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The Boy Who Got His Tongue Stuck To A Flagpole

“I dare you to put your tongue on it,” said Bingbongheimer.
Bingbongheimer wasn't his real name. His real name was Bingenheimer, Billy Bingenheimer. Mikey (pronounced Mike-ee) didn't like Billy Bingenheimer so he called him Bingbongheimer.
“I dare you to put your tongue on it,” repeated Bingbongheimer.
It was 39 degrees below zero outside. Everyone in Frostbite Falls, North Dakota, knew you don't put your tongue on a metal flagpole when it's 39 degrees below zero outside, everyone except Mikey that is.
Mikey was from Florida, where they don't have ice and snow. Until he moved to Frostbite Falls with his parents, the only ice and snow Mikey had ever seen was when something had gone wrong with their refrigerator and the freezer compartment had turned into a small snow cave with two plastic ice trays entombed in it.
“What will you give me if I put my tongue on it?” asked Mikey.
“I'll give you my dessert at lunch,” said Billy.
Dessert was Mikey's favorite part of lunch. He always checked the school lunch menu to see what dessert was going to be. Dessert for that day was going to be chocolate coconut cream squares. Chocolate coconut cream squares were Mikey's favorite dessert. He loved chocolate coconut cream squares.
“Okay,” he said. “It's a deal.”

Mrs. Tolbert, the school secretary, didn't like Billy Bingenheimer either because he was always doing naughty things like putting food coloring on the doorknobs of classroom doors. When Billy came in from raising the American flag, he was alone and hurried past the school office. She knew that Mike Stanhope and Billy Binginheimer had been given the privilege of raising the American flag that morning. Where was Mike Stanhope, she wondered? Why hadn't he returned to the school building with Billy Bingenheimer?
She looked out the window. She could see the flagpole in front of the school building. The American flag had been raised and there was Mike Stanhope standing at the base of the flagpole. He was flailing his arms helplessly, his tongue stuck to the staff.
“Oh, my God!” she cried.
She immediately summoned the most important person at Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School. No, it wasn't Ms. Harriet Marsh, the principal. And it wasn't Dr. Simkin. Dr. Simkin had a PhD in pedagogy. Mikey wasn't sure what pedagogy was even after Mrs. Llewellyn, his fifth grade teacher, had explained it to him but he suspected it was why school was so hard.
No, the most important person at Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School wasn’t Principal Marsh or Dr. Simkin or even Mrs. Fjarval, who served the children lunch in the Multi-Purpose Room and taught them the names of the vegetables in Finnish. The most important person at Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School, next to Mrs. Tolbert herself, was Mr. McGillicuddy, the custodian. Together, Mrs. Tolbert and Mr. McGillicuddy kept Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School running smoothly.
Mr. McGillicuddy was replacing the big roll of cloth toweling that looped from the dispenser in the boy's lavatory when his walkie-talkie squawked and he heard Mrs. Tolbert say, “Come to the office right away! It's an emergency!”

“Are you all right, son,” asked Mr. McGillicuddy.
The tip of Mikey's tongue sort of burned where it touched the ice-cold metal. He wondered if he could eat two chocolate coconut cream squares with his tongue stuck to a flagpole but he said, "Uh-huh" and nodded. It was all he could do with his tongue stuck to a flagpole.
When Mr. McGillicuddy was a boy Mikey's age, he had gotten his own tongue stuck to a frozen metal object only it wasn't a flagpole. It was the handle of the pump in the backyard of his family's Nebraska farmhouse. His mother had set him free with a pan of hot water, then his father had given him a good hiding for being so stupid as to put his tongue on an ice-cold pump handle.
“Well, we'll get you unstuck in a jiffy,” said Mr. McGillicuddy and he chuckled.
Mrs. Tolbert, wrapped in a muffler and heavy winter coat, stayed with Mikey while Mr. McGilicuddy went to the school's boiler room. A short time later, he returned with a steaming hot pail of water.
“This should do the trick. It's always worked before,” he said.
While Mrs. Tolbert looked on, Mr. McGillicuddy tipped up the pail of hot water. The moment the steaming stream of water from the pail hit the ice-cold, minus-39-degree-Fahrenheit, metal flagpole, it froze—froze to the flagpole and to the pail itself. Splashes of water from the pail instantly turned into droplets of ice in the frigid air. The cloud of steam given off by the hot water turned into tiny snowflakes that drifted slowly to the frozen ground.
Mikey couldn't believe his eyes, neither could Mrs. Tolbert and Mr. McGillicuddy. The hot water, pail and all, had frozen solid to the flagpole!
Mikey wondered if that was the trick Mr. McGillicuddy had referred to.
“Hmm. It must be colder out than I thought,” said Mr. McGillicuddy.
The Icicle had reported that it was the coldest winter in fifteen years, which made it about average for Frostbite Falls. The Icicle's usually accurate reporting was on Mrs. Tolbert's mind when she ran to the office to speak to Principal Marsh. If the temperature reached -40 Fahrenheit, school would have to be dismissed for the day and the children sent home early on account of the risk of frostbite. They looked at the thermometer outside Principal Marsh's office window. It read -39 Fahrenheit and the Icicle had predicted a high for the day of -35. They breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't going to be a “frostbite” day, only an “idiot-child” day.
While Principal Marsh telephoned Mikey's mother and asked her to come to the school right away, Mrs. Tolbert telephoned the fire department. This situation required the help of professionals.
Since the 911 call was from a school, the dispatcher sent an ambulance along with an engine company. The Fire Chief came in his command car to oversee the operation.
A parade of emergency vehicles, their red-and-white emergency lights flashing, arrived at Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School, transforming the school into a scene of high drama (and low comedy). Classes halted and everyone rushed to the windows to see what was happening. Passing motorists slowed down to rubberneck. Neighborhood residents peered from the windows of their houses, wondering if there was a fire at the school.
Mikey got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was afraid the kids at school would see him with his tongue stuck to the flagpole and laugh at him. He hoped they wouldn't notice his embarrassing predicament in spite of the commotion it was causing.
“Maybe they'll think it's a fire drill,” he thought.
Mrs. Stanhope arrived right behind the emergency vehicles. Parking her four-wheel-drive station wagon, she got out and rushed to Mikey's side.
“Are you all right, Mikey? Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
He nodded and said, "Uh-huh."
Just then Principal Marsh came flying out of the school building and confronted the firemen and EMTs. She was upset, so upset that she had forgotten to put on a coat and hat despite the frigid weather.
“Turn off those lights,” she demanded, pointing to the vehicles' flashing emergency lights. “They're upsetting the children and distracting them from their school work.”
The emergency lights were switched off.
“What about my son?” wailed Mrs. Stanhope. She was annoyed that Principal Marsh was more concerned about appearances and the welfare of Bumblebee students in general than that of one student in particular. “The other children don't have their tongues stuck to a flagpole!”
Mikey wished his mother wasn't so excitable. He was sure that everyone at Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School could hear her and would know that it wasn't a fire drill.
His fears were soon confirmed. Laughter began trickling out of the school building. It started as a few, isolated giggles then quickly swelled to a raucous chorus of loud guffaws.
