Adam Canfield of the Slash

  “All right,” Jennifer was saying. “Ideas, ideas, and ideas. For the October issue. First issue of the new school year.”

  She waited. “We want it to be great.”

  She paused. “Anybody got anything?”

  Silence. “Hello? I’m begging.”

  Adam found a spot on one of the sofas and flopped down just in time to see Jennifer shoot him a nasty look. What was the big deal? He wasn’t that late. He had just wanted to put away his baritone horn before the meeting. Was it his fault his locker was on the first floor?

  Adam loved the Slash, the student newspaper of Harris Elementary/Middle School. Ever since he was a cub reporter way back in third grade, room 306 was the one place in school — in his entire life, really — where he could sit back and let his mind go.

  He glanced around. The room looked great. Same old filthy sofas covered with hot chocolate and iced-tea stains. Over the summer, somebody had ripped down the music and skateboard posters from the walls and computer terminals, but that didn’t matter; they’d put up a new batch. A good turnout for the first meeting, too, practically every seat taken.

  Still, he could tell, Jennifer was not happy. People were finally suggesting stories, but the ideas were really boring: Halloween safety tips from the Tremble police; the Dental Association was sponsoring a smile contest to promote Dental Health Month; the health sciences teacher had sent over a news release reminding students that the Say No to Drugs Community Players were holding fall auditions (“All Newcomers Welcome!”).

  Some third grader kept saying she wanted to do a story about Eddie the janitor. Adam couldn’t believe it. Eddie the janitor?

  He was slipping into a basketball daydream when he felt a sting on his forehead. A spitball! He glanced up. Jennifer was waving a straw at him. “I’m not running this alone,” she said. “We’re coeditors, remember? What do you think?”

  At that moment Adam was thinking maybe he had made a serious mistake. Jennifer had sworn she would not run the Slash this year unless someone helped her, and Adam had agreed to — sort of. But now Adam was thinking that maybe he should have stuck with being a star reporter. Maybe being in charge would take the fun out of the Slash. Maybe this was going to make the newspaper like everything else in his overprogrammed life — deadly serious.

  He had to admit, it wasn’t all Jennifer’s fault; she did have her good points. Although they’d both been at Harris since kindergarten, and he’d seen her around the Slash, they’d never actually spoken much until last year. On that first day last September, he had rushed into class, late of course, grabbed the only available seat, and found himself next to Jennifer. She’d leaned over and whispered, “I was sure I was going to be the fastest one getting my work done this year. Then you come in, and I go, ‘Uh-oh.’”

  That was the nicest thing a girl had ever said to Adam, and it made him feel like he had a reputation at Harris. Yes, Jennifer definitely had her good points. As far as Adam was concerned, she had a sharp eye for talent, and she wasn’t one of those annoying girls who spent all their time on the computer filling in do-it-yourself romance sites for boys they liked.

  The thing about Jennifer, though — as Adam had tried to explain to her when she asked him to be her coeditor — was that the two of them were very different. She had a classic editor’s personality. Steady, dependable, good at punctuation and that kind of stuff. Didn’t mind being indoors a lot, tons of patience for nurturing artistic types.

  Adam, on the other hand, as he had tried to make clear, was destined to live life on the edge. “I need to be on the streets, digging up dirt, taking dangerous risks for the public good.”

  “Oh, come on, just do it,” she’d said, smiling at him.

  “OK,” he’d said. He had to admit, Jennifer had a pretty good smile.

  Adam tried to focus.

  “Hey, I want to write about Eddie the janitor.” That third grader was squeaking again. All third graders looked alike to him — little and jittery. Usually they sat in the back and felt lucky to have a middle schooler talk to them. This one seemed to have the potential to be really annoying.

  Adam figured this was the perfect opportunity to show Jennifer he was taking his coeditorship seriously. He hopped off the sofa. “All right,” he said, “what about Eddie?” Adam had been at this school since day one of kindergarten and could not think of a single thing about the man that was remotely newsworthy, unless you considered pushing a wide broom down the hall for 150 years exciting. Adam figured an important part of being coeditor was nipping bad story ideas in the bud, and he was going to nip this one fast.

  “He saved two baby birds who fell out of a nest,” the third grader said. “They already had bugs crawling on them.”

  Adam stared at her.

  “He’s real nice,” she said.

  “What’s your name, kid?” Adam asked. It was Phoebe. Adam wasn’t surprised; she looked like a Phoebe, a real moochie-pie type. “Look,” he said, trying to let a third grader down easy. “Let’s put that idea on hold. Eddie the janitor is what we in the news biz call an evergreen. You might want to write that word in your notebook. E-V-E-R-G-R-E-E-N. Did I go too fast? It’s a feature story that can run anytime. If we’re having a slow month, trying to fill the paper, Eddie the janitor might be great. It could go on the back page, maybe with a small head shot. But this is the first issue of the new year. We want to — you know — kick a little butt.”

  Instantly, a sofa full of large middle-school boys began swaying and chanting, “Kick a little butt, get down tonight. Kick a little butt, get down tonight.”

  Adam acknowledged his audience, then he motioned for quiet. “Here’s my idea,” he said. “We create a Spotlight Team to investigate the cafeteria food.”

  Room 306 lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center the day after Thanksgiving.

  “We could find out why the hot dogs are green!” said a boy.

  “We could drop them out a third-floor window — see how high they bounce,” said another.

  “Rubber! Rubber! Rubber!” chanted the boys, flopping around on the sofa like green hot dogs.

  They wanted to see if the cafeteria’s pasty mashed potatoes would stick to a wall for a week. Could the gray hamburgers give cancer to a mouse? And who was getting paid for all the plastic cups of applesauce that no one ever ate?

  Someone suggested having a food critic review a cafeteria meal each month.

