Lisa almost found herself wondering why the desks weren't gold-plated, as nearly every other student in the classroom was clad in the finest Gucci and Chanel fashions. A few of them stared at her as if she were a homeless person who had stumbled upon their Thanksgiving dinner. I must be the poorest kid in the room, she thought. It's like being the weirdest kid, or the dumbest kid. I'll attract all kinds of attention, most of it negative.
"Welcome to third grade, students," said the slender, young-looking blonde at the head of the class. "I'm Mrs. Townsend, and I'll be your teacher." Even she was wearing a fancy dress—probably one of the perks of her position.
One by one the children stood and introduced themselves, though it seemed to Lisa that they were competing to see who could raise their nose the highest.
"I'm Lisa Simpson," she said when her turn came. "My dad works at the nuclear plant. I like Malibu Stacy dolls, ponies, and ending world hunger. I'm currently reading the complete poems of Pablo Neruda. It's true I'm not rich like the rest of you, but remember that your parents were once poor, and had to work hard to get to where they are today." The other pupils rewarded her with blank stares. "Okay, your grandparents were once poor." The blank stares continued. "Great-grandparents?"
A brown-haired boy in the back of the room spoke up. "My great-grandfather was a humble coal miner," he said in a quivering voice. "He started with nothing, but he knew the value of hard work. He opened a drug store, but it burned down. He opened another, and it went bankrupt. His third drug store turned into a national chain. He became incredibly wealthy, but he never forgot his humble beginnings."
"That's a lovely story," said Lisa with a smile. "What's your name?"
"Taylor Q. Beiderbeck the Fourth," the boy replied.
As Lisa seated herself, she overheard two girls whispering back and forth. "I think I'll call her Little Orphan Annie," said one of them.
"I'll bet those pearls are painted on," said the other.
"Now let me tell you a little about myself," said Mrs. Townsend after the last student had concluded. "I've been teaching at Springfield Prep for five years. I started as a second-grade teacher. I received my teaching degree from Harvard University. I have four beautiful children, who are currently in the care of their nanny."
Yeah, right, thought Lisa as she regarded the teacher's wasp-like figure. What did you do, have the nanny give birth to them for you?
"Our first class of the day is English," said Mrs. Townsend. "To start off, I'd like to play a little game, to see what level you're at."
A little game, thought Lisa bitterly. I hope it's not 'One of These Words Is Not Like the Other'.
"I'll recite a verse of poetry, and you'll get the chance to raise your hand and tell me who the poet is," said the teacher.
Fabulous! thought Lisa with delight. I'm going to like this school.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty; that is all you know on Earth, and all you need to know."
Lisa racked her brain. I know that one…who is it…
Ashleigh's hand shot up. "Ode to a Grecian Urn by Keats," she declared. "I totalleigh love that poem. It's, like, so true."
Lisa groaned. She wondered what kind of school allowed a girl to bring a dog to class.
"Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, a book of verse, a jug of wine, and thou…"
Lisa's hand went up, but three other students were quicker. "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam," said a boy with reflecting black leather shoes.
"Here's a hard one," said Mrs. Townsend. "The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream."
Lisa almost shouted "Wallace Stevens!" before bothering to raise her hand.
"Very good, Lisa," said the teacher. Lisa feared to acknowledge the reason why she knew that particular poem. Her father had once discovered it by opening a book of poetry to a random page, and had spent the rest of the day parading about with a scoop in one hand, bellowing, "I am the emperor of ice cream!"
She answered many more questions correctly, but as the students filed out at the end of first period, few of them offered her more than a passing glance or a scowl.
"You did good in there," Greta commended her.
"You mean I did well," was Lisa's response.
"English class is over," said Greta facetiously. "You have to wait until tomorrow to correct my grammar."
As they walked and conversed, Lisa saw a red-headed boy approaching with a leash in one hand. On the other end of the leash was a harness attached to the neck and shoulders of a handsome golden retriever.
"Another kid with a dog?" she remarked as the boy passed by without seeming to notice her. "I just got here, and the school's already going to the dogs."
"That's a seeing-eye dog," Greta pointed out.
"A seeing-eye dog?" Lisa froze, embarrassed. "That means…he's…"
Greta watched in bemusement as her friend turned and rushed in the direction of the boy with the dog.
"Let's begin with the Declaration of Independence," said Mrs. Krabappel to her class of fourth-graders. "Can anyone tell me who the first signer of the Declaration was?"
Bart raised his hand. "Michael Jordan," he said mockingly.
"Bart Simpson," said Edna with a frown that seemed to drain all life from the room, "that's the exact same wrong answer you gave me a year ago."
"You asked me to repeat fourth grade," said Bart. "That's what I'm doing."
