Really Stupid Stories for Really Smart Kids Page 4

  “Magazines!” Eli Newsom offered. “Subscriptions to publications that nobody wants, nobody needs, and nobody reads, as my father calls them.”

  “Well then, your father will be glad that we’re not offering magazines,” Mrs. Feinsilver said. “Now, I’ve been trying to tell you what we are selling… but you all keep guessing. So, I’ll let everyone have a chance to guess before I reveal what it is.”

  Ideas flowed from all over the classroom.

  “Buttons!”

  “Mugs!”

  “T-shirts!”

  “Flowers!”

  “Grand pianos!”

  “Popcorn!”

  “Live lobsters!”

  “Lollipops!”

  “Kitchen stools!”

  “Toadstools!”

  “Sore throats!”

  “Zebras!”

  “Okay, that’s enough guessing!” Mrs. Feinsilver said. “What we are selling this year is… kindness!”

  “Kindness?” Lily Harper repeated. “How do you sell kindness?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Feinsilver said, “we will all go around the neighborhood and do favors for people. Water their lawns. Walk their dogs. Things like that. And we will charge them each a small sum.”

  “But Mrs. Feinsilver,” Eli Newsom said. “My dad says you’re supposed to give kindness away.”

  “Right,” Reilly McNeil added. “We should do those things out of the goodness of our hearts.”

  Every student in the class nodded in agreement.

  “Well, that’s very nice of you. And we can definitely do that. But… we will still need a fundraiser,” Mrs. Feinsilver told them.

  “How about selling wrapping paper?” Michael Williams suggested.

  “Or candy,” offered Jenna Douglas.

  “Seeds! Let’s sell seeds!” said Ralph Botner.

  “Ooh, I know! Kitchen gadgets!” said Jason Reiss.

  “People love gift cards,” said Reilly McNeil.

  “There’s always magazines,” Eli Newsom called out.

  “Really, who cares what we sell?” Lily Harper said. “As long as we do it with kindness.”

  Mrs. Feinsilver smiled. Lily was right; it didn’t really matter what the kids sold. The teacher was just very glad to have a classroom full of kids who understand the importance of being kind.

  And she wrote herself a note—to remind her to have a serious talk with Danny Watson, the boy who’d suggested that the class sell sore throats.

  THE END

  EATING HIS WORDS

  “Mitchell, do you have a spelling test tomorrow?” Mrs. Marshall asked her son after dinner one night.

  “Um, no. Maybe. I don’t remember. I think so. Possibly. Perhaps,” he replied.

  “If you’re not sure, then that tells me you haven’t studied,” his mother said.

  “Uh, I remember now. The test isn’t until Friday,” Mitchell told her. “So I’m good.”

  “How good?” his mother asked. “This is Thursday night; do you know what that means?”

  “Of course I do!” he said. “It means that my ninth favorite show is on!”

  “No, it means you have to study your spelling words, because the test is tomorrow!” she informed him.

  “Mom!” Mitchell whined. It was the kind of whine that said no, and you’re right, and help me, all in the same non-word shriek.

  “Hand me your spelling list, and I’ll be glad to quiz you.”

  Mitchell grabbed his backpack and fished out a crumpled up, pudding-stained piece of paper that had obviously been in there since the alphabet had first been invented.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Marshall said, trying to de-crumple the page. “The first word on the spelling test is…”

  “The first word is always our name,” Mitchell said. “Mitchell. M-I-T-C-H-E-L-L. Mitchell.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Marshall said, fully aware that her son wouldn’t get any points for knowing how to spell his own name.

  “And the second word is Marshall. M-A-R-S-H-A-L-L.”

  “You’re two for two,” Mitchell’s mother said. “Now let’s try for the words that are actually on the list.”

  “Uh oh, now it gets harder!”

  “The first word is general.”

  “Do you mean general as in an Army general? Or general as in non-specific?” Mitchell asked.

  “They’re spelled the same way,” his mother informed him. “This is a list of homonyms.”

