Norman Reid by John T. Biggs

A line of twenty-four third graders stood outside the closed door of Miss Wheeler’s classroom. Or maybe there were twenty-five. It was hard to tell,

because of all mothers coming and going, so I counted twice to be sure. My mother told me I was good with numbers, so I’d do well in third grade. 

“You can leave,” I told her. We were in the highest grade on the first floor of Washington Elementary School. Next year, we’d go upstairs and start all over

at the bottom—fourth, fifth, and sixth grades up there. Until then, we were the oldest students on the first floor, and it didn’t feel right to have a parent with

us.  

“It’s your first day,” Mom said. “I want to say hello to your teacher.”

Doors were open for kindergarten, first, and second grades. Teachers greeted parents and that was that, but Miss Wheeler’ classroom was special. She

was the oldest teacher and did things her own way. No one interfered with Miss Wheeler.

“Brenda Wood’s mother is already gone,” I said. “And there goes Cheryl Ponder’s mom. And now Gale Jenkins’s.” Washington was a small school and we

all knew each other.  Every year the district threatened to move us but they hadn’t yet, and all the kids were glad because making new friends was hard in

the important grades. 

Mom looked at her watch, pretending she had something important to do. “Well, okay I guess.” She kissed me on the forehead, which was embarrassing,

but other mothers were doing the same thing. 

Then the moms were gone and, it was just us kids whispering to each other. Gale Jenkins told me about the paddling machine in the principal’s office. 

“A boy was killed on it last year,” Gale told me. “It wouldn’t turn off and nobody thought to pull the plug until it was too late.” The boy was a sixth grader,

so Gale didn’t know his name. 

The paddling machine on my mind when Norman Reid’s mother shoved him down the hall. He was new at Washington, but we knew his name because

she shouted it at him. His clothes didn’t fit him very well. His head was too big for his body. His hair was clippers-short. He shuffled his feet as he walked,

which we all noticed because his worn-out sneakers squeaked. 

His mother didn’t seem to like him very much. She gave him a slap on the head—not hard, but enough to make him hunch his shoulders. She said, “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t you embarrass me.” She looked at the line of third graders, shook her head and walked away.

The classroom door opened exactly when the bell rang, and there was Miss Wheeler. We had seen her in the hallway when we were in the lower grades.

She was grandmother-old, with white hair and old lady shoes that looked like they hurt. She wore glasses that made her eyes look big and a dress so dark I

couldn’t tell if it was black or purple. The lines around her eyes and mouth made her look like she smiled a lot, so that seemed good, like maybe everything

would be all right.

She waved us in without speaking. No need to tell us to be quiet because we were dead silent, and so slow it took forever for the line to make it into the

classroom. Norman Reid hung back at least six feet behind the rest of us.

Miss Wheeler closed the classroom door and watched him slink into the last remaining seat at the back row. Norman looked down at the top of his desk

like he was reading all the initials carved there in past years. We stared at him because Miss Wheeler stared at him, all the grandmother-sweetness gone. 

Something was about to happen to Norman Reid. It would happen soon, and we would see it—afraid and excited, glad it was him instead of us. We turned

in our seats, choosing to look at him, too scared to look at her.

“Young man,” she said. “Do you think you can just walk into class anytime you please?”

He lowered his head instead of answering.

“Do you think you can just ignore me?” She smiled—not a kind-old-lady smile at all. Her glasses slid down her nose, so she looked over them. Miss

Wheeler walked to Norman’s desk. The room was so quiet we could hear her breathing. We could hear Norman whimpering. Maybe some of us felt sorry for

him, but that feeling disappeared when she pulled him from his seat and led him to the front of the class. Miss Wheeler was so sure of herself, that we were

sure of her too.

  “This will be a good lesson for the class.” She looked at us as she bent him over her desk. He didn’t move as she searched through a drawer and brought

out a paddle. He hardly moved when she gave him five loud swats followed by silence so deep I could hear my heart beating.

Miss Wheeler chose a seat for Norman in the front row, “so I can keep an eye on you,” and propped her paddle on her desk so the class could see it. By

the time the recess bell ring, I understood that Norman must have done something terribly wrong, even if I didn’t know what it was. 

No one talked to him on the playground.

#

Day two in the third grade began with spelling. Miss Wheeler wrote the word, could, on the blackboard. “Does anyone know this word?”

