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Ms. Bryce is so busy watching Adam march out of the room and toward the principal's office that she doesn't notice what has happened. She steps backward, into the red fake-volcano muck. She notices it now. She looks down. Her shoes are half buried in red glop. Ms. Bryce opens her mouth and a scream like a siren screeches out, so loud and shrill that I think it might shatter the windows. I have to cover my ears. I wouldn't be surprised if people could hear her from across the school. I wouldn't be surprised if people could hear her from across the state. "What did you do?" she cries. She raises her eyebrows and the deep wrinkles in her forehead crease even deeper. "I just poured in the vinegar," replies Giovanna in an almost-whisper. Ms. Bryce jabs her finger at the empty jar. "I said to put in a quarter of a cup!" I'm about to point out that no, she didn't say that. She didn't say anything about vinegar measurement. But I keep quiet because I don't want to get in any more trouble than I might be getting into already. Ms. Bryce's face is tomato red, or rather, fake-lava red. If this were a cartoon, she'd have little clouds of smoke puffing from her ears. "That's it!" our teacher yells. She marches to the front of the class, red glop dripping from her sensible but fashion-poor footwear. She picks up the phone. For a moment, I worry that she's calling the police to arrest us for ruining her shoes, and I wonder how I can explain to my parents that I need them to bail me out of prison. But she presses the button for the school office instead, which makes no sense. After a few seconds of waiting, she hollers, "This is Ms. Bryce. Tell Principal Klein that I am resigning. Effective immediately!" She hangs up. Then, she grabs her coat from behind her chair, marches across the room, and leaves, slamming the door behind her.
