"The Superteacher Project" by Gordon Korman, Chapters 1–8


It goes without saying that spitballs are against the rules. That’s the biggest part of their appeal.

And what’s up with “pupils”? What is this—1870? Does he commute to school by covered wagon?

The teacher’s left hand flashes out and catches my spitball between the thumb and forefinger. I have the presence of mind to fumble the launcher into my desk.

“I guess your rule-wrecking career is over, Oliver. Did you catch Mr. Aidact snatching your spitball out of the air? I’ve never seen anyone move that fast!”
“It was a fluke,” I scoff.

“It was a fluke,” I scoff.

Suddenly, I’m embarrassed to be caught cowering under the sink by Cassidy, who’s in eighth grade.

“You should see the look on your face!” Oliver manages, gasping for breath.
At least Nathan has the decency to be a little ashamed between guffaws.

“That’s the beauty of it!” Oliver crows.

“It was Oliver and Nathan,” I seethe. “They threw this into the girls’ room and yelled ‘Fire in the hole!”’

And he and Mr. Perkins disappear into the faculty lounge.

“I’ll never understand ratios,” Nathan says mournfully. “How can ten-to-five be the same as two-to-one? They’re totally different numbers!”
“The numbers are different, but the ratio is the same,” I explain.

“So every time Principal Candiotti lectures us on where we can’t use our phones or why we shouldn’t run on the stairs or how gum chewing is a big no-no,” he explains earnestly, like he’s making a speech, “I think about that rule and I laugh inside. Because if the rules are so important, why didn’t she bother to take that old one out?”

“Hi,” she says again, and rustles the paper of the shopping bag.

“Halloween has a bad rap these days, with all the emphasis on candy and sugar,” my mother explains.

“That doesn’t sound like a sensible rule for a middle school. Tell you what—I’ll bring it up at the next PTA meeting.”

From that undulating forest of wildly scrambling legs darts the toy car—the cheap kind you can get for $7.99 at any mall.

Across the chassis, the number 2 has been drawn in fluorescent blue paint.

In the foyer outside the main office, Principal Candiotti rushes to protect the pedestal that supports the school’s beloved 1974 girls’ field hockey trophy from the rampaging horde.

“A group of high school pupils performed a similar action involving piglets numbered one, two, and four. It took a week for the school to determine that there was no piglet number three.”

I don’t pass out on the spot, but it’s sheer force of will that keeps me standing.

The new teacher fixes me with that unwavering laser-like stare that makes you feel like a specimen on a slide.

The new teacher fixes me with that unwavering laser-like stare that makes you feel like a specimen on a slide.

“Handling those toy cars leaves a telltale V mark on your palm,” Mr. Aidact explains. “I noticed it on Mr. Benrahma—and on you.”

He’s always so skittish about getting caught.

AIDACT sometimes has difficulty working with students' wide range of personalities and ability levels but has shown the capacity to adjust in innovative and sometimes unexpected ways.

There have been no security breaches.

Principal Candiotti says the goal of
middle school is to discover what you’ve got a knack for.

“Join the debate team,” she urges. “Debates are just arguments that follow a set of rules.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I retort.

The doctor said there’s a condition called oppositional defiant disorder, which means you automatically go against everybody and everything.

In a nervous rush, she gathers us together like a flock of chickens and bustles us to a classroom in the seventh-grade wing.

Mr. Aidact doesn’t get mad, but Perkins practically blows a gasket.

“It’s a name that dates back centuries, derived from Middle Low German.”

The next thing I know, Mr. Aidact is standing in front of me, watching me intently, his head in that tilted position.

In twos and threes, he sweeps them out of the folding doors and runs them through the pelting rain to the front entrance.

I offered to coach the team myself, but our superintendent put the kibosh on that idea.

Any potential coach would picture themselves slogging through this weather, trying to run a practice in a swamp.

At practice, his whistle shrills constantly, like a cicada infestation.

“Coach?” I venture shyly. “Shouldn’t you go over there and—you know—help Mr. Perkins?”

Mr. Perkins slouches onto the scene, heels dragging, the picture of dejection.

“Well, then”—Coach Aidact hefts his stick—“let’s get back to work.”