The Somebodies Read Online Free
Author: N. E. Bode
forehead and landed with a soft thud on the bed behind her.
It read Fern Battles the Blue Queen.
There was no picture and no date.
At least, not yet.
2
MRS. FLUGGERY’S RULES AND REGULATIONS
WHEN MRS. FLUGGERY SAID “MRS. FLUGGERY ,” which she often did—as in, Mrs. Fluggery doesn’t put up with that business! and Mrs. Fluggery is displeased! and Your bad behavior has forced Mrs. Fluggery to take one of her nitroglycerin tablets! —a bit of air would collect behind her lips while she was working on the “F” in “Fluggery.” This bit of air would inflate her cheeks and even her upper lip above her teeth, and for a brief moment, she would look like a lonesome bullfrog. But then the rest of hername would come tumbling out—“luggery”—and Fern knew that something bad would usually follow. The way Mrs. Fluggery talked about herself in this detached way gave the impression that the real Mrs. Fluggery was someone else standing just in the hall, behind the door, and she was going to come in and chop everyone to bits with some jujitsu if things didn’t change immediately. Mrs. Fluggery only talked about herself as Mrs. Fluggery when she was angry with the class. She was usually angry with the class. And so Fern was nearly always in a wide-eyed state of fear.
I’ve already mentioned Mrs. Fluggery’s monumental hairdo, though Fern preferred the term “hairdon’t” as this was such a horrible concoction, and her habit of storing dirty tissues up her sleeve. I’ve mentioned that she sometimes was forced to take nitroglycerin tablets, because of her heart condition, but I haven’t mentioned that the pills—many different bottles of them—clicked in their little containers, and that Mrs. Fluggery sounded like a living maraca every time she took a step. She kept the pills in secret locations all over her person, but mainly in the bulging pockets of her cardigan sweater that stretched taut around her beefy middle.
Her domed stomach was propped up by two spindly legs. I haven’t yet mentioned her love of herringboneskirts. Her skirts rode up over her stomach, exposing her bony red knees and, just below them, her knee-high stockings that sagged around her ankles. And did I mention that her gauzy hair was faintly purplish, and n o t in a way that seemed deliberate, like for example, the hair of the girl who serves me cappuccino at my favorite coffee shop, Cup O Java, where I sometimes go disguised as a sumo wrestler? No, no. It was purplish like skim milk, if skim milk could be stiffened and placed on a woman’s head. On Mondays her hair would stand tall, on Tuesdays a little less so, on Wednesdays a little less so, until Thursdays, when it was smaller, lumpy, and shaped like a humpbacked pony. On Fridays her hair collapsed entirely and had to be propped up by a flimsy scaffolding of bobby pins. On Mondays it would stand tall again, unless, of course, she didn’t have time to reconstruct it over the weekend, in which case she’d wear a ski cap.
Mrs. Fluggery had decorated the room with posters explaining her numerous Rules and Regulations. Those on the bulletin board read:
DON’T FIB TO MRS. FLUGGERY. SHE KNOWS WHEN YOU ARE A WORMY LIAR. LEAVE THE LIES AT HOME WITH YOUR PARENTS, WHO TAUGHT SUCH THINGS !
And
DON’T FIGHT. KEEP YOUR DIRTY, STICKY CLAWS TO YOURSELVES! MRS. FLUGGERY DOESN’T WANT TO HAVE TO PULL TWO SUCH BEETLE-EATERS APART !
And
DON’T TALK TO MRS. FLUGGERY ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP! IT’S RUDE! DO YOU THINK MRS. FLUGGERY WANTED TO BE MRS FLUGGERY ?
Fern tried not to read the posters.
This particular day was a Thursday, but the humpbacked pony hadn’t yet shown up in full on Mrs. Fluggery’s head. Fern was just starting to be able to make out his hindquarters above Mrs. Fluggery’s right ear. She was concentrating on this, ignoring her math problems, letting her eyes blur, when the toothy goldfish swam into her mind. It was quickly followed by the other things
It read Fern Battles the Blue Queen.
