Class Is Not Dismissed! (3 page)

Before he could answer, Madeleine gave him a quick hug and then averted her eyes in embarrassment. Lulu, sensing the awkwardness
in the air, threw her left arm around Garrison’s shoulders and playfully ruffled his hair.

“What’s with the hair? It’s almost longer than mine.”

“I’m a surfer now,” the formerly waterphobic boy announced proudly. “This is how the guys wear it.”

“Um, isn’t that a
boogie board?
”

“Why do you always have to point out people’s shortcomings, Lulu?” Theo harped. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you hugged
him.”

“Whatever.”

“Dear misters and misses, as much as it pains me to break up this highly intellectual conversation, Madame is waiting, and
you know how old she is. She really could die at any time…” Schmidty trailed off.

For the first time the students looked beyond Schmidty, to a large metal contraption at the base of the mountain. It looked
somewhat like a grand metal birdcage or, perhaps more morbidly, an ornate prison cell.

“What is that?” Lulu asked. “Not that I’m afraid, because I totally ride in elevators now, not that it’s even an elevator.
So, um, what exactly is that, Schmidty?”

“This is the latest addition to School of Fear: the Summerstone Vertical Tram,” Schmidty explained while waking Macaroni from
his heat-induced slumber.

“That is a pretty nice-looking
SVT,
” Theo said in a knowledgeable manner.

“SV what?” Lulu asked with raised eyebrows.

“I made an executive decision—”

“But you’re not an executive—”

“Fine, I made a
nonexecutive
decision to create an acronym. And let me tell you, acronyms are all the rage in NYC.”

“Children, before you enter the SVT, as Mister Theo has coined it, Mac needs to perform a sniff-down for electronics, for,
as you remember, Mrs. Wellington frowns upon cell phones, PDAs, BlackBerries, computers, and all other technological means
of communication. And please don’t think it’s that I don’t trust you. It’s simply that Madame doesn’t trust you. As of this
morning she could barely remember if she liked you.”

And with that, the drooling bulldog with large saggy eyes waddled up to the students’ bags. Macaroni then sat down, his rear
paws neatly positioned between his front paws, and began snorting. You see a bulldog simply cannot smell without snorting;
it is an absolute impossibility. It’s far more likely for a bulldog to speak English than to smell without snorting. In between
vociferous sniffs, Macaroni also employed his tongue, licking not only the bags but the children’s legs. And when he was all
finished, Macaroni gave Schmidty a knowing glance before collapsing onto the cobblestones, utterly exhausted from exerting
so much energy.

“I certainly don’t mean to be cheeky, Theo, but I am flabbergasted that you didn’t try to sneak in a mobile,” Madeleine said
honestly.

“What can I tell you, Maddie? You’re looking at a changed
man.
”

“Oh, brother,” Lulu said with her traditional roll of the eyes. “He thinks he’s a
man
now.”

As Theo furrowed his brow with annoyance, Schmidty pulled a large key ring from the pocket of his black shorts and began searching
for the correct key.

“Why even bother locking this? You worried about joyriders?” Garrison asked while tossing his blond hair out of his face.

“I was planning to let Madame explain, but as she rarely makes any sense, I suppose I ought to handle the situation,” Schmidty
said before clearing his throat. “Summerstone has been the target of a very persistent burglar over the past several months.
I believe we are at
robbery number seven, or is it eight? The number could actually be much higher, for we often can’t tell things are missing
for days,” Schmidty said as he led the children and Macaroni onto the tram and closed the door.

“Have you spoken to the sheriff?” Madeleine inquired as the tram began to move up the mountain.

“We most definitely have spoken with the sheriff, but he’s as perplexed as we are.”

“Is it just me, or is this the slowest ride in the history of rides?” Lulu asked with a tense smile as the tram continued
to rattle and bump up the mountain.

“So there haven’t been any other burglaries in town, Schmidty?” Madeleine pressed on.