Through the windows of Mrs. Llewellyn's classroom, he could see his classmates laughing at him, Billy Bingbongheimer loudest of all. Mikey groaned. He felt sick, sick and stupid. He wanted to throw up he felt so sick. Then he noticed that his tongue was dry. He thrust out his wet lips until he felt the chill of the ice-cold metal just about to touch them and he withdrew them over his dry tongue. It took a lot of concentration to moisten his tongue without getting his lips stuck to the flagpole and he congratulated himself on having done it successfully. Getting his lips stuck to the flagpole along with his tongue would be doubly embarrassing.
He glanced nervously in the direction of Mrs. Llewellyn's classroom and saw Billy Bingbongheimer's fat, round face grinning hideously at him through a window. Then he saw Mrs. Llewellyn collar Billy and drag him away from the window.
“He's in for it now,” thought Mikey and he smiled as best he could with his tongue stuck to a flagpole.
The Fire Chief waited for the laughter coming from the school building to subside then he said,
“Don't worry, ma'am. We'll get his tongue unstuck. We've handled situations like this before. We'll have it unstuck in a jiffy.”
“People in North Dakota sure like to use the word 'jiffy' a lot,” thought Mikey.
Reassured by the Fire Chief's confident words, Mrs. Stanhope calmed down enough to demand to know how something like this could happen to her child at school.
Principal Marsh resisted the temptation to say, “Because he's an idiot! Everyone knows you don't put your tongue on a metal flagpole when its 39-below outside.” She also resisted the temptation to say: “It's North Dakota humor.” She didn't think a Floridian like Mrs. Stanhope would understand. Instead, she said, “It may have been a practical joke.”
“Well, it's not very funny,” said Mrs. Stanhope, thoroughly disgusted. “Whoever did this should be ashamed of themselves.”
Principal Marsh agreed.
“They'll be dealt with,” she promised.
Her ambiguous use of the word “they” jolted Mikey. He realized that he might get blamed for what had happened unless he spoke up. He hated to be a snitch. On the other hand, he felt he had suffered enough already.
“It uz Ill-ee Ing-ong-ine-er,” he said.
“What's that, Mikey?” his mother asked.
“It uz Ill-ee Ing-ong-ine-er,” he repeated.
“Did you say, 'It was Ill-ee Ing-ong-ine-er?'”
He shook his head.
“Un-un. Ill-ee Ing-ong-ine-er.”
Despite his attempt to enunciate clearly with his tongue stuck to a flagpole, his mother couldn't make out what he was saying. She looked inquiringly at Principal Marsh.
“Mikey, did you say, 'It was Billy Bingbongheimer'—I mean, Bingenheimer?” inquired Principal Marsh.
“Un-huh, hun-huh,” he said, nodding and laughing. He had gotten her to say “Bingbongheimer” after she had once scolded him for making fun of Billy's family name.
“Mikey, this is not a laughing matter,” said his mother.
“Yes, Mikey, your mother is right. This is not a laughing matter,” insisted Principal Marsh.
He wished somebody would inform Billy Bingbongheimer and the other kids at school of that. They seemed to think it was a laughing matter and very funny.
“O-hay,” he said, sounding chastened.

Meanwhile, the Fire Chief asked Mr. McGillicuddy:
“Have you ever seen a pail of water do that before?”
The custodian shook his head.
“Nope. Damnedest thing I ever saw—froze solid—,” he snapped his fingers, “—just like that. And that water was hot too.”
“Hmm?”
“Want to give 'er another try? I've got another pail.”
The Fire Chief shook his head.
“No,” he said, “we need to throw some real heat on this flagpole.”
He turned to the First Fireman.
“Have you got a blowtorch?”
“Yup,” replied the fireman.
“Break it out!”

While the firemen were preparing to thaw out the flagpole with a blowtorch, Principal Marsh returned to the school building, where she saw Billy Bingenheimer idling in the hallway.
“What are you doing out of your classroom, Billy?” she asked.
“Mrs. Llewellyn sent me to the office,” he replied. “She said I was supposed to wait there.”
“Wait there for what?”
His eyes evaded hers.
“I don't know...,” he hung his head, “...something.”
“Then you better get to the office and stay there until I can find out why you were sent to there,” she said sternly.
“Okay,” he replied listlessly.
He began shuffling slowly toward the office. She didn't wait for him to complete his slow progress to the office. Instead, she went straight to her private office and threw on a bulky down parka that was hanging on the coat rack. With the parka on, she looked like the Michelin Man. As she was donning winter hat and gloves, the phone rang and Mrs. Tolbert answered it. The call was from a reporter at the Icicle. He had heard the 911 call on the scanner and was looking for a story. She explained that the 911 dispatcher had over reacted to a minor emergency and hung up on him.
When Principal Marsh emerged from her inner sanctum, now dressed for the frigid weather, her eyes fell on an empty chair in the outer office. It was a chair reserved for students sent to the principal's office, a chair well known to Billy Bingenheimer.
“Where's Billy Bingenheimer?” she asked. “He should be here, sitting in that chair.”
Only he wasn't.

“Whoosh!” went the blowtorch, emitting a jet of red-orange flame six inches long. The First Fireman held up the blowtorch and felt the heat from the flame warm his face. He smiled with satisfaction.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Mrs. Stanhope.
“I'm going to heat up the metal around your— What's your son's name?”
“Mikey.”
“I'm going to heat up the metal around Mikey's tongue so it will thaw out,” he explained, pulling on a pair of fireproof gloves.
“I hope you know what you're doing?” she said nervously.
“Don't worry, ma'am.” He paused to adjust the flame of the blowtorch. “I've done this sort of thing before. When you fight fires in the wintertime in Frostbite Falls, North Dakota, the equipment and everything gets stuck together with ice. That's when fire—,” he waved the blowtorch from side-to-side, making the flame go “Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!,” “—is your friend.”
“Oh, I see.”
Nonetheless, she clasped Mikey's hand reassuringly.
“Ready, Mikey?” asked the fireman.
“Uh-huh,” he replied and nodded. But he clasped his mother's hands tightly in both his own.
While the Fire Chief (mentally taking notes in case of a lawsuit) and the other members of the rescue team looked on, the First Fireman planted the edge of his fireproof glove against the flagpole, shielding Mikey's face from heat and flame, and moved in with the blowtorch. The roaring tongue of flame touched the ice-cold, minus-39-degree-Fahrenheit metal flagpole and immediately froze solid. The blowtorch stopped roaring, sputtered a few times and fell silent.
“Well, I'll be darned,” exclaimed the fireman. “That's never happened before!”
He let go of the blowtorch. It bobbed up and down, suspended from the tongue of flame that had frozen solid and stuck fast to the flagpole.
“Heh, heh, heh,” chortled Mr. McGillicuddy. “You're luck's no better 'an mine!”
“Drat!” exclaimed the fireman.
The fireproof glove had frozen solid to the flagpole too!
Extracting his hand from the frozen glove, he gripped the blowtorch with both hands and bent it to one side, trying to break it off the flagpole. The frozen tongue of flame bent but wouldn't break. He let go of the blowtorch and it whipped back and forth as though mounted on a flame-colored spring and made a noise that went “br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-riggg.”
Mikey thought the noise sounded neat and wanted to hear it again.
“That's one frozen blowtorch!” exclaimed the First Fireman.
Everyone agreed, it was one frozen blowtorch but he didn't make it go “br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-riggg” again like Mikey wanted.