  “The New York Times food critic wears disguises at restaurants so they don’t know who she is,” said Jennifer.

  “Cool,” said a boy named Sammy. “We have a gorilla suit I could wear. They’d never know it was me.”

  “Sammy,” said Jennifer. “They wear a disguise, like a wig or floppy hat. So no one recognizes they’re the world-famous food critic. That way, the restaurant doesn’t whip up a great meal for them, while it’s feeding the regular customers the usual poison.”

  Sammy nodded. “So, as soon as the cafeteria ladies saw the gorilla was back, they’d know it was the reviewer from the Slash and give me steak and lobster.”

  “Might be worth it,” said a boy.

  “We could all dress like gorillas,” Sammy said. “Finally get a decent meal.”

  “I don’t know,” said another boy. “You really think a gorilla would stick out in the cafeteria?”

  Jennifer had another idea, though it sounded way complicated. She’d clipped a brief article from the Tremble County Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser about the county’s September zoning board meeting. The zoning board had decided to enforce local law 200-52.7A, which had been on the books since 1924 but had been ignored for years. The story said the law prohibits “accessory structures in the front
half of a housing lot.” The story said if Tremble was to continue being the richest, tidiest suburb in the Tri-River Region, zoning laws must be strictly obeyed.

  Adam nearly slipped into a coma. Had Jennifer lost her mind? A zoning story? “What’s the point?” said Adam.

  “Well, my dad’s a lawyer . . .” she said.

  “Please,” said Adam. “This is not the Biography Channel.”

  “Dad says it probably means basketball hoops in driveways and on sidewalks are a zoning violation.”

  “What?” Adam said.

  “They’re going to tear down our hoops.”

  The room got so quiet, you could’ve heard a basketball swish on the playground three floors below. “Give me that,” Adam said. He skimmed the article. “I don’t see anything about basketball hoops. . . . Wait . . . are you saying a hoop is a quote-unquote ‘accessory structure’? . . . What’s the ‘front half of a housing lot’?”

  “The half near the street,” said Jennifer.

  At first, Adam hadn’t been sure if they needed a second Spotlight Team, then, ten seconds later, he was positive they did. Make a kid get rid of his hoop? Declare it a zoning violation? Tear it down? What was wrong with grownups?

  This was what Adam loved most, a juicy outrage to investigate, a story that would put him back on the streets, require him to take death-defying risks to safeguard the common good. He and Jennifer decided to do some research and report back to the staff on how to best handle this travesty of justice.

  “All right,” said Jennifer. “Now we’ve got ourselves a story list.” She read off ideas and asked for volunteers.

  With most kids, it was hard getting them to agree to a single story. But this Phoebe, this pushy third grader, wanted to do every one, and when Adam kept choosing older kids, she jumped out of her seat.

  “Hey, it’s not fair only middle schoolers get to be on the Spotlight Team,” said Phoebe.

  “Look,” said Adam. “Older kids get first shot. When I was in third grade, I felt honored — I mean honored — if they assigned me a one-paragraph news brief.”

  “That stinks,” squeaked Phoebe.

  Adam placed his hands over his head. Phoebe, he thought, rhymes with Totally and Completely Dweebie. But he didn’t say it. He knew if he was going to do this coeditor deal with Jennifer, he had to be what his father called a “constructive force.” He decided the easiest thing would be to assign her a story that was too hard and then they’d never see her again. He looked down the list and suggested the Dental Association smile contest at the mall. She’d never pull it off. “Good story,” said Adam. “I bet Cable TV Action News 12 will be there.”

  “Great,” squeaked Phoebe. “Can I do Eddie the janitor, too?”

  Adam could tell, this Phoebe was one of those young people who could push you to the edge, but all he said was, “We’ll see.”

  After the meeting, Adam was chatting with two middle-school boys when he felt a sting at the back of his neck.

  “Got to go,” said Jennifer, waving her straw. “You know how Mr. Landmass is if we’re late for Geography Challenge.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “Geography Challenge? Isn’t it Quiz Bowl Gladiator Tuesday?”

  “That’s every other Tuesday and Thursday,” said Jennifer.

  “I forgot this wasn’t the other Tuesday,” said Adam. “Aren’t we on A schedule today?”

  “Close,” said Jennifer.

  “It’s B schedule?” said Adam, banging his palm against his forehead. If they were on B schedule, it meant he had a baritone lesson right after Geography Challenge. He’d just put the horn back in his locker — for nothing. Now he had to go down to the first floor and back up to the third in two minutes, lugging that three-foot-long, ten-pound piece of brass. Right.

  Jennifer said, “Thank you, Jennifer. You saved my butt again, Jennifer.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Adam, “thanks.” Jennifer did save him, practically daily. It was embarrassing, and he raced off. At his locker, he twirled the tumbler but was in such a hurry, he messed up his combination and had to do it a second time, then a third. The hallway was emptying, the last kids disappearing into class. He got slowed up again trying to wedge the baritone out of the locker. Adam was sure the person who designed the lockers at Harris Elementary/Middle had played the harmonica.

  “Excuse me. Hey, excuse me.”

  What was that squeaky noise? Adam gave the baritone one last hard tug and it sprang loose, the momentum landing him on the floor.

  “Excuse me. Hey, excuse me.”

  He felt like he was in one of those nervous dreams he’d been having a lot lately, where he kept trying to get to the finish line of a big running-club race, but for some reason he’d veer off the track and could not get back.

  He stood up, whirled around, and pinpointed the squeak. Phoebe! Just what he needed, a third grader who didn’t know her place.

  “Excuse me, but I really wanted to talk to you alone about this Eddie the janitor story,” Phoebe squeaked. “I didn’t want to say too much at the meeting. Thought we ought to keep it a little