Mrs. Krabappel fought valiantly to contain her anger and disgust as Bart resisted her efforts to teach him things he already knew.
"Why should I give a crap about the founding fathers?" said the petulant boy. "They're just a bunch of old, dead Fuddruckers."
"That's it!" Edna ranted. "I won't tolerate such vulgar and disrespectful language in my class."
"If you don't like it, sue the restaurant," said Bart flippantly.
"Go to the principal's office," the teacher ordered him. "And this time, don't come back."
As Bart skipped merrily from the room, Mrs. Krabappel clenched her fists and tried to regain her composure. I'm going to kill him, she thought angrily. I'm really going to kill Bart Simpson.
Two identical girls with blue hair ribbons raised their hands. "What?" the teacher snapped.
"The first signer of the Declaration of Independence was John Hancock," said Sherri and Terri in unison.
"That's correct," said Edna, a bit calmer. "But aren't the two of you supposed to be in fifth grade?"
"We're just background characters," Sherri and Terri answered.
"I'm sorry for the crack about the dog," Lisa apologized profusely. "I didn't realize you were blind."
"My name's Ernst Gropius," said the boy, who appeared to be a year older than she was. "What's your name?"
"I'm Lisa," replied Lisa, slightly disconcerted that her new friend looked over her shoulder while talking to her. "Lisa Simpson."
Ernst stuck out a smooth hand in the direction of her voice, and she paused from allowing the dog to lick her palm. "It's nice to meet you," he said as they shook hands.
"Are you related to Walter Gropius, founder of the Bauhaus school of architecture?" Lisa inquired.
"Yes," Ernst told her. "He's my great-great-grandfather."
"How exciting," said Lisa dreamily.
"Both of my parents are architects," Ernst related. "My mom designed the new Jebediah Springfield museum."
"That's amazing," said Lisa. "Not many women can balance a successful career with a family like that."
"What do your parents do?" Ernst asked her.
"Er…ah…" I should tell him the truth, she thought. But the truth is so bland compared to what he just told me about himself…
"My dad's into nuclear science," she half-lied.
"Oh, I get it," said Ernst with a chuckle. "You can't give me any details, or else you'll have to kill me in the interest of national security. What about your mom?"
"Uh…well, she's multi-talented, but my dad brings in enough that she doesn't have to work."
"Please, Mr. Burns," Homer begged desperately. "I've got a wife and three kids, and we're working on number four, and the house payments are murder. I really, really need this raise."
Burns tented his fingers and glowered as the bald fat man appealed to his generosity. "Things can't be that tough for your family," the old wraith remarked. "I understand that your daughter Lisa, my youngest mortal enemy, started to attend Springfield Preparatory School today."
"That's different," Homer insisted. "Her tuition is being paid by a mysterious benefactor named Lindsey Neagle."
"Neagle, eh?" Burns grinned, and the gaps between his teeth appeared to widen. "It never ceases to astound me that such a brilliant woman should be so generous. Perhaps you should be asking her for a raise, not me."
"But she's not my boss," said Homer, and an ingenious idea suddenly struck him. "Hey…"
"Smithers, show him the door," said Burns to his right-hand man, who at the moment was manicuring his right hand.
"I think he knows the way, sir," said Smithers flatly.
"I mean the trap door, you ninny."
Homer emerged from the skunk pit grumbling and smelling awful. "Stupid stinky skunks…stupid stinky Burns…stupid stinky job…stupid stinky life…"
As he trudged toward the company washroom in hopes of burying the stench in layers of soap suds, safety inspector Mindy Simmons strolled past. "Hey, Homer," she said in a seductive tone. "Are you wearing a new cologne, or did you get turned down for a raise?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," muttered Homer without looking up at the shapely redhead.
"At least you didn't get the leeches," said Mindy with a shudder. "Ooooh, the leeches…"
Homer spent half of his lunch break in the shower, but his vigorous bathing failed to remove the scent of skunk. Then, as he was cleansing his scalp for the seventh time, a figure appeared before his eyes.
At first he thought the soap in his eyes was causing him to hallucinate. He had never seen anything like the stranger—a man six inches tall, hovering in the air, his skin as green as his uniform and headgear. Three radio-like antennae jutted out of his bulbous helmet.
"Waugh!" cried Homer, sticking his hands in front of his legs and dropping his bar of soap.
"Relax, dumb-dumb," said the green man in a condescending tone. "I didn't travel six billion light years just to sneak a peek at your doodle."
"Probe me and get it over with," said Homer, whirling about and bending over. "I won't resist."
He waited a few seconds for an unpleasant sensation, but none came. He turned around. The apparition was gone. Only the droplets of water pouring from the shower head greeted his eyes.
"I must be going crazy," he reflected. "Little green spacemen don't just disappear."
to be continued