“Well, not really…”

“What does
not really
mean?”

“Well, there was a break-in at the Mancini Bakery, but all the burglar took were cupcakes, so the sheriff is pretty sure that
young Jimmy Fernwood is behind it. His mother’s had him on a rather strict no-sugar diet—”

“Always blaming the fat kids,” Theo said critically. “Talk about racial profiling.”

“Theo, I regret to inform you, but fat children do not constitute a race,” Madeleine explained.

“Man, it’s really getting stuffy in here. It’s hard to breathe,” Lulu said with a stressed expression.

“Lulu, we’re in fresh air,” Garrison responded.

“Does anyone else hear that chirping sound?” Madeleine asked with an anxious tone. “Out of curiosity, how far away do you
think
they
are? You don’t suppose they’re on the tram with us?”

“Does this thing have an emergency phone or radio or flare gun, Schmidty?” Lulu interrupted just as the old man prepared to
answer Madeleine’s question.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Lulu. You know Madame, no dubious technologies.”

“I feel like I need to stand up,” Lulu said as a familiar pounding behind her left eye commenced. For as long as Lulu could
remember, fear always manifested itself as a harsh pounding sensation behind her left eye.

“But you
are
standing up, Lulu,” Madeleine explained sweetly.

“Um,” Lulu said as her face scrunched up, “are we almost there? I feel like we’ve been in here for hours.”

“Just about, Miss Lulu,” Schmidty said as the SVT jolted to a stop at the top of the mountain.

Lulu pushed her way off the SVT first, then hunched
over with her hands on her knees and caught her breath.

“You know I’m not the litigious type, Schmidty, but this is a whiplash lawsuit waiting to happen. I’m a little surprised Munchauser
let you put this in,” Theo said as he followed the old man off the SVT.

“Ugh, Munchauser. Simply saying his name leaves a sour taste in my mouth,” Schmidty said with the expression of a cat coughing
up a hairball.

Garrison, the last to exit the SVT, had just placed his right foot on solid ground when the tram dropped two hundred feet
to the base of the mountain. The metal bars slammed into the ground, setting off a thunderous series of sounds.

“Holy cannoli!” Theo shrieked as he dropped to his knees and covered his head with his hands. “The burglar is trying to kill
us! There’s a hit out!”

“How I loathe disappointing you, Mister Theo, but no one is trying to kill you.”

“Yet,” Lulu chimed in.

“I merely forgot to pull the brake on the SVT. I tend to do that rather frequently.”

“Schmidty, I could have fallen two hundred feet and
crashed into the ground! Do you have any idea what an accident like that could do to an athlete’s body? I didn’t think it
was possible, but this is worse than the wooden crane you dragged us up in last year,” Garrison said angrily. “I mean, sure,
the wood was cracked and held together by rubber bands and glue, but at least it didn’t drop people!”

“I feel a tension headache coming on,” Theo said as he massaged his temples. “We haven’t even seen Wellington yet, and already
I can’t breathe, and my head is splitting.”

“Um, in case you forgot, Theo, it was Garrison who almost plummeted two hundred feet, not you,” Lulu said pointedly.

“Always getting caught up with the details,” Theo said as he approached Summerstone’s grand wrought-iron gate. The rusted
old metal entry connected to a soaring slate wall that enclosed the four-acre island in the sky.

The foursome followed Schmidty and Macaroni through Summerstone’s gate, where they met a very strange sight. The spotty green
lawn was covered in tuxedo-clad scarecrows, B
EWARE OF
B
EAUTY
Q
UEEN
signs, and seemingly endless booby traps. Thickly woven ropes crisscrossed the lawn both vertically and horizontally, linking
cans to ladders to buckets to nets to odd-shaped metal objects to small glass jars to cages to bells, and so much more.

“Schmidty, you know I enjoy being crafty as much as the next guy—every Christmas I make my own ornaments with a little paste
and glitter. But I got to tell you, when it comes to home security, you need a professional, none of this do-it-yourself baloney.”