“And I'm one frozen custodian!” exclaimed Mr. McGillicuddy. “I'm going inside before I catch my death. Good luck!” And with that, he hustled off to the warmth and comfort of his cubbyhole in the school's boiler room.
“We're all freezing,” cried Mrs. Stanhope. Her words came out in little, white clouds that hung in the frigid air and she stamped her feet vigorously to ward off the chill that was seeping up through the soles of her fur lined boots. “Why aren't you doing something—anything—to get my son's tongue unstuck from this flagpole?” she demanded.
The Fire Chief turned to the Second Fireman and said,
“Get an ax.”
Mrs. Stanhope was taken aback.
“An ax?”
“We're going to cut the blowtorch off the flagpole and try again,” he explained. “You want something done? Well, we're doing it.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding skeptical.
The Second Fireman opened an equipment compartment on the side of the fire truck and took out a fire ax. He handed it to the First Fireman.
“Be careful with that thing,” said the Fire Chief. He had suddenly gotten a mental image of a subpoena with his name on it. “We don't want any accidents.”
The First Fireman choked up on the handle of the ax until he gripped it by the throat. He took a short, tentative chop at the frozen tongue of flame. A few small chips of flame-colored ice flew and with a loud clank, the ax stuck to the flagpole as though drawn to it by a powerful magnet. He shook the handle of the ax, trying to free it from the tenacious grip of the acquisitive flagpole. The ax head wouldn't budge. It was stuck fast to the flagpole as firmly as if the blade were wedged in a block of knotty apple wood.

Upon discovering that Billy wasn't sitting in the outer office or loitering in the hallway outside, Principal Marsh checked the boy's lavatory to see if he might be there. The lavatory was empty.
When she emerged from the lavatory, Dr. Simkin was standing in the doorway of his classroom. He had an annoyed expression on his face.
“Will this be over soon? I'm trying to give a test,” he whined.
“I certainly hope so because I've got another crisis on my hands,” she replied.
“Oh, what's that?”
“Billy Bingenheimer has disappeared.”
Dr. Simkin didn't usually take notice of fifth graders until they became sixth graders and were assigned to his classroom but he had made an exception in the case of Billy Binginheimer. Two little imps had put food coloring on the knob of the door to his classroom. The prank had gone unnoticed until Dr. Simkin had adjusted his bow tie and the classroom had roared with laughter. He had been puzzled as to what was so funny until someone had stopped laughing long enough to tell him to look at his right hand. It had been smeared with food coloring and he had gotten some of the stuff on his tie. He had not only been made to appear a fool but his favorite orange, bow tie was now permanently stained with purple fingerprints. Ever since then, he had had it in for the two little pranksters. One of them was Billy Binginheimer.
“What do you mean 'disappeared?'” asked Dr. Simkin.
“He was sent to the office only he's not there. I'm afraid he may have run away from school.”
“What? In this weather? It's thirty-below outside.”
“Well, you're probably right. He probably hasn't run away from school. He's probably hiding somewhere here in the building only I don't have time to go look for him right now. I've got to get back outside and deal with that situation.”
“Do you want me to look for him?”
“Would you, please? Jeanne is alone in the office today and she's got her hands full.”
He sighed.
“All right, I'll look for him,” he said resignedly.
“Thanks.”
She headed for the doors beneath a mural depicting a big, smiling bumblebee hovering above a field of blooming wild prairie roses, the state flower. He called after her.
“Any idea where he might be?”
While walking away, she replied airily,
“No, but he's not in the boy's room.”
The exit door clanked shut behind her.
Placing a teacher's aide in charge of his classroom, Dr. Simkin set out to find Billy Binginheimer.

Arriving at the school flagpole, Principal Marsh was surprised to find Mike Stanhope's tongue still frozen to the staff, along with a blowtorch, a custodian's pail and various pieces fire fighting equipment.
“Why hasn't this child been rescued from his predicament?”
She enjoyed demanding results. It showed a concern for Mikey's welfare that his mother had implied was lacking.
“We're working on it,” the Fire Chief replied testily.
Then he dropped a bombshell.
“We may have to cut down the flagpole and carry it inside where it's warm.”
“What? Cut down the flagpole?” Principal Marsh looked up at the 50-foot tall, metal pole. “You can't be serious?”
“It's either that or call in the National Guard,” said the Fire Chief.
“The National Guard?” Principal Marsh and Mrs. Stanhope said simultaneously.
“The Guard has a big Herman Nelson. You could thaw out the North Pole with it.” He chuckled.
“We're not at the North Pole. We're at Bumblebee Elementary School,” observed Principal Marsh.
“Well, this flagpole sure acts like it's at the North Pole. I've never seen anything like it,” said the Fire Chief.
Under his breath, one of the EMTs went: “Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do” in tune to the theme from The Twilight Zone. His partner elbowed him in the ribs and he stifled a laugh.
“How long would it take the National Guard to get here with their Herman Nelson, whatever that is?” inquired Mrs. Stanhope.
“Longer than it would take us to cut down the flagpole and carry it inside the school building where it's warm. We could have it down in five minutes.”
The First Fireman looked at the flagpole, scoping out the problem of cutting it down.
“We'll need some help lowering it to the ground,” he said.
“I'll have a ladder company come and help us out with it,” said the Fire Chief. Then he spoke into his hand-held radio:
“Fire One calling Station One.”
After a pause, the radio replied,
“Station One, go ahead.”
“Are you sure this is really necessary?” asked Principal Marsh.
“Unless you've got a better idea...,” said the Fire Chief.
She didn't.

The reporter for the Icicle was pouring himself a second cup of morning coffee when he heard “Fire One” on the scanner, radioing for a ladder truck to come to Bumblebee Elementary School. The radio call reminded him that the school secretary had been anxious to get rid of him when he had telephoned earlier inquiring about the 911 call.
What kind of “minor emergency” required an ambulance and two fire companies to handle, he wondered. Leaving the mug of hot coffee to cool on his desk, he set out to satisfy his curiosity and perhaps get a story.

Dr. Simkin found Billy sitting on the stairs by the intermediate landing between the first and second floors of the school building. He wasn't hiding exactly. He was merely sitting where no one could see him.
After the food coloring incident, Principal Marsh had called his parents in for a conference about his behavior at school. It was suggested that he and the other little imp make restitution and buy Dr. Simkin a new bow tie. Billy had thought he was getting off easy until he learned the cost of replacing Dr. Simkin's prized piece of neckwear was $38. Billy didn't have $19 and would have had to do a lot of chores to earn it.
Fortunately for Billy and the other little imp, Dr. Simkin declined the offer of a new bow tie from the two boys and demanded letters of apology instead. After much procrastination, Billy finally wrote his letter with considerable help from his mother, who took pity on him.
Billy was afraid Principal Marsh would call his parents in for another conference about his behavior, which he considered unfair. All he had done was play a harmless prank on another kid. Kids were always playing pranks on one another. It wasn't his fault the fire department had been called and a fire engine and an ambulance had come to the school, disrupting classes. The sight of them arriving at Bumblebee all lit up with their flashing emergency lights on had been pretty neat though! He reckoned it was the best prank he had ever pulled, even better than putting food coloring on classroom doorknobs.