There was no picture and no date.
At least, not yet.
2
MRS. FLUGGERY’S RULES AND REGULATIONS
WHEN MRS. FLUGGERY SAID “MRS. FLUGGERY ,” which she often did—as in, Mrs. Fluggery doesn’t put up with that business! and Mrs. Fluggery is displeased! and Your bad behavior has forced Mrs. Fluggery to take one of her nitroglycerin tablets! —a bit of air would collect behind her lips while she was working on the “F” in “Fluggery.” This bit of air would inflate her cheeks and even her upper lip above her teeth, and for a brief moment, she would look like a lonesome bullfrog. But then the rest of hername would come tumbling out—“luggery”—and Fern knew that something bad would usually follow. The way Mrs. Fluggery talked about herself in this detached way gave the impression that the real Mrs. Fluggery was someone else standing just in the hall, behind the door, and she was going to come in and chop everyone to bits with some jujitsu if things didn’t change immediately. Mrs. Fluggery only talked about herself as Mrs. Fluggery when she was angry with the class. She was usually angry with the class. And so Fern was nearly always in a wide-eyed state of fear.
I’ve already mentioned Mrs. Fluggery’s monumental hairdo, though Fern preferred the term “hairdon’t” as this was such a horrible concoction, and her habit of storing dirty tissues up her sleeve. I’ve mentioned that she sometimes was forced to take nitroglycerin tablets, because of her heart condition, but I haven’t mentioned that the pills—many different bottles of them—clicked in their little containers, and that Mrs. Fluggery sounded like a living maraca every time she took a step. She kept the pills in secret locations all over her person, but mainly in the bulging pockets of her cardigan sweater that stretched taut around her beefy middle.
Her domed stomach was propped up by two spindly legs. I haven’t yet mentioned her love of herringboneskirts. Her skirts rode up over her stomach, exposing her bony red knees and, just below them, her knee-high stockings that sagged around her ankles. And did I mention that her gauzy hair was faintly purplish, and n o t in a way that seemed deliberate, like for example, the hair of the girl who serves me cappuccino at my favorite coffee shop, Cup O Java, where I sometimes go disguised as a sumo wrestler? No, no. It was purplish like skim milk, if skim milk could be stiffened and placed on a woman’s head. On Mondays her hair would stand tall, on Tuesdays a little less so, on Wednesdays a little less so, until Thursdays, when it was smaller, lumpy, and shaped like a humpbacked pony. On Fridays her hair collapsed entirely and had to be propped up by a flimsy scaffolding of bobby pins. On Mondays it would stand tall again, unless, of course, she didn’t have time to reconstruct it over the weekend, in which case she’d wear a ski cap.
Mrs. Fluggery had decorated the room with posters explaining her numerous Rules and Regulations. Those on the bulletin board read:
DON’T FIB TO MRS. FLUGGERY. SHE KNOWS WHEN YOU ARE A WORMY LIAR. LEAVE THE LIES AT HOME WITH YOUR PARENTS, WHO TAUGHT SUCH THINGS !
And
DON’T FIGHT. KEEP YOUR DIRTY, STICKY CLAWS TO YOURSELVES! MRS. FLUGGERY DOESN’T WANT TO HAVE TO PULL TWO SUCH BEETLE-EATERS APART !
And
DON’T TALK TO MRS. FLUGGERY ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP! IT’S RUDE! DO YOU THINK MRS. FLUGGERY WANTED TO BE MRS FLUGGERY ?
Fern tried not to read the posters.
This particular day was a Thursday, but the humpbacked pony hadn’t yet shown up in full on Mrs. Fluggery’s head. Fern was just starting to be able to make out his hindquarters above Mrs. Fluggery’s right ear. She was concentrating on this, ignoring her math problems, letting her eyes blur, when the toothy goldfish swam into her mind. It was quickly followed by the other things
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