“Troublemaker” by Irene Templeman Walker

 

Irene, known troublemaker

Exiled to the hallway again.

Why do I end up in the hallway so often? I’m not one of those bad children, like the ones who get The Strap. No. I’m not. I know I’m not.

Dadburnit. I make up swear words to keep my mind busy, and off my banishment.

Potverdikkeme. Darn it.

Flauwe kul. Nonsense.

Those are Dutch swears that my parents use.

Kletskop.

That one isn’t really a swear word. It just means chatterbox.

Chatterbox - that’s what Miss Moffatt calls me.

“You’re bothering your neighbours,” she says. Was I? I just finished my own work page and was helping my friend in the next row. She didn’t have it right and Miss Moffatt was busy with someone else. If my friend doesn’t know the right answer and I do, can’t I help her out? Shouldn’t I help her out?

I look up and down the familiar hallway of closed doors. The terrazzo floors are covered in a haze of grey, where the janitor mopped away the worst of the melting snow and dirt. I stay standing. There is no place clean enough to sit. A jumble of coats, snowpants, hats and mittens attached to their strings hang from hooks lining the walls outside each classroom.

Mom didn’t have any ribbon to attach to my mittens for the strings, so she used underwear elastic that she scrounged from the bottom of the sewing box. She sewed one end of the elastic to one mitten, and the other end to the other mitten, then threaded them through the sleeves of my winter coat. She anchored the elastic with sturdy black button thread to the label in the neck.  

Irene

I don’t mind that it’s underwear elastic. In fact, when my hands get hot, I take off my mittens and let them dangle. Then as I walk along, I can do a karate chop, and the mitten stretches far enough to hit the ground with a thwack! before it rebounds. I love the sound it makes – thwack! Thwack! Right now, my mittens are still dripping and muddy. That’s from when they thwacked right into an icy puddle.

The smell of wet wool hovers in the air as the mittens drip into the tops of my galoshes, lined up with 32 or so other pairs along the wall. We call them “overboots” because they fit over our shoes. They are never warm enough. I think how wonderful it will be, that first day of spring, when my feet, unweighted by the overboots, will feel light again, like a dancer’s. 

Knickerbockers and fiddlesticks. Will Miss Moffatt tell on me to Mom and Dad? They sure aren’t going to hear about this hallway from me. Dad always says if the teacher disciplines me, I’ll get double trouble when I get home. Nope, this is not for sharing with the grownups.

I wish I could lean against the yellow-painted cinder blocks while I wait, but I don’t want to get near all that smelly clothing.

I have a thought. What if the principal comes out of his office and sees me? He will ask what I’m doing. What will I say?

I’ll pretend I’m just going to the bathroom. No, wait, I don’t dare go that far in case Miss Moffatt pokes her head out the door looking for me. If she doesn’t see me, I’ll really be in trouble. I’ll pretend to go for a drink at the water fountain instead. I take six confident steps towards the fountain, swinging my arms. Then I turn around smartly and, lifting my knees, march back towards the classroom door. Nobody appears at any of the doors. I march back and forth half a dozen times more. I sing “The Ants go Marching” to myself softly in time to my step.

Dangbusticut. How much longer am I going to be out here?

I talk too much. That’s what Miss Moffatt put on my last report card. That’s why I spend so much time in the hall.

But I’m learning. I learned to slow down my work. If I don’t finish it so fast, then I don’t look around for something else to do, and I don’t bother my neighbour, and then I don’t end up in the hall. I take all the time Miss Moffatt gives us, going slower and slower, and I’m getting better and better at using up all the time. Lately I don’t even get my work finished. I don’t much like that, but it’s better than standing in the hall, afraid of the principal. He gives The Strap to bad children.

Finally, I’m allowed back into class.

On my next report card, Miss Moffatt writes, “Irene could do better if she tried harder.”

I talk too much.

I bother my neighbours.

I don’t try hard enough.

Criminy hockeypucks, school is hard! 

***

Irene Templeman Walker grew up in Toronto, the firstborn of Dutch immigrants. She rediscovered her childhood passion for writing four years ago, hoping that some day her grandchildren (unborn at the time) might read them. She sings alto, enjoys quilting, and is an incurable optimist. She makes her home in Ottawa with her husband of 43 years.

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