He wondered if Mikey's tongue was still stuck to the flagpole. He wanted to go see but he didn't want to get caught by Principal Marsh. She had sounded really annoyed with him in the hallway. He was afraid she might call his father at work. His father hated to be called at work and would be really mad at Billy, especially if he was placed on suspension and his father had to come and take him out of school.
Then he wondered if he might have to pay restitution. He didn't think the fire department charged for rescuing people but he didn't know for sure.
“What if the Fire Chief won't accept a letter of apology and I have to pay a lot of money in restitution,” he wondered?
He toyed briefly with the idea of running away from school and joining the circus, except it was 39-below outside and he didn't have the slightest idea of where to find a circus to join.
“I may have to go to the office and ask to see the school nurse,” he thought glumly. It would mean going to the office, where he might encounter Principal Marsh, but his mother would take pity on him if she thought he was sick. All he had to do was convince the school nurse that he was real sick and beg her to call his mother. The school nurse wasn't mean like Principal Marsh. She would call his mother if convinced that he was too sick to remain in school.
He was mentally preparing himself to go to the office and put on a really convincing sick act when he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs—heavy, plodding, authoritative footsteps, the footsteps of Dr. Simkin. Billy knew the teacher had it in for him. Springing to his feet, he dashed up the stairs from the half-floor landing to escape the dreaded teacher. Tubby Billy was not very fast on his feet, however, and the gangling teacher bounded up the stairs with surprising speed and caught the boy before he could elude his pursuer.
“Going somewhere, Mr. Bingenheimer?”
Dr. Simkin grinned malevolently down at the boy.
“No—nowhere,” stammered Billy.
“Nowhere, eh? Well, that won't do. Who's your teacher?”
“Mrs. Llewellyn.”
“Then I want you to turn around and walk back downstairs to her room. You know you're not permitted to run on the stairs.”
“I can't go back to her room.”
“Why not?”
“She sent me to the office on account of I'm feeling sick—,” he held his tummy and put on a nauseated expression, “—real sick.”
Dr. Simkin hated it when children got sick to their tummies. It meant sending for the custodian to clean up the mess. Mr. McGillicuddy had an annoying habit of teasing teachers and everyone else in authority over him at Bumblebee Elementary School. He took particular delight in asking Dr. Simkin if his prized bow tie had “come clean” yet and chortling gleefully when the answer was “no.”
“You're not going to throw up are you?”
Billy shook his head.
“Un-un. But I need to see the school nurse. I might have to go home early.”
Dr. Simkin was relieved that Billy was not about to “hurl,” necessitating a summons for Mr. McGillicuddy and his mop bucket.
“Well then, I'll take you to the office and have Mrs. Tolbert summon Barbara Smith so she can have a look at you. Although you don't look sick to me.”
Billy feigned nausea.
“I think I'm going to throw up,” he said.
He was about to stick his finger down his throat and make himself throw up when Dr. Simkin said hastily, “Okay, okay, I believe you. Can you make it to the boy's room?”
“I think so but I need to get my things first, in case she sends me home early.”
Dr. Simkin looked suspiciously at the boy. His eyes evaded the teacher's probing gaze.
“Okay, okay, we'll get your things,” said Dr. Simkin. “We wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia on top of feeling sick.”
His sarcasm was lost on Billy, who thought he had succeeded in pulling the wool over the teacher's eyes.
When Billy appeared unexpectedly in Mrs. Llewellyn's classroom, she said, “What are you doing here, Billy? I sent you to the principal's office.”
“I...um...I came to get my things,” he mumbled.
She looked inquiringly at Dr. Simkin, who had accompanied Billy to the door of the classroom.
“I found him loitering on the stairs.”
“On the stairs?”
“He said he was feeling sick.”
“Did you tell Dr. Simkin you were feeling sick?”
Billy put on his sick act.
“Well, I am,” he replied.
She looked inquiringly at Dr. Simkin again.
“I'll take him to the office and have Jeanne call Barbara Smith. She'll have a look at him and see if he really is sick or not.”
“It's Harriet he should be seeing,” she said pointedly.
She looked at Billy and frowned. It was the frown she always wore whenever she told him that she was disappointed in him and sent him to the principal's office, which was frequently.
Just then a loud buzzing sound ripped the air outside the classroom windows. It was the sound of a gas powered, cut-off saw.
“Look,” someone cried, “they're going to cut down the flagpole!”
The children lining the classroom windows suddenly became very excited.

“This is just a test to see if the saw will work on this bizarre flagpole,” the Fire Chief explained. “We're not going to cut it down until the ladder company gets here to help us out with it. Is that OK?”
He looked from Principal Marsh to Mikey's mother and back to the school principal.
“Well, I guess we have to find out if it's going to work,” Principal Marsh said resignedly.
Mrs. Stanhope turned to her son.
“Mikey, did you hear that? They're going to test the saw to see if it'll work on this strange flagpole.”
He nodded and said, “Un-huh.”
“Don't worry, Mikey. The saw makes a loud noise but you're perfectly safe,” the Fire Chief assured him.
Mikey nodded and said, “Un-huh” again. He felt as safe as he could with his tongue frozen-stuck to a flagpole in minus-39-degree weather.
The Second Fireman slipped on a pair of safety goggles. Then the First Fireman handed him the idling cut-off saw. He revved up the motor to make sure it was warmed up. The sound caught everyone's attention. All eyes were on the whirling blade except Mikey's. He had closed his eyes tight and was saying a small, silent prayer.
The Second Fireman knelt down by the flagpole, made the saw roar and touched the cutting edge of the abrasive blade to the bottom of the metal pole. A stream of sparks flew then the racing saw leapt out of his hands, performed a graceful pirouette in the air and with a loud crash joined the other objects stuck fast to the flagpole. The saw gasped, sputtered and died. The whirling blade abruptly stop spinning.
“Holy...moly!” cried the Second Fireman, startled out of his wits.
He spoke for everyone present, although perhaps a slightly different phrasing had shot through their minds.
The flying saw had crashed against the flagpole just inches from Mikey's nose and he had given a start. He now knew how long his tongue was and from the screams of laughter that came from the school building, he was certain that every inch of it had been visible to the world.
“This is getting to be serious!” exclaimed the Fire Chief.
No one disagreed with him.
“Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do,” went the EMT. This time his partner didn't elbow his ribs. He was too busy staring wide-eyed-and-mouth-agape at the cut-off saw stuck fast to the flagpole.
Principal Marsh, who was not a fan of The Twilight Zone, secretly wondered if she had missed seeing something on her way to work, a certain imaginary signpost.
“Can't you stop those children from laughing so much?” cried Mrs. Stanhope. She sounded upset.
Principal Marsh was used to the laughter and noise of children in elementary school. She hardly noticed it. When things got too quiet, she worried that something was wrong.
Something was wrong of course, terribly wrong. But the children lining the windows of Bumblebee Elementary School didn't appreciate the full gravity of the situation. They seemed to think the drama unfolding around the school flagpole had been staged for their benefit and amusement.
She made a mental note: at the next school assembly, speak to the children about the proper way to behave during an unusual emergency at school. Then she bellowed:
“Quiet down! All of you—I mean it—quiet down! Right now!”
Somewhat to her surprise, they immediately quieted down. They had heard her raise her voice to them but what had really subdued them was the sight of Dr. Simkin walking out to the flagpole. He was not alone. He was escorting Billy Bingenheimer, holding the boy ostentatiously by the ear.
