Sue B and the Ridders: The Ridders Series

By Melissa Ruth Rotert

Susan Michelle Beezly has a pest problem. In fact, Sue B has such a pest problem that she wonders if there isn't some sort of exterminator who specializes in little siblings and brazen bullies. By day she's tormented by Barnaby T. Plumbol, an addle-brained oaf. By night, her nuisance takes the form of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Elevate
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685123697

Melissa Ruth Rotert

Melissa Ruth Rotert is a poet turned writer of speculative fiction for all ages. She has a particular soft spot for middle grade fantasy that adds a dash of magic to the contemporary world. As a former educator and artist, Melissa embraces the concept of 'play to learn' both in life and in her writing. Born in the Midwest and raised in Western New York, Melissa is an avid Buffalo Bills fan who enjoys exploring every day with her family.

Book preview

Chapter One

My name is Susan Beezly, or Sue B as everyone calls me. My life consists of sitting here in the sixth-grade classroom on the second floor of the Plank Street Middle School, wishing I could be a normal kid like my classmates. But there is one small, pestering difference between myself and all the students at PSMS, and that difference has a name.

Hey Sue B, whispers the raspy, taunting, nasal voice of Barnaby T. Plumbol, bully and bane of my existence.

Every muscle in my body tenses in anticipation of whatever Barnaby has in store for me. It takes all my energy to keep my eyes forward and my mind off Barnaby. I may be staring at the teacher ahead, but I have no idea what he is saying.

Sue B, Sue B, Sue B. Barnaby’s words bore into my head like a mind-penetrating drill. It’s more powerful than any of my dad’s power tools.

Sue B, Sue B, Sue B. I must resist the urge to turn around and yell, WHaT?!? but my right eye starts twitching with the effort it takes to ignore him. After the millionth repetition of my name, I find myself biting down hard on the inside of my cheeks. I will not give in.

For six-and-a-quarter long years, I’ve been dreaming of a day when I can walk through the halls blissfully un-pestered by the likes of Barnaby T. Plumbol. I’ve endured name-calling, spit wads, signs on my back, and tripping as types of torture. Nothing out of the ordinary for the average bully, but Barnaby only ever picks on me! Day after day, I and I alone endure his torment. And it’s been this way since our first day of kindergarten.

I remember crying at snack when Barnaby stole my homemade chocolate chip cookie and replaced it with his celery. In first grade, he made fart noises whenever I kicked my legs out on the swing. And I definitely remember the time Barnaby put a handful of worms in my winter hat during second-grade recess. I still have no idea where he found worms in the middle of a January frost.

Of course, I’ve tried getting help. I asked every trusted adult I could think of, but nothing worked. Sometimes it made things worse.

My teachers tell me, Just ignore him and he’ll certainly give up.

My principal, Why, Miss Beezly, don’t you think I’ve got much more important and pressing matters to tend to?

And finally, my mom, Oh dear, he probably has a crush on you. Boys that age sometimes have a funny way of showing it.

Funny way of showing it? As if being picked on constantly isn’t bad enough, now I have to worry about a love-sick, mushy, drooling Barnaby T. Plumbol tripping me like some prehistoric caveman—too dodo-brained to show affection like an evolved member of the species. It’s the 21st century! Shouldn’t there be more constructive ways to have a crush? Not that I’d ever return any kind of affection from that beastly boy. Any display of affection from him would be repulsive. Though sending a card would certainly be less painful.

It’s as obvious to me as a stubbed toe—Barnaby T. Plumbol is a pest I need to get rid of. I’ve got no idea how, but sitting here shaking in my seat as he tortures me with my own name…I know I have to figure out some way to solve this problem. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll spend the rest of my life being followed by this fool: taunted at graduation, teased at my wedding, and attacked in a nursing home.

I shudder at the idea. My fists clench in tight balls. The blue pencil I’m clutching almost breaks in half with my determination. I will ignore him. I will find a way.

Then the class bell rings, bringing English to an end along with Barnaby’s calls. There’s no time to celebrate. Lunchtime looms just ahead, filling me with the fear that something bad lurks in the future.

