Spying on Miss Muller by Eve Bunting Read Free Book Online

the sides of her face, her eyes staring down at the table.
    â€œHeaven save us. Maybe there’s a German under there,” Nancy Eden screamed. “Maybe one bailed out and came down on his parachute!”
    Girls were scraping out their chairs and lifting the tablecloth, trying to see beneath it. Others peered through the mullioned windows, where rain beat at the glass, making it impossible to see anything.
    â€œMaybe we’re being invaded,” Nancy Eden shrieked.
    Pat Crow, who sat next to Carol, yelled, “It’s not the Germans. It’s not an invasion. There’s a dead chicken in Carol’s egg.” Pat held her nose and pointed.
    Mr. Atkinson tapped his spoon against his cup and called, “Settle down, girls. What
is
the matter?”
    Carol gulped. “There’s a dead chicken in my egg, sir.”
    â€œImpossible. Bring it up here.”
    Carol ran her hands down the sides of her gym tunic and stepped back. “I can’t, sir. I can’t touch it, honestly.”
    The eggcup got shoved along the table and half a dozen girls managed to look in it before Miss Hardcastle came stomping over and picked it up.
    â€œIt’s got a beak and everything,” one of the girls said, gagging behind her napkin.
    The boys guffawed and poked each other and made clucking sounds. Boys can be horrible sometimes. They think they’re so superior.
    â€œSuch a commotion over nothing,” Miss Hardcastle said severely. Then she looked into the egg herself, gasped, and turned a strange color. She held the eggcup at arm’s length, went to the top of the kitchen stairs, and called, “Bridget? Mary?”
    One of the new little maids came and took the eggcup away.
    â€œCarol, would you like them to bring you another egg?” Miss Hardcastle asked.
    â€œNo, thank you, Miss Hardcastle. Not for the rest of my life,” Carol said.
    None of us wanted our eggs but Miss Gaynor said we must think of the starving children in Europe and not waste good food. Several of us told her we would have been happy to send the starving children of Europe every egg in Ireland.
    Nobody wanted to eat anything more, and we were glad when at last Mr. Atkinson stood to dismiss us. Usually he said, “Deo gratias, hosanna in excelsis.” Today he added, “And don’t let the Jerries get you down.” We liked to call them Jerries instead of Germans. It made them sound less scary.
    We all shouted, “They’ll never get us down,” and stamped our feet in approval.
    The teachers left first, all of them except the two on inside dining-room duty. I watched Miss Müller. She walked with her head down and she was almost at the door when the hissing began. I don’t know who started it, or even where it came from. One moment we were cheering because the Jerries would never get us down, and then the cheering had changed to this ugly, hateful sound. It filled the dining room like steam coming out of a kettle. Miss Müller stopped, lifted her head, then bowed it again and walked faster.
    Mr. Bolton moved beside her. He took her arm and bent over her. His round face was kind and concerned. The short bulk of his body seemed to be shielding her from our attacks. Teachers always stuck together no matter what.
    Mr. Atkinson turned to face us. “Stop this abominable noise at once,” he said. His glare was so fierce that the hissing began to die away.
    The kettle being taken off the stove, I thought numbly.
    Mean Jean Ross’s finger traced the shape of the silver cross under her blouse. She wasn’t allowed to have it outside when she was wearing her gym tunic. She said she should be allowed, because it was God’s symbol, but Old Rose said it was jewelry and no jewelry was permitted when we were in uniform.
    â€œIt’s going to get worse for the Fräulein before it gets better,” Mean Jean said with satisfaction.
    I had a feeling Mean Jean was