Although a pedagogue by training, Dr. Simkin was a disciplinarian by temperament. He harbored a not-so-secret desire to become assistant principal of Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School, except the elementary school lacked an assistant principal and there were no plans to add one to its administration. He thought it needed one and had lobbied for a change in school district policy in the matter. He had pointed to Billy Bingenheimer and the other little imp who had been the ruination of his favorite bow tie as prime examples of why Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School needed an assistant principal. However, the other little imp had transferred to a charter school, cutting his argument in half. That left Billy Bingenheimer as the sole example on whom to test his theories of student discipline. If Principal Marsh was the “Queen Bee,” as the sign on her reserved parking place proclaimed, then Dr. Simkin thought of himself as the “stinger.”

After getting his things from Mrs. Llewellyn's classroom, which is where we left Billy, he had shuffled off toward the principal's office escorted by Dr. Simkin. But before Billy could finally reach the place to which he had been sent, where a certain unoccupied chair stood waiting to receive him under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Tolbert, the teacher steered him toward a door opening onto the front of the building.
“Where are we going?” asked Billy.
While getting his coat, hat, scarf , mittens and backpack from his cubby in Mrs. Llewellyn's classroom, he had kept looking out the window to see what was happening out at the flagpole. His interest in those dramatic goings-on had not gone unnoticed.
“You want to see what's happening out at the flagpole don't you?” asked Dr. Simkin.
“Yes,” Billy replied eagerly.
Dr. Simkin opened the door.
“Then let's go,” he said.
Billy glanced in the direction of the principal's office. He pictured himself standing helplessly before Principal Marsh while she picked up the telephone and called his father at work and told him that his son had been suspended from school for a period of.... At that point, Billy's mind froze. Schools in North Dakota might have abandoned corporal punishment as a means of disciplining students but the elder Bingenheimer still believed in the proverb “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
“Okay,” Billy said quickly.
He stepped through the open door and Dr. Simkin followed him outside into the bitingly cold air.
“Don't you need a coat?” Billy asked, shivering involuntarily.
The students in Dr. Simkin's sixth grade class could swear the teacher had eyes in the back of his head. That was hyperbole. However, it was no exaggeration to say that he had a remarkable tolerance for cold. The native Minnesotan braved North Dakota's icy winter blasts clad only in a tweed jacket and wool pullover. He covered his bald pate with a sporty car cap more from vanity than to keep his head warm. He never wore gloves even in the coldest weather.
“No,” Dr. Simkin replied, “I do not need a coat.”
As the door closed behind them, he said:
“I guess you're not really feeling sick after all.”
Billy realized that he had been tricked by the wily teacher and made a break for it. But before he could pull open the door and slip back inside the school building, Dr. Simkin reached out a long arm and caught the boy by the ear.
“Ah, ah, a-a-ah! No, you don't!” said Dr. Simkin. “You wanted to see what's happening out at the flagpole. Well, you're going to see it, like it or not. Now, come along.”
Billy felt himself being dragged by the ear toward the flagpole. At the same time, raucous laughter erupted from every window of the school building.
Already, Billy didn't like it. He had mistakenly assumed that everyone was laughing at him. The only thing he hated more than taking a whuppin' from his father was being laughed at by other kids.
Then he heard Principal Marsh yell for everyone to be quiet and the spectators lining the windows of the school building fell ominously silent. All Billy could think of was how stupid he must look being led around by the ear by Dr. Simkin.
“Let go of my ear!” he cried, struggling with the teacher.
“You promise not to run away?”
A rumbling sound heralded the approach of a large truck. Whatever thought Billy had of running away vanished when he saw the big, red ladder truck rumble into view with it's emergency lights ablaze.
“Yes,” he replied.
Dr. Simkin let go of his ear.
As the ladder truck came abreast of the school, the firemen riding in the cab of the vehicle stared wide-eyed at the bizarre sight of an eleven-year-old boy with his tongue stuck to a flagpole along with every piece of fire fighting equipment, etc. used to try to rescue him. But the fire truck rumbled by without stopping and its emergency lights were extinguished.
“Why didn't the fire truck stop?” asked Billy.
The reason was that the Fire Chief had used his hand-held radio to order the ladder truck back to the firehouse.
“I can't risk it,” he told Principal Marsh. “Every piece of fire-fighting equipment that touches this flagpole gets zapped. I can't risk getting Ladder One zapped. A serious fire could break out at any time and then where would we be without a ladder truck?”
“What are we going to do? We can't just give up,” said Principal Marsh. She sounded desperate.
“Our best bet is to call the National Guard and have them bring over their big Herman Nelson heater,” said the Fire Chief.
Mrs. Stanhope groaned.
“Not the National Guard, that'll take too long. Mikey will be frozen by then,” she complained.
“Don't worry,” said the First EMT, “we'll wrap Mikey up in blankets and put heat packs on him to keep him warm until the National Guard arrives with their big space heater.”
The tip of Mikey's tongue was turning black and the Second EMT touched it lightly with a fingertip of the examination glove he was wearing.
“Can you feel that?”
Mikey shook his head and said, “Un-un.”
The EMT frowned and said:
“Frostbite.”
“His tongue is frostbitten already,” said his mother. “He might lose his tongue if we have to wait for the National Guard to arrive.”
“Lose my tongue? How will I eat desert without a tongue?” thought Mikey.
“Is Mikey really going to lose his tongue?” asked Billy.
“You better hope not,” Dr. Simkin replied ominously.
Billy became worried. If Mikey lost his tongue, Principal Marsh would probably call his father at work and he would get a whuppin' sure. He suddenly wished he was sitting in Mrs. Tolbert's office, where Principal Marsh's eyes weren't on him. He had never seen her eyes so filled with dark suspicion.
“What did you do to this flagpole?” she demanded.
Billy looked puzzled.
“I didn't do nothing to the flagpole.”
“Anything. I didn't do anything to the flagpole,” said Dr. Simkin, correcting the boy's grammar.
“Well, you must have done something to this flagpole to make it act like it's, well, enchanted,” said Principal Marsh, delicately mincing words.
“Bewitched is more like it,” said the Fire Chief, surveying the collection of objects stuck fast to the flagpole. He was not in the habit of mincing words.
“I didn't do nothing—I mean, anything to the flagpole,” protested Billy. “Just ask Mikey.”
“Are you implying that my son did this to himself?” said his mother. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
Billy's eyes darted in the direction of the school building. Dr. Simkin seized a hold of the boy's ear.
“Aaaaah!” Dr. Simkin said warningly.
Billy got a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. In desperation, he was about to resort to his sick act again except he really did feel sick. Sickening images crowded into his mind: his father's scowling face coming through the doorway to Principal Marsh's office; the Fire Chief tearing up a poorly written letter of apology; a bill, with his name on it, from the Frostbite Falls Fire Department for “rescue services” and one orange bow tie in the amount of $10,038.00.
Billy was about to throw up he felt so sick when a classroom window was flung open and a boy yelled out, “The Jaws of Life!” This pointless outburst was punctuated by a small eruption of childish laughter.
