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“The note was very important,” said Mrs. Jewls. “I told Miss Zarves not to meet me for lunch.”
“Don’t worry,” said Calvin. “She won’t.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Jewls. “I have a coffee can full of Tootsie Roll pops on my desk. You may help yourself to one, for being such a good messenger.”
“Thanks,” said Calvin, “but really, it was nothing.”
? Sideways Stories from Wayside School ?
8
Myron
Myron had big ears. He was elected class president. The children in Mrs. Jewls’s class expected him to be a good president. Other presidents were good speakers. Myron was even better. He was a good listener.
But he had a problem. He didn’t know what a class president was supposed to do. So he asked.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“It’s a difficult job,” said Mrs. Jewls. “But you can do it. You must turn the lights on every morning and turn them off at the end of the day.”
“What?” asked Myron.
“As a class president you must learn to listen,” said Mrs. Jewls. “I’ll repeat myself only one more time. You must turn the lights on every morning – ”
“I heard you the first time,” said Myron. “It just doesn’t sound like much of a job.”
“It certainly is!” said Mrs. Jewls. “Without light I can’t teach, and the children can’t learn. Only you can give us that light. I think it is a very important job.”
“I guess so,” said Myron. He wasn’t convinced.
“Here, let me show you how to work a light switch,” said Mrs. Jewls.
“I already know how,” said Myron. “I’ve been turning lights on and off all my life.”
“Very good!” said Mrs. Jewls. “You’ll make a fine president.”
Myron wanted to be the best president ever. But it was such an easy job, he thought, that anybody could do it. When school let out that day, Myron stayed behind. He turned out the lights by flicking the switch down.
“Excellent!” said Mrs. Jewls.
On his way home, Myron heard a horrible noise. First there was a loud screeching, then a sharp squeal, a roaring engine, and then the very faint sound of a girl crying.
Myron ran to see what had happened.
Dana was bent over in the middle of the road.
“What’s the matter?” asked Myron.
“My dog, Pugsy, was hit by a car,” Dana cried.
“Who did it?” asked Myron.
“I don’t know!” Dana sobbed. “They sped away.”
“Well, that’s not important,” said Myron. “We’ve got to try to save Pugsy.”
Pugsy lay unconscious in the street. Myron carefully picked her up. He carried her two miles to the vet. Dana cried at his side.