The old man simply stared in bemusement at Theo. The answer hardly needed to be said: this was security, Wellington-style.

S
ummerstone’s foyer was grander in scale than that of the average mansion, but then again, this most certainly was not an average
mansion. The pink fleur-de-lis wallpaper bubbled and buckled, proof of its many years in place. Freshly cut pale pink hydrangeas
sat atop the round entry table, to the left of which an entire wall was dedicated to Mrs. Wellington’s framed pageant photos.

The children placed their luggage at the base of the
staircase, next to which Macaroni performed a belly flop, his legs splayed out beneath him.

“It appears Macaroni has overexerted himself with all the napping, waddling, and snorting he’s done this morning,” Schmidty
said.

As Macaroni peacefully snored, Schmidty guided the foursome to the Great Hall. Over the course of the year, each of the students
had thought of the Great Hall and wondered if their memories were in fact accurate or if their recollections had grown more
fantastical and whimsical than the reality. Theo had tried to explain the far-fetched design of the space to his parents,
but as he had quite the reputation for exaggeration, neither his mother nor his father took the description very seriously.
In fairness to the Bartholomews, the Great Hall certainly did not sound terribly real. After all, how often does one come
across a majestic hall with a seemingly endless array of one-of-a-kind doors decorating nearly every inch, from the floor
to the walls to the ceiling? Doors shaped like keyholes and pocket watches stood next to barn gates and the sides of airplanes.
Some doors were so small only a mouse could use them, while others
loomed so large an entire bus could pass through the frame. And far off, at the very end of the lengthy corridor, was a floor-to-ceiling
stained-glass portrait of Mrs. Wellington in her beauty-queen glory days, crown and all.

While none of them could have imagined it, the hall was truly more spectacular and bizarre than they had remembered. It took
a certain level of absurdity and lunacy to create such a manor. This was a house that only Mrs. Wellington could have built.

Schmidty led the children to double white-and-gold doors, which he forcefully flung open, bringing both the sitting room and
the classroom into view.

“May I present your honorable, fashionable, and highly youthful-looking teacher, Mrs. Wellington,” Schmidty droned as if reading
from a script.

Mrs. Wellington turned toward the children with an utterly blank expression. Not that they even noticed: they were far too
distracted by the sight of her heavily made-up face. The old woman positively did not subscribe to the less-is-more motto
where makeup was concerned. Clad in a sleeveless lavender dress with a
petticoat and a gray scarf, Mrs. Wellington sashayed closer to the foursome with a restrained smile. She ran her hands over
her slightly disheveled brown bob wig before stopping next to Schmidty.

“Who are these small people?”

“Your students, Madame. Perhaps you would care to greet them?”

“Do you mean to say my
contestants?
” Mrs. Wellington asked distrustfully.

“Yes, Madame, these are your returning contestants: Miss Lulu, Mister Theo, Mister Garrison, and Miss Madeleine.”

“No, you are mistaken, my elderly one, these are not my contestants.”

“And let the weirdness begin,” Lulu mumbled to herself.

“Chubby is at least one and a half inches shorter and definitely a bit lighter, and Sporty’s hair was neat and not nearly
so blond, and as for Lulu…”

“Madame, must we go through this again?” Schmidty said with a sigh of exasperation. “Contestants grow every year, just like
your hair used to.”

“Those really were the days: haircuts, shampoo, conditioner.
Why, I’m getting teary-eyed, remembering.” Mrs. Wellington paused to dab her eyes with a lavender handkerchief. “Now then,
are we sure these so-called contestants aren’t imposters? You know how I feel about imposters. I don’t care for imposter crabmeat,
let alone people.”

“Of course, Madame, but I assure you that these are your contestants.”

“Perhaps we should lock them in the gardener’s shed and send for their dental records, to be on the safe side?”

“Madame, I think such an idea would be frowned upon by their parents and perhaps even the sheriff.”