“That's enough gawking. Close that window and return to your seats, all of you,” a woman commanded. It was the voice of authority attempting to reassert control over a disrupted classroom. The window was closed to keep out the cold but none of the children returned to their seats. They were too enthralled by the drama unfolding outside the classroom windows.
“Are you going to use the Jaws of Life?” asked Billy. His eyes were bright with anticipation.
“Will that work?” asked Principal Marsh.
“Don't ask me. Ask him,” replied the Fire Chief. “He's the one who put a spell on this flagpole.”
Principal Marsh looked at Billy. The pudgy, fifth grader appeared incapable of bewitching anything except perhaps idiot children (and also, perhaps, school principals). Like most educators, she believed that there were no bad children. There was only bad behavior. However, her faith in that educational doctrine was seriously challenged in the present situation. She tried to picture Billy wearing a tall, pointed hat covered with stars and crescent moons—a pint-sized sorcerer. The picture was absurd and she knew it, yet she couldn't quite shake her lingering suspicions about the boy.
“Are you going to call my father at work?” he asked.
“Ah, ha!” she thought. “The little imp is worried about getting a paddling from his father. Some sorcerer he is!”
She glanced at Mikey, his tongue frozen-stuck to the flagpole, and back to Billy. The little imp smiled innocently.
“We'll see,” she replied, sounding throughly noncommittal.
The smile faded from Billy's lips and Principal Marsh's lingering suspicions with it.
Mikey didn't know what the Jaws of Life were but they sounded vaguely threatening. He pictured them clamping down on his frozen tongue and pinching it like Dr. Simkin pinching Billy's ear only harder. Tears welled up in Mikey's eyes and he began to whimper.
His mother did know what the Jaws of Life were. She had once seen a television program in which the Jaws of Life were used to free a boy imprisoned in an overturned automobile.
“My son isn't trapped in an overturned vehicle,” she observed. “His tongue is frozen to a flagpole and I demand you unfreeze it immediately so he can go home with me. Can't you see he's in tears.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mikey could see Billy watching him. There were no tears in Billy's eyes in spite of Dr. Simkin's restraining finger clamp on the boy's ear. Mikey sniffed back his tears, not wanting to appear a sissy in the eyes of his nemesis.
“Please try to remain calm, Mrs. Stanhope,” urged Principal Marsh. “We're doing the best we can under the circumstances.”
“I am staying calm,” shrieked Mrs. Stanhope. “My son's tongue is stuck to a flagpole and the tip of it's turning black...”
She stamped her feet furiously in a futile effort to stamp a numbing cold out of them.
“...and my own two feet are turning into blocks of ice and I'm living in Frostbite Falls, North Dakota, when I could be living in Miami, Florida, where it's eighty-two degrees and people are wearing Bermuda shorts instead of clothes that make them look like the Michelin Man.”
Principal Marsh and the Fire Chief looked at each other. They were both native North Dakotans and accustomed to sub-zero weather and bulky, shapeless winter clothing.
“You know, ma'am, if you put a pair of foot warmers in your boots before you slip them on in the morning....” said the Fire Chief.
She shot him in a dirty look. She was in no mood to be humored.
Mikey didn't know his tongue was turning black.
“I wonder what it looks like?” he thought. “Maybe if they stuck a mirror to the flagpole at just the right angle, I could see my tongue.”
Mrs. Stanhope suddenly broke down and started sobbing. Principal Marsh slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“We're doing everything humanly possible to free Mikey from his predicament and send him home with you,” she said comfortingly.
“Stop calling it a 'predicament.' It's an outrage!” shrieked Mrs. Stanhope. Her eyes were bright with tears and hot with frustrated maternal care and concern.
Principal Marsh sighed and squeezed the woman's shoulders with heart-felt female understanding.
The Fire Chief huddled with his men and the two EMTs. They all shrugged and shook their heads when asked for suggestions. Then the Second Fireman turned to Principal Marsh. He had been in her third grade class back in the days when she was a young classroom teacher. He remembered her fondly and still held her slightly in awe.
“Do you have any relevant experience we could draw on, Ms. Marsh?” he asked respectfully.
She sighed.
“No,” she said. “I do not have any relevant experience.”
Her former student's face fell slightly, as though a small illusion had been shattered.
Principal Marsh suddenly hoped the whole ordeal they were suffering through would turn out to be a bad dream—the consequence, perhaps, of having sampled some Welsh rabbit the night before—and she would soon wake up in her own warm, comfortable bed five minutes before the alarm clock was set to go off for the start of a nice, normal school day.
Dr. Simkin also lacked any relevant experience. All his academic training and seeming inhuman tolerance for cold had not prepared him for the present situation.
Being a native Floridian, Mrs. Stanhope had no relevant experience whatsoever. And she was beginning to wonder if accepting a job transfer from the Sunshine State to the closest thing to Siberia she had ever experienced (her husband's unforgivable sin) constituted grounds for divorce in North Dakota.
“Maybe if they used the Jaws of Life to bite off the flagpole and carry it inside to the Multi-Purpose Room, I wouldn't lose my tongue and I could still eat desert at lunch?” thought Mikey.
In spite of his predicament, he never gave up hope of savoring his and Billy Bingbongheimer's chocolate coconut cream squares at lunch.
For his part, Billy wasn't thinking about chocolate coconut cream squares or even the chances of escaping a whuppin' from his father. He just wanted Dr. Simkin to let go of his ear.
The teacher liked to combine his taste for student discipline with the theory of pedagogy—or, as he sometimes put it, “a teachable moment with a swift kick in the pants to it.” He used the same approach he would use to housebreak a puppy. He rubbed the miscreant's nose in the mess he or she had made, figuratively speaking, and delivered the verbal equivalent of a swat on the snout with a rolled up newspaper.
“Look at all the trouble you've caused,” he said to Billy, giving the boy's ear a sharp pinch for emphasis.
“Ouch!” cried Billy.
Dr. Simkin was about to deliver Billy a vigorous tongue lashing when a large, black sedan purred to a stop in front of the school. It was driven by a chauffeur. He was the one and only chauffeur Frostbite Falls had ever seen and he sported a glossy, curling, handlebar mustache as a badge of his exulted status.
The Chauffeur alighted from the vehicle and handed Principal Marsh a handwritten note. It read:

Please excuse Meegan's tardiness. The dog ate
her alarm clock. She overslept.

The note was signed “Virginia Mumps” in a bold, confident hand.
The Chauffeur opened the car door and out hopped a little girl with ribboned plaits of blond hair, bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. She was enveloped in the closest thing to a real fur coat and matching fur hat and fur trimmed gloves that public opinion and Principal Marsh would tolerate a ten-year-old girl wearing to a public, taxpayer-supported, elementary school in North Dakota. Her name was Meegan Megan Mumps. She was the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Meriwether Mumps of the Fargo Mumpses, and Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School's reigning “little princess.” Everyone hated her.
The Chauffeur flashed Principal Marsh a condescending smile. Then he plopped his resplendent mustachio behind the wheel of the limousine and drove away.
“Hello, Billy,” said Meegan Megan Mumps.
“Hello, Meegan,” replied Billy. He didn't hate Meegan Megan Mumps. He thought she was nice...for a girl.
“Are you in trouble...as usual?”
Billy blushed.
“No,” he replied.
Dr. Simkin gave his ear a sharp pinch.
“Ouch!” cried Billy.
