks, there were large tables. And there were lots of
interesting pictures on the wall. Keenan liked looking at art.
Especially other people's art. He didn't think he drew or painted
very well, himself.
"Whatcha got?" Howard asked as lifted the
lid on his lunch box. A whiff of peanut butter flavored the
air.
"Don't know." Keenan flipped his own lunch
box open. "Phooey. Looks like mom was in a rush this morning."
Usually, his mom made him a sandwich. Today, he found himself
staring at a handful of crackers and a small package of cream
cheese, along with a plastic knife and a paper plate.
"I got peanut butter and jelly," Howard
said. "And a chocolate cupcake." He unwrapped the cupcake and ate
it, starting at the top and working his way down.
Keenan took out his lunch and spread the
cream cheese on the crackers. Since he had a long lunch period and
a little bit of food, he took his time. For fun, he swirled
patterns into the surface of the cream cheese, like he did with ice
cream when it got soft. He'd just finished spreading cream cheese
on the last cracker and placed it with the others when Mrs. Ferule
walked past and glanced down at his plate.
She let out a gasp. Keenan let out a sigh,
figuring he was about to get a lecture on the importance of a
balanced meal. That didn't seem fair, especially when he was
sitting next to Howard, who was wearing half a cupcake on his
face.
But Mrs. Ferule didn't mention fruits,
vegetables, or nutrition pyramids. Instead, she snatched the plate
from the table. "Keenan, that's fabulous!"
He spun around in his seat. "Huh?"
"I've tried and tried to get my classes to
understand art. I was sure I'd failed. But this — Keenan — this is
true art." She rushed to the front of the room and put the plate on
her desk.
"That's not art," Keenan said. "That's my
lunch."
Mrs. Ferule ignored him and continued to
gush with enthusiasm. "Look at the majestic sweep of the strokes,
the simple yet complex use of pure white against a textured field.
You have the boldness of a young Picasso, and a style that could
rival Van Gogh. Brilliance! Genius!" she shouted.
"Lunch...?" Keenan said, his stomach
rumbling.
"I must tell the world!" Mrs. Ferule grabbed
the plate and dashed from the room.
Keenan leaned out the art-room window and
watched Mrs. Ferule skitter across the street to the KDDA TV
building. A moment later, she rushed back, followed by a camera
crew from the six o'clock news.
The room filled with people. Someone thrust
a microphone in Keenan's face and started asking him questions that
didn't make any sense at all. He made up some answers, but he had
no idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The reporters seemed
happy.
More people showed up — this time from the
newspaper. Then a group from the local radio station crammed into
the classroom. Keenan heard the principal boasting to them about
the school's dedication to the arts.
There was no telling how long the excitement
might have lasted, but one of the reporters shouted something about
the bank being robbed and everyone raced out of the school and
zoomed down Broad St. toward the center of town. Keenan checked the
room. Mrs. Ferule was nowhere in sight. Neither were the crackers.
Far down the hall, he heard her saying something about taking this
treasure to the museum.
Someone tugged at his sleeve.
"Can I have your autograph?" Howard asked,
holding out a pen and napkin. "I never knew anyone famous
before."
"Only if I can have half your sandwich,"
Keenan said. He still didn't understand art, but he'd already
learned that fame was nowhere near as satisfying as