It was a left-over from the second grade, so hands went up. She walked among the desks calling us by name and bragging on our knowledge. “John

knows,” she said. “I can see it in his eyes. Look at the way Judy smiles. She knows too. And Gale ... See how he waves his hand.” She stopped in front of

Norman’s desk. 

“Now, here is a boy who doesn’t know.” She finger-walked her right hand over his head, tickled his ears, slid her palm down his face. “What’s the matter

Norman, cat got your tongue?”

Someone laughed, and when Miss Wheeler didn’t say to stop, we all joined in. Not a joke, exactly, but the laughter felt the same.

“This little boy doesn’t know.” She repeated the phrase over and over, adding a clumsy tune as she walked around the classroom. I didn’t sing along, but

some of us did. 

“Okay,” she said. “Who wants to tell Norman what word I’ve written on the board?”

Not a single hand went up. 

“Tell you what we’ll do,” Miss Wheeler said. “If you know the answer you can wave your arm around. Both arms if that feels right.” She pointed at the

ceiling as if something just occurred to her. “If you know the answer, you can get out of your seat. You can jump up and down. No shouting, because we

don’t want to disturb any other classes, but anything else is all right.” She gave us a moment to take in this new idea. “Now, who can tell Norman Reid what

word I have written on the board?”

Gale Jenkins stood beside his desk waving both arms. He added a little jump and nothing bad happened to him, so Carolyn Collins joined in. She did a

side-straddle-hop exercise and swung her arms around like propellers. Cheryl Ponder danced like the kids on American Bandstand. I joined in after Cheryl,

and before long the whole class looked like a monkey-house riot. 

Miss Wheeler had discovered the secret of class participation. She let the wild ruckus go on a while, complimenting us on the methods we had chosen to

demonstrate how much we knew. It was the most fun I ever had in elementary school, the most fun for everyone except Norman Reid. He slumped at his

desk—the only child who did not know the word on the blackboard. 

How dare he not join in? Did he want to spoil Miss Wheeler’ wonderful new way to teach spelling? Couldn’t he at least pretend to be happy?

Finally, she stopped the wild ruckus by choosing Brenda Wood to answer the question. “Tell him, Brenda,” she said. “Tell Norman the word. He wants to

know. Don’t you, Norman Reid?” Her friendly grandmother-smile vanished. “Don’t you!”

Norman lay his head on his desk. He might have been crying. If Miss Wheeler had let that go on it might have stirred some sympathy, but she didn’t. 

“Tell him Brenda.” The smile was back. She shared its warmth with every student in the class but one.

Brenda stood beside her desk the way we pledged allegiance to the flag every morning. “Cloud.” She put her hand over her heart. “The word is cloud.”

Miss Wheeler looked disappointed. “Try again, Brenda.”

“Cloud?” Not so confident.

“Try again, but with a different answer,” Miss Wheeler said.

Brenda had nothing more to say, but Gale Jenkins shouted from the back of the classroom. “Could,” he said. “It looks like cloud, but the L is in a different

place.”

The day was saved. 

Miss Wheeler told us her wild ruckus teaching method had worked so well, we would answer questions that way for the rest of the year. “Brenda tReid,”

she said. “She didn’t get the right answer, but trying is the most important thing.” She went to her desk and rummaged through the drawers until she came

up with a cone shaped paper hat with the word DUNCE printed on it in black letter. 

She dragged a stool to the corner and motioned for Norman Reid to sit there facing away from the class. “People who don’t try sit in the special chair.”

She set the cap on his head. “There,” she said. “Don’t you feel special.”

#

I loved third grade after that day. Most of us did. We loved the way Miss Wheeler let us turn into wild animals when we wanted to answer a question and

didn’t seem to care if we got it right or wrong. We looked forward to class every day, even when we ventured into the mysteries of arithmetic. I thought Miss

Wheeler was the best teacher ever and couldn’t understand why Norman Reid didn’t get it.

Some days she paddled him. Some days she belittled him. Some days he sat in the dunce chair. On one memorable day, he sat underneath her desk.

When Douglas Anderson lost his homework, Norman Reid must have stolen it. When Carolyn Collins tripped in the hallway, he probably shoved her. It was

nice to have someone to blame when things went wrong, and things went wrong almost every day.

We became playground bullies when the recess bell rang, and Miss Wheeler did nothing to discourage us. The girls followed him from the swings to the

monkey bars chanting:

“Norman Reid

Norman Reid

He eats rat poop

Every day.”

Or: 

“Norman, Norman

See him dance.

He has roaches 

In his pants.”