“The truth. Tell the truth,” commanded Dr. Simkin.
“Yes, I'm in trouble...as usual,” Billy confessed.
“I thought so. You're always in trouble. That's why I don't like you,” said Meegan Megan Mumps, turning up her nose at the boy.
Billy's ears burned in spite of the frigid, minus-39-degree air nipping at them and he felt crushed.
“Hello, Mikey,” she said, appearing to notice him for the first time in spite of the fact that his tongue was stuck to the school flagpole.
“Huh-luh, Ee-en,” he replied, which was the best he could manage with his tongue stuck to a flagpole.
“Are you in trouble too?” she asked.
“No, my son is not in trouble,” declared his mother. “But somebody is going to be in trouble,” she ran a pair of blazing eyes over Principal Marsh and the Fire Chief, “—big trouble—unless they get his tongue unstuck from this flagpole this instant!”
Principal Marsh began to wonder if her career as principal of Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School might be in jeopardy because a smart-alecky, fifth grader had played a practical joke on a naïve transfer student. The thought that she might actually lose her job because of an impish prankster named Billy Bingbongheimer—er, Bingenheimer—infuriated her. It infuriated her so much that Principal Marsh lost her professional cool.
“How could you do such a thing? How could you do such thing?” she shrieked, shaking Billy violently by the shoulders.
An audible gasp came from the school building. Shocked young faces—and not so young faces, Mrs. Tolbert's included—stared from the windows.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Harriet's completely lost it!” Mrs. Tolbert said to herself. And she immediately wondered whom she would have to break in as Harriet Marsh's replacement as principal of Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School.
Principal Marsh stopped shaking Billy and straightened up when she saw a man get out of a car in the school parking lot. He was clutching a steno pad and had a camera slung around his neck. He was the reporter for the Icicle.
Like most days, it was a slow news day in Frostbite Falls. The Reporter would have covered a man-bites-dog story or the fire department rescuing a kitten up a tree purely for its human interest value. But as he walked toward the group surrounding Mikey and the strangely encrusted flagpole at Bumblebee Elementary School, he could see that something possibly newsworthy was taking place.
Billy wasn't physically hurt by the shaking Principal Marsh had inflicted on him but the violent outburst from the normally unflappable school principal frightened the boy.
“It's all Mikey's fault,” he cried. “He said he would put his tongue on the flagpole if I gave him my desert at lunch.”
“Oh, pooh!” scoffed Meegan Megan Mumps. “You dared him to do it. I know you did. Mikey is from Florida. It doesn't get minus-39-degrees-below-zero Fahrenheit in Florida,” she said with the assurance of an experienced traveler. “The coldest thing in Florida is chocolate frozen bananas at Disney World and nobody ever got their tongue stuck to a chocolate frozen banana. They're too busy eating it. So there.” She stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry at Billy.
A gale of laughter erupted from the school building. Mikey laughed too. He could still laugh with his tongue stuck to a flagpole and he did. Loudly.
“That's all very amusing, little girl,” said an unamused Mrs. Stanhope. “But as you can see, we're not at Disney World. We're in North Dakota, where it does get minus-39-degrees-below-zero Fahrenheit.” She shivered violently from the cold. “So unless you can unfreeze my son's tongue from this flagpole, you're not being helpful.”
“Meegan, you're interfering. Run along to class now,” said Principal Marsh.
“I can unfreeze Mikey's tongue from the flagpole,” declared Meegan Megan Mumps.
“You can?” The Fire Chief sounded skeptical.
She clasped her hands behind her back and swung her shoulders in a saucy manner.
“Yes, it's quite simple,” she said.
“Now, Meegan...,” said Principal Marsh, her skeptical tone echoing that of the Fire Chief.
“I hope you're not playing games,” cautioned Dr. Simkin.
“I never play games except at recess,” Meegan Megan Mumps declared.
“May I quote you, young lady?” asked the Reporter.
“Yes, you may quote me. My name is Meegan Megan Mumps of the Fargo Mumpses,” she replied loftily.
The Reporter noted her distinguished pedigree.
“The Fargo Mumpses.”
“Are you from the Icicle?” inquired Principal Marsh.
“Yes.”
“Have you checked in at the office?” She nodded in the direction of the school building.
Mrs. Tolbert would detain him at the office until Principal Marsh could politely but firmly deny him permission to be on school property or interview any Bumblebee students.
“Well, no, but this is news,” protested the Reporter.
“Geez, I hope not,” exclaimed the Fire Chief.
Meegan Megan Mumps pouted.
“If you don't want my help, I'm going to go inside where it's warm and watch with the rest of the children,” she said petulantly; then she added, “if that's all right with you, Ms. Marsh?” She smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes.
“Moh! Moh!” cried Mikey, shaking his head.
The last thing in the world he wanted was to be watched and possibly laughed at by Meegan Megan Mumps. That would be worse than being laughed at by the entire student body of Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School, Billy Bingbongheimer included—much worse.
“Why doesn't somebody ask me if it's all right? I'm Mikey's mother,” said his mother.
“No, it's not all right,” replied Principal Marsh, addressing Meegan Megan Mumps. “I want you to stay here and unfreeze Mikey's tongue from the flagpole.”
“All right, but you have to ask me nicely first.”
Principal Marsh hesitated. Meegan Megan Mumps was getting too big for her silk-lined britches and the principal was fuming.
“Well, don't just stand there. Ask her,” growled Mrs. Stanhope.
“Nicely,” put in Dr. Simkin.
Principal Marsh forced down a lump of irritation.
“Please, Meegan—”
“My name is Meegan Megan Mumps,” Meegan Megan Mumps said loftily.
“Please, Meegan Megan Mumps, unfreeze Mikey's tongue from the school flagpole.”
“This I've got to see,” said the Reporter. He began fiddling with his camera.
“I have to ask Mikey first. He might not want me to. He might be embarrassed to be rescued by a girl.”
“Moh!” cried Mikey, shaking his head. “Moh!”
“He won't be embarrassed,” his mother assured the little girl.
Meegan Megan Mumps smiled. The dimples showed in her cheeks and a certain light gleamed in her eyes. It was the light of desire.
She moved close to Mikey.
“If I thaw out your tongue, will you give me your desert at lunch? It's chocolate coconut cream squares.” She licked her lips in a most un-ladylike manner. “Mmmmm, my favorite!”
It was Mikey's favorite too, of course, and he was suddenly intrigued by the fact that it was also Meegan Megan Mumps' favorite desert. He pictured the two of them sitting side-by-side in the Multi-Purpose Room having desert together. It was a pleasing image. She would have two chocolate coconut cream squares to eat and he would only have one, but since his one desert would be Billy Bingbongheimer's, he would enjoy it almost as much as if he had two chocolate coconut cream squares all his own to eat.
“O-hay,” he said, nodding. He smiled as best he could with his tongue stuck to a flagpole.
“Eeeeeee-uuuuuuu! Your tongue's all black!” shrieked Meegan Megan Mumps disgustedly. (It wasn't really all black. She was indulging in a bit of squeamish exaggeration.)
Mikey tried to hide his black tongue with his lips. They touched the ice-cold, minus-39-degree-Fahrenheit metal flagpole and promptly froze to it like his tongue. Now, he was in a real fix! He wondered if Meegan Megan Mumps would want to sit with him at lunch if his tongue was black and his lips discolored from being frozen to a flagpole. He suddenly felt sick all over again.