  Mitchell wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that. He was just glad she wasn’t asking him to spell homonyms.

  “Could you use the word in a sentence?” Mitchell asked. That was something he’d seen the contestants do in the National Spelling Bee on television.

  “Of course. In general, the Army general felt very well.”

  “I see what you did there, Mom,” Mitchell said. “Cool sentence.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Marshall said.

  “General. That’s spelled J—”

  “Nope.”

  “G…”

  “Good.”

  “G-E-N-U—”

  “There’s no U.”

  “G-E-N-E-R-A-L. General.”

  “Very nice, Mitchell. Are you ready for the next word?”

  “Y-E-S,” Mitchell told her. “That spells yes.”

  “The word is second.”

  “Is that second as in the one after first, or second as in tick-tick on a clock?”

  “Once again, they’re spelled the same way,” his mother informed him.

  “Could you use the word in a sentence?” Mitchell asked.

  Mrs. Marshall thought for a moment, before saying, “The boy came in second in the race; he only lost by one second.”

  “You’re very good with those harmonies,” Mitchell told her.

  “Homonyms,” she corrected. “Words that are spelled the same, and pronounced the same, but have different meanings. And thank you.”

  “Second,” Mitchell said, writing the letters in the air with his finger. “S-E-C-O-N-D.”

  “Very nice,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Next word is fethom.”

  “Huh? I’ve never heard that word before!” Mitchell protested.

  “Gee, neither have I.”

  Mrs. Marshall took a closer look.

  “Oh, wait… it’s fathom. There was a clump of dried chocolate pudding covering up the ‘a’.”

  “Oh.”

  “Before you ask, fathom can mean ‘to understand.’ It’s also a linear unit of length—about six feet—to measure water depth.”

  “Gee, Mom,” Mitchell said. “You’re so smart.”

  “Thank you,” his mother said, smiling. “But you still have to spell it.”

  “Want me to spell it? I-T. It. There. Done!” Mitchell said. “What’s next?”

  “Mitchell!”

  “Could you use it in a sentence?”

  “I can’t fathom why there is chocolate pudding all over your spelling list,” his mother said.

  “By the way, did I tell you that you make the most delicious chocolate pudding in town? Maybe even the best in the state! You should open a chocolate pudding store: Mrs. Marshall’s Marvelously Mouthwatering Pudding Palace,” Mitchell said. “And not just chocolate! Other flavors too! You’d become a multi-multi-multi-multi-millionaire…”

  “Stop stalling!” his mother replied. “The word was fathom.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  “F-A… Mitchell! Stop it and start spelling!”

  “Fathom. P-H…”

  “No.”

  “F?”

  “Yes.”

  “F-A-T-H-E…”

  “Not E.”

  “U?”

  “No.”

  “A?”

  “No.”

  “I?”

  “No.”

  “Y?”

  “No.”

  “34?”

  “That’s a number, not a letter.”

  “Fathom. F-A-T-H.… I have a good idea.”

  “What’s that, Mitchell?”

  “You wait here, and I’ll go ask my fathom how to spell it. Okay, mothom?”

  “Not funny, kid. You named every vowel except one.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Think about what you’ve learned in school. And if you can’t remember vowels that way, think about what you’ve learned on Wheel of Fortune.”

  “Oh! O. Letter O. Fathom is F-A-T-H-O-M. Right, Mom? Right?”

  “That’s right. Good job.”

  Mitchell and his mother went over the whole spelling list. Mitchell was sure that he’d get all twenty words right. His mother was confident of that as well.

  “And now,” she said, “there’s only one word left to discuss. Bedtime.”

  “Huh? That’s not one of my words!” Mitchell protested.

  “No, I mean it’s actually your bedtime,” his mother said.

  “May I grab a snack before I go to bed?” Mitchell asked.

  Mrs. Marshall was so glad he had said “May I?” instead of, “Can I?” She wasn’t as thrilled that he’d said ‘grab,’ but that was a lesson for another time.

