Ms Moran, the Phys. Ed. teacher, was busy walking the students towards the gymnasium when Neduart caught up to the back of the line.
He had missed the beginning of the theme song.
Everyone loved Ms Moran, so much so that no one had ever thought, not even once, to change one of the letters in her name to call her anything other than Ms Moran. While the students walked down the hall, they sang the Ms Moran theme song, which was sort of like the kind of of song she would have playing behind her if she were a wrestler walking towards the ring amidst the glow and shower of pyrotechnics. Only she was not a wrestler, she was a Phys. Ed teacher, which pleased her just fine, wearing the official Phys. Ed. teacher uniform: sweat suit and whistle lanyard. She wore a headband too, which wasn’t part of the official uniform, but looked fantastic.
She had never taught the students the song, and yet everyone seemed to know it, and they all sang it loudly, and as the line of students passed the open doors of other classrooms, the students inside the classrooms would join in for the smallest of moments, only until the line had passed by, so that for the other teachers inside the room, the lesson would be suddenly interupted by one and a half lines of the Ms Moran theme song. Some of them would bang on their desk to the beat.
The teachers had grown used to this distraction, and patiently waited for the singing line to pass before continuing the lesson.
I would write out the words to the song, but you all know it already. I would just like to clarify that the lines about flying a kite in an electrical storm, and the one about inventing chocolate flavored oxygen, might have been slightly exaggerated, or misunderstood in the chorus of voices. Unlike the spontaneous parades that broke out during recess which actually happened, you can ask anyone who was there. Honest. I swear it.
Even from the back of the line, Neduart could tell that this could just be the organized, understanding and patient teacher he had been looking for. He imagined her listening attentively while he explained how his parents were preparing to sell him into slavery on his ninth birthday if he didn’t go out and get a job, and not just some ordinary kid job like delivering papers or picking up dog doo door to door, but a real job where he would have to wear a suit and take antacids until some seven year old hotshot came in and pulled the rug out from under him.
He imagined himself telling her about how he wished he could change his name to Excelsior. And even when she suggested “Carl” instead, she would still do so with the greatest amount of organization, understanding and patience that she could muster. He was so entranced in this waking dream that he failed to notice that the line in front of him had stopped moving, and that everyone had stopped singing, so that he was the only one heard crooning the second chorus, and that from the silence was the only voice heard belting out the line about cloning, then taming, large herds of Dinosaur, before bumping into the girl standing directly in front of him in line, and suddenly stopping singing.
Her name was Gertrude, and when people called her Gerty or Trudy or G-Rude she let them without even a hint of sadness, which was great because who wouldn’t want a friend who they could walk up to and say “Yo G-Rude, what’s cooking”. There was something extra fantastic about being able to do that, that no one, not even Gertrude’s parents, who were exceedingly fond of the the name Gertrude, would want to take away. Sometimes, late at night, and only when he knew his wife was asleep, Gertude’s father, while tucking Gertrude in, could be heard whispering “Peace out G-Rude”.
Gertude claimed to have a pet rhinocerous. Right there and then. Not saying “hello stupid head”. Not saying, “hey buster, watch where you’re walking”, but exclaiming, with a great degree of calm, having just been rudely trod upon: “I have a pet rhinocerous.” This is great to know if you are preparing to visit Gertude’s home. Perhaps also great if you are looking to purchase a present for Gertude’s birthday, having been handed a secret invitation in social studies class, and having gone home and had your mother agonize about what to buy for this neighbourhood birthday party that is cheap, but doesn’t look cheap. At this point it would be perfect to be able to pronounce without an ounce of doubt, that there is a pet rhinocerous to consider, and that perhaps a rhinocerous themed gift would prove a thoughtful, and hopefully frugal, alternative to the battery operated gadgets and gizmos that pass for respectable presents these days. At the uttterance of these words. Your mother would know to race to the local rhinocerous retailer, and purchase a pet rhinocerous accesory so great, as to stun all those around the room watching as presents are being opened, prompt others to quickly hide the gift they brought and claim that they left theirs at home out of shear embarrassment, and encourage Gertude to pledge eternal best friendship, which will be frustrating when you are older, but will be all you ever need now, here, alone, at the end of the line, having just bumped into some random girl, and ready to die of embarassment for having sung solo for an infinitely long 4 seconds just past.
Neduart’s response to this was as levelled and as measured and as calculated as any child of his age: No you don’t. You, are a liar.