“I don't want to kiss a boy whose tongue is all black,” said Meegan Megan Mumps. She shivered with disgust.
Mikey made a pleading noise, which was all he could do with his lips and tongue stuck to a flagpole.
“Please reconsider, Meegan,” pleaded Principal Marsh, adding “Megan Mumps” for the sake of protocol.
“Well...,” said Meegan Megan Mumps.
She hesitated; then a certain light returned to her eyes.
“I will if I can have Billy Binginheimer's desert at lunch too,” she said.
“Okay,” Billy said quickly, hoping to impress Meegan Megan Mumps with his generosity.
“It's not your desert. It's Mikey's,” his mother reminded Billy. “You lost your chocolate coconut cream square playing this horrid practical joke on my son.”
Billy hung his head.
“Yes, ma'am.”
He sounded contrite, even remorseful. Dr. Simkin took note of the improvement in Billy's attitude. He released his hold on the boy's ear.
“You can go inside now, Billy,” said the teacher.
“And sit in Mrs. Tolbert's office until I can deal with you,” Principal Marsh added sternly.
“I don't want to go inside. I want to stay and watch Meegan unfreeze Mikey's tongue from the flagpole,” said Billy.
Principal Marsh sighed. This is shaping up as an idiot-child day of epic proportions, she thought.
“All right, you may stay and watch Meegan Megan Mumps unfreeze Mikey's tongue from the flagpole,” said Principal Marsh, yielding to him.
“Yippee!” cried Billy.
All eyes turned expectantly toward Meegan Megan Mumps, making her the center of attention, a status to which she was accustomed. She required no coaxing to do her star turn. Going up to Mikey, she planted a pair of soft, pillow like lips, belonging to an innocent, Cupid's bow mouth, on his cold, frosty cheek. The shutter of the Reporter's camera clicked. The cute, tender moment had been captured for the front page of the Icicle. Now, all the picture needed was a good caption.
Mikey felt a flush of warmth fill his cheek and a bright red circle appeared where Meegan Megan Mumps' lips touched the pale flesh. The bright red circle on his cheek quickly enlarged and the warmth rapidly spread, thawing out his lips and tongue. With a small puff of what appeared to be steam, they unfroze from the flagpole. At the same time, the blowtorch, custodian's pail, fire ax and other objects frozen-stuck to the flagpole thawed out too. They dropped harmlessly at Meegan Megan Mumps' feet. Again, the shutter of the Reporter's camera clicked.
A loud cheer followed by wild applause burst forth from the school building. The fireman and EMTs applauded too.
“Hallelujah!” exclaimed Principal Marsh. Although not particularly religious, she offered up a small, silent prayer of thanks.
Even Dr. Simkin bestowed a smile on Meegan Megan Mumps and honored the little girl with a bit of polite applause.
“Wow! That was neat!” exclaimed Billy. “I'll give you my desert at lunch tomorrow if you do that to me,” he said and pointed to his cheek.
“I already have,” Meegan Megan Mumps replied knowingly.
“Oh, phooey!” he said and everyone laughed at him except Mikey.
Mikey had stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth where he could see it and was eyeing the tip. It was pink and normal looking.
Billy ran to Mrs. Tolbert's office to escape the laughter directed at him. He would rather face corporal punishment than be laughed at by everyone.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Mikey threw tauntingly after him.
“Are you all right?” his mother asked anxiously.
“I'm fine,” said Mikey, a broad smile filling his flushed, happy face.
“Are you sure? Let me see your tongue.”
He stuck out his tongue for his mother to look at.
“See,” he said.
“You better let the EMTs have a look at it,” advised Principal Marsh.
He stuck out his tongue and the two EMTs examined it.
“It looks fine to me,” said the First EMT.
“How does it feel?” inquired the Second EMT.
Mikey ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip.
“It feels fine.”
“You sure?” asked his mother.
“Yes, I'm sure.”
“Well, that's the fastest recovery from frostbite I've ever seen!” declared the First EMT.
“May I quote you?” asked the Reporter. He had the good caption he was looking for.
“Yes, you may quote me. My name is Bartholomew 'Bart' Hickenlooper of the Frostbite Falls Hickenloopers,” he replied loftily.
Everyone laughed. Even Meegan Megan Mumps giggled, unable to resist the silly parody of her.
“I don't think our services are need here,” said the Second EMT.
“Well, that's a relief,” exclaimed Mrs. Stanhope.
She hugged her son.
“Yes, that definitely is a relief,” said Principal Marsh.
“May I go to class now?” asked Meegan Megan Mumps.
“Yes, you may go to class,” replied Principal Marsh. “And thank you very much, Meegan Megan Mumps, for unfreezing Mikey's tongue from the flagpole.”
“Yes, thank you, Meegan Megan Mumps,” said Mikey's mother. She stroked his head fondly. “Thank you, very much!”
“You're welcome,” Meegan Megan Mumps replied.
“On behalf of the fire department, I thank you too,” the Fire Chief said gruffly.
“You're welcome,” replied the little girl.
“Is there anything you want to say to Meegan Megan Mumps, Mikey?” his mother asked, prompting him.
Meegan Megan Mumps settled a pair of bright blue eyes on Mikey and gazed expectantly at him. He became shy and self-conscious.
“Thank you, Meegan, for unfreezing my tongue from the school flagpole,” he said shyly.
“You're welcome,” she said sweetly.
Then Meegan Megan Mumps curtsied and skipped off toward the school building.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mikey could see Meegan Megan Mumps skipping off to class. He tried to slip out of his mother's encircling arms and follow the cute little girl but his mother clung to him.
“Not yet,” she said. She stamped her cold feet and held him tight. “You feel so warm!”
He wondered if he kissed Meegan Megan Mumps on the cheek, he could get his desert back or, better still, they could share three chocolate coconut cream squares between them at lunch. He started to squirm, eager to escape his mother's embrace.
At length, she let him go and he dashed into the school building on the heels of Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School's reigning “little princess.”
They learn so young, she thought.
“Make sure you check out that equipment before using it again,” were the Fire Chief's parting words to his men.
They gave the fire ax, blowtorch, cut-off saw and fireproof glove a cursory examination then tossed them aboard the fire truck. The big, red fire engine responded sluggishly to the starter then roared to life. It pulled away from Agnes M. Bumblebee Elementary School followed by the aid car.
The Reporter had already returned to his desk at the Icicle to write up the story of Mike Stanhope's dramatic rescue and swift recovery from frostbite for the next issue of the newspaper.
“I'm sorry if I spoke harshly to you and was, well, unreasonable but I was just so upset and concerned about Mikey. Please forgive me. I apologize,” said his mother.
Principal Marsh understood completely and graciously accepted Mrs. Stanhope's apology. Then the native Floridian hastened to her car, eager to return home and prop her frozen feet up on the open oven door and thaw them out.
Principal Marsh picked up the custodian's pail. As she and Dr. Simkin were walking back to the school building, she said,
“This is one idiot-child day I'll never forget!”
The American flag unfurled and fluttered lazily in a passing breeze. A tiny river of arctic air slid down the back of Dr. Simkin's coat collar. He shivered.
“God, it's cold out!” he said.