  “Of course you can have a snack. Here’s your spelling list,” Mrs. Marshall said, handing the paper to her son.

  “I know all of the words,” he said. “Why do I need that?”

  “It can be your snack!” she told him. “Just lick off all of the delicious chocolate pudding!”

  THE END

  THE GAME OF LIFE

  “Come on down!” Wally Martin called from the kitchen table. “It’s time to play… breakfast!”

  Jenny and her little sister Molly stomped down the stairs and joined their dad at the table. They both enjoyed breakfast, of course, but they agreed it was a little unusual
having a game show host for a dad.

  See, everything he did, and everything he said, was like something you’d see on a game show.

  “Welcome to Win Your Breakfast, Jenny,” he said, sticking a breadstick in front of her mouth as if it were a microphone. “Please tell us where you’re from and what you like to do.”

  “Um, dad, I’m from upstairs,” she told him. “And I told you yesterday, I’m a fourth-grader and I like to play soccer.”

  “That’s great, Jenny,” Wally said. “And who’d you bring with you this morning?”

  “I’m Molly,” the little girl said. “I’m in third grade, and I like to tap dance.”

  “Please repeat that into the microphone, Molly,” Wally said.

  “Um, dad, it’s a breadstick,” she pointed out.

  But Wally insisted, so Molly repeated—into the breadstick, “I’m Molly. I’m in third grade, and I like to tap dance.”

  “Hey there, Molly!” her dad said. “Okay, girls… are you ready for round one?”

  “Maybe we could just eat instead of playing a game this morning,” Mrs. Martin said. “Just for a change, like a regular family, I mean.”

  “Nonsense!” Wally said. “That would be boring. I made the breakfast, now it’s time for the girls to win it!”

  The girls and their mom sighed.

  “Okay, girls, in round one, I’ll show you some letters, and you have to unscramble them to name a breakfast food,” Wally told them. “First one to get two right gets to choose this morning’s jelly.”

  “Do we really have to?” mom asked.

  “Yes! And here’s your first word: G-E-G”

  Jenny tapped her fork on the table—which was kind of the same thing as buzzing-in on a game show.

  “Yes, Jenny?”

  “Egg,” Jenny said.

  “That’s right! You’re the first person ever to unscramble an egg!” Wally said, injecting a small dose of game show humor.

  “Okay, try to name this breakfast food,” Wally said, holding up a card that read A-P-E-S-N-A-C-K.

  Jenny again tapped her fork and said, “Pancakes.”

  “Ding! Ding! Ding!” Wally said. “You’ve won the round, and you get to select today’s jelly flavor!”

  “Grape,” Jenny said.

  “Okay, grape it is!” Wally said, cheerfully. “But don’t be sad, Molly! You’re behind, but you can still be a winner, ‘cause it’s time for the ketchup round!”

  “Huh?” Molly asked.

  “You can catch up, because it’s the ketchup round!” Wally repeated. “Get it?”

  “I guess so,” Molly said, shrugging.

  “Great! Here’s how we play: I’ll squeeze this container of ketchup onto my western omelet, and you have to name all of the ingredients before all of the ketchup runs out.”

  “Do I have to?” Molly asked.

  “Isn’t that a tremendous waste of ketchup?” Mrs. Martin asked.

  “Not if she answers quickly,” Wally told her.

  Mrs. Martin smacked her forehead in disbelief.

  “Okay, when I squeeze, start naming ingredients in this western omelet. Go!”

  “Eggs, ham, mushrooms, onions, peppers…” Molly said.

  “Ding! Ding! Ding!” Wally said, as he stopped squeezing ketchup. “That’s exactly right, and the score is tied!”

  “Way to go,” Mrs. Martin told her daughter.

  “Dad, can we eat?” Jenny wanted to know.

  “In a moment, Jenny,” Wally told her. “First, it’s time for the bonus round. At the end of this round, one of you will win a ride to school in my brand new Maserati, a luxury vehicle appointed with silk and leather upholstery, heated front seats, a premium audio system, 19-inch aluminum wheels, adaptive air suspension, and more. It’s a vehicle worth $76,780!”