When their sing-song torment lost its sting, the boys joined in. We punched him, spat on him, and pushed him down. When we got back to the

classroom, we reported him for breaking imaginary playground rules and watched with glee as Miss Wheeler found new ways to humiliate him. 

Some days were easier than others for Norman Reid, but none of them were easy.

#

Five minutes to the morning bell and there was no line of third graders outside the closed door of Miss Wheeler’ classroom. No closed door at all. I

peeked inside, carefully because it felt like a trap. 

Gale Jenkins and Brenda Wood were already in their seats. Cheryl Ponder walked past me on her tiptoes, careful and quiet, and made it to her desk

without a problem. So, I followed. 

A stranger sat at Miss Wheeler’ desk, a younger, prettier teacher, probably my mother’s age. 

“Substitute,” Gale Jenkins whispered. 

I’d had substitute teachers before, when Miss Peak was sick in second grade and when Miss Swan had her baby in first. They usually told us to sit quietly

and do homework, and when homework was finished, we sat quietly and did nothing. But this substitute was different. She studied a notebook and

repeated our names as if she meant to learn them.

The room filled gradually. Norman Reid slouched into the room and slumped at his desk, not making eye contact with anyone. Instead of snapping at

him for being the last one in the classroom, the substitute teacher stood and wrote her name on the blackboard in large, looping letters. 

“I’m Miss Blackburn,” she told the class. “Miss Wheeler is having a sick day, but we’ll pick up where she left off.” 

We’d been studying times tables, all the way up to the eights. Miss Blackburn wrote 8 x 8 on the board. Miss Wheeler would have started with 8 x 1, so I

wondered if this was some kind of trick.

“Who knows the answer to this problem?” Miss Blackburn asked. 

The whole class erupted into the knowledge ruckus Miss Wheeler had made famous. We jumped and waved our arms. We whisper-shouted, “I know.

Pick Me.” Some of us lifted our desks a few inches and let them fall on the floor.” 

Miss Blackburn did not praise us for our enthusiasm. She clapped her hands and shouted, “Stop that! Stop it right now!” And just like that Miss Wheeler’

brilliantly fun third grade was ruined.

“I’ve never seen such a rude and disrespectful class,” Miss Blackburn said. “What’s the matter with you all.” She walked to Norman Reid’s desk. We

expected her to turn her anger on him—make him sit in the dunce seat, paddle him, a sharp scolding at the very least. But Miss Blackburn had nothing but

praise for, “the only student in the entire class who knows how to behave.” 

She shushed us when we told her Miss Wheeler always let us answer this way. She clapped her hand and glared when we all tReid to tell her at once.

Miss Blackburn smiled at Norman Reid. “What’s your name?” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he actually looked at her. “Go on, you can tell me.”

“NNNNNNNN.” He gasped for air and lowered his head. 

Norman was a stutterer. None of us new because he had never spoken a word in class.

“Don’t rush,” she said. “Take your time. Lots of people stammer at some point in their lives.”

He looked at her again. We stared, astounded that Miss Blackburn would be kind to Norman Reid.

“Sometimes stammer goes away if you speak in an accent,” she said. Norman looked puzzled. We all did. Third graders knew nothing about accents.

“Or you can make a song out of what you want to say. “What’s your name?” she sang in three clear notes. “Now it’s your turn.”

Norman Reid let out a long string of Ns, followed by his name in a song with one note for each syllable. 

“Perfect,” Miss Blackburn said. “Didn’t Norman do well, class.” She looked at our sour faces for a while and then applauded. “Let’s give him a big hand.”

Staring us down until we joined in. 

For a brief moment, I felt like I might have gotten Norman all wrong. My face turned warm. Tears welled up in my eyes. Like I’d been caught doing

something I shouldn’t. The other third graders looked like they felt the same. The feeling got worse when Norman sang out the answer to 8 x 8. “Sssixty-

four.”

Miss Blackburn took him halfway through the nines before she moved on to spelling. The whole class—except for Norman Reid—felt like their world had

been turned upside down. 

“Miss Wheeler will be back,” Gale Jenkins whispered to me. 

I hoped he was right. Miss Wheeler would return soon, and things would get back to normal.

John T. Biggs describes himself as a regional writer whose region is somewhere west of the Twilight Zone. His work blends speculative fiction with a literary style and frequently includes Native American mysticism. His books include: Owl Dreams, The Owl of Death Row, Sacred Alarm Clock, Cherokee Ice, Clementine-a song for the end of the world, and Shiners.