Last year, lunchtime played out like a game of chicken. I’d wait until Barnaby sat, trying to position myself as far away as possible. But Barnaby, dim-witted though he definitely is, somehow managed to figure this out. Since then, he stands against the wall waiting for me to sit. Some days we circle like vultures around the lunchroom until the lunch aides force us both to sit. I can’t believe they ignored my suggestion for assigned seats in the cafeteria.

Hopefully today will be one of the lucky days, where I arrive at the cafeteria and find that one perfect seat. A single seat, surrounded by full tables, shining like a beacon of hope. Barnaby would be left with no choice but to sit across the room and glare.

If only my friends would sit with me, it might help resolve my lunchroom dilemma. But being friends with me is easier when I’m not at school. Barnaby makes it so that no one can get too close without suffering right along with me. So, I have friends at home, friends at the park, friends everywhere, except for at school. Here, I’m avoided like the plague.

Today, on the way to lunch, Barnaby chooses spit wads as his weapon of choice. My tight red curls make a perfect place for the wads to get lodged. Sometimes I think they are my kryptonite. If only hats were allowed in school, maybe then I wouldn’t mind the tiny, wet balls of paper hurling toward me. The only hope left is walking as quickly as possible through the halls, dodging and weaving as I go.

As soon as I turn the corner, I take off, zigging and zagging around Chelsey Singer, passing Bobby Jenkins, and nearly vaulting over Hillary Tanzen who has stopped to tie her shoes right in front of me. I somehow make it without a single spit wad becoming entangled. Only fifteen more feet and—WHAM!!

I collide with a janitor as he backs out of the cleaning closet with his rolling cart and trash can. A flurry of garbage cascades all around me, like leaves from an autumn tree. My shoe flies end over end until it finally lands, SPLASH, into his mop bucket. I end up landing on my butt in the middle of the hallway with an old apple core in my lap.

I’m completely humiliated, but it’s so much worse when I turn to find Barnaby scurrying past. He lands a soggy spit wad right between my eyes. Spittle drips down my nose and I gag. All I can do is watch Barnaby snort his way through the fallout and into the lunchroom.

Chapter Two

I’m still sulking in a pile of banana peels and paper, feeling sorry for myself amidst the muck, when the urge to take action hits me.

Inside, I’m writhing with a single-minded focus, more determined than anyone has ever been. I will not endure one more minute of Barnaby T. Plumbol and his reign of terror. I will—

You look like you’re in need of more than tidying up, says the janitor—a complete stranger. Then he helps me get back onto my feet.

Sorry, Mister. I’ll help you clean it all, I promise. I swear it wasn’t my fault, though, I reply.

Oh, I’m not worried about the cleaning, Sue B. It’s what I do for a living.

Hey, how do you know my name? I ask. I wonder if it still counts as stranger danger when it’s a school employee.

There isn’t much we janitors don’t see and hear in the schools. For instance, I’d say I know quite a bit about a certain pest problem you have.

Oh, you mean Barnaby? He’s definitely a pest, I answer, so full of contempt I practically snarl.

You know, when the school has a pest problem, we get rid of it.

If only it were that easy, Mr…Ritter, I say, reading the name tag on his uniform. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Mr. Ritter begins to pick up the bits of paper and food from the floor, and I follow his lead though I want nothing more than to run home and shower.

Perhaps you’re not thinking far enough outside of the box. Sometimes, to find a fix to the peskiest problems you have to open your mind to some unorthodox solutions.

Unorthodox? I don’t even know what that means. How am I supposed to get rid of Barnaby with it?

I squint in confusion and eye up the janitor. First to the left, then the right, I’m trying to make sense of more than the meaning of his vocabulary. I have a suspicious feeling he’s hiding something—or at least not being as clear as he could be. If he has an idea, why not come out and say it? And how does he know so much about me when I don’t remember ever seeing him around the school before? It’s too much mystery for a normal janitor.

Unorthodox means out of the ordinary or unusual, he explains.

Oh, I say, disappointed. Then I still have no idea what to do about Barnaby.

This new word means nothing to me, but Mr. Ritter is the only adult who has ever truly listened to me about my problem. Maybe if I tell him