Summertime on Flamingo Street

The first sign that summertime had arrived to Flamingo Street started with the last ringing of the school bell. We were finally released from the prison that the grownups called Mt. Olive Elementary school.

As we rushed out from her classroom, old Mrs. Crabtree stood by the door telling each of us to slow down and at the same time wishing us a happy and fun filled summer. We, of course didn’t hear her. The other kids were too busy talking about what they’d do during summer vacation. I was too busy trying to hide from Down the Street Bully Brad.

On Flamingo Street, the summer started the same way each year. Leastwise for me it did. Bradley McAlister always found me after the last day of school and beat me up. Said it really started his summer off right.

No matter where I hid, he always found me. One year I hid behind the bus – he found me. The next year I hid under the twirl-a-round on the playground – he found me. In fourth grade I hid behind the dumpster outside the lunchroom. He found me, beat me up, and then tossed me in the dumpster.

As I searched for my hiding place, I realized that I had graduated from fifth grade, and that meant only one thing. No more Mrs. Crabtree. She had told us on that last day of school she was retiring. She said after 29 years of teaching it was time for her to take it easy and live the simple life. That’s what she told us, but I knew better.

Mrs. Crabtree wasn’t retiring because she wanted to get away from it all. Nope. She just wanted to get away from us.

She said it had been her most challenging year of teaching yet. Between food fights, a firecracker in the boys’ bathroom, the exploding ant farm incident, and spitballs galore — I must admit it had been an eventful year. But what did Principal Baker expect when he put all the kids from Flamingo Street and the Duke of Gloucester Street into the same classroom?

The very first day of fifth grade had started off with a bang. Or I should say a splat. I was hit in the back of the head with a spitball the size of a half dollar. It had been thrown by one snickering bully who sat on the back row. Bradley McAllister.

It was the first of many times I was hit with spitballs that year, and the first of many times Bradley made the trip down the hall to see Principal Baker.

The firecracker in the boys’ bathroom was also contributed to Bradley. Well, guess it was really my fault. When he reached over and stole my gooey sticky bun at lunch, I just snapped. I called him a big fat tub of lard. He chased me down the hall and into the bathroom. He found me hiding in the second stall. Next thing I saw was a Black Cat firecracker sailing over the top of the stall and landing at my feet.

They said Bradley could be heard laughing all the way to Principle Baker’s office, but I never heard him. In fact, I couldn’t hear anything for three days. But the worst part of it was I never got my sticky bun back.

Now the exploding ant farm: well, that was my fault. Old Mrs. Crabtree had an ant farm sitting on the side table next to the windows. The ants were contained in a three-foot square, three-inch wide glass box. But in my defense, how was I supposed to know heat would cause the box to explode?

Bradley threw another spitball at me, but I ducked at the last moment. I watched as it slammed into the back of Bubba Hank’s head. When Bubba finally caught Bradley, both were out of breath from running around the room. Mrs. Crabtree told Bubba to sit down, and pulled Bradley to the office by his ear. That’s when I got out my Dick Tracy detective magnifying glass from my desk and went over to the ant farm.

First I used it to watch the ants as they scurried around, unaware their world was about to be destroyed. Then I used it to burn holes in the little twigs inside the glass box. I was burning though my second twig when the box exploded. All the sand poured out, bringing with it about a bazillion hot angry ants. But as it tuned out, it was still a good day.

All the kids in Mrs. Crabtree’s class got out of school early so Janitor Jim could clean up the sand and capture the fleeing ants. I only got stung twice and got sent to the office. My punishment was that I had to clean erasers for a week after school. Bradley got suspended for two days. Not for anything to do with the spitball he threw or the ant farm I blew up. He got suspended for punching me when I got to the office.

Fifth grade was now over and summer vacation had started off great. After an hour, Bully Brad had given up his search and found someone else to beat up. After an hour I climbed out of the dumpster behind the lunchroom and headed home for a much needed bath. I smelled like a giant pizza, and all the dogs on Flamingo Street followed me home, but I didn’t care. I still had my pride; I didn’t get beat up.

It was the start of the greatest summer of my life. The Flamingo Street Raiders would win the end of the summer street football championship. The three year dig at Cliff Condos would finally be finished. Two weeks ahead of schedule and three weeks before the big cave-in. I would win my first fight with Bully Brad.

But best thing of all? Candi Samples would finally kiss me. And you can read about it and more, right here every Friday in The Citizen newspaper.