  “What about the girl who doesn’t win?” Mrs. Martin asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Wally informed her. “The other contestant will ride in a 72-seat, bouncy, noisy yellow school bus that’ll stop on every block between here and school.”

  “Wally!” Mrs. Martin shrieked. “You can’t do that! Come on, girls… eat your breakfast, and I’ll take you both to school on my way to work.”

  And that’s just what happened.

  As for Wally, he thanked the girls for playing, wished them a great day at school, and congratulated himself on getting out of having to drive the girls again. Then, as he did every morning, he went back to the bedroom, and greeted his bed as you’d expect a game show host would.

  “Ah, my king-size memory foam mattress, with pressure-point relief, maximum spinal alignment, resistance to dust mites and allergens, supreme comfort and reliability, with a retail value of $2,649. It’s time for the big snooze round! G’bye for now, folks, and thanks for playing Win Your Breakfast!”

  THE END

  A PORTION OF CAUTION

  Christy thought the signs posted at the entrance made the whole experience seem pretty scary. It said:

  “Extreme warning! You are about to enter a room where anything can happen. In fact, after you pass through this portal, it’s likely that anything will happen. Get ready to explore regions you’ve never even considered.

  Prepare to stretch your imagination like it’s never been stretched before. You’re about to face challenges unlike any you’ve ever known. Thoughts will soar through your head at lightning speed. You’ll unquestionably encounter tests that will make you clench your fists, bite your nails, or possibly even scream out for help. There will be unexpected twists and turns. At times, you might feel sick to your stomach. There is no height requirement, but you are required to keep your wits about you and remain seated. You are urged to summon your inner strength at all times to combat these elements. Be brave. Be fierce. And remember, once you step inside, there is simply no turning back.”

  Christy had been to many haunted houses. She had ridden ferocious roller coasters in quite a few of the top theme parks. She was not a girl who turned away from the unknown, no matter how fearsome it sounded.

  And yet, for one brief moment, the one-percent “chicken” part of Christy told her to run. Run far in the opposite direction and get away while she still had the chance. She started to do that. But fortunately…

  the other ninety-nine percent of Christy—the courageous part—told her not to run. It told her to turn back around, face the door, and enter with full control of her feelings and her head held high.

  And that’s just what Christy did.

  She smiled a confident smile as she stepped inside.

  “How bad could it be?” she said aloud as she shrugged. “After all, it’s only fourth grade.”

  THE END

  WHAT DO YOU SNOW ABOUT THAT!

  “This is a weather bulletin,” the TV news reporter boomed. “There is a sudden storm, and we predict that three inches of snow will fall before midnight.”

  Mickey knew that a snowy evening forecast could mean there’d be no school tomorrow.

  “But three inches is hardly enough to guarantee we’ll have a snow day,” Mickey said.

  So he did what any snow-wishing kid would do. He took out his lucky coin, the one that his grandpa had given him. According to Grandpa, the coin came with two lucky wishes in it.

  Mickey had used one wish earlier in the year. He’d wished that his twisted ankle would heal in time for him to play in the baseball league championships. And it worked—his ankle was fine, and he played second base and batted cleanup. (The team lost 17-16 when Mickey struck out with the bases loaded in the final inning, but that wasn’t really the coin’s fault.)

  Mickey believed that the coin held one more wish. So, following Grandpa’s orders, he rubbed the coin three times with his right sleeve as he said the magic words…

  “Coiny coin coin coin, do your stuff!”

  Mickey turned back to the television screen.

  “Here is a revised weather bulletin,” the TV news reporter boomed. “That sudden storm that we thought would bring us three inches of snow now looks as if it’ll bring us three feet.”

  “Whaaaat?” Mickey exclaimed.

  “I said, here is a revised weather bulletin,” the TV news reporter boomed. “That sudden storm that we thought would bring us three inches of snow now looks as if it’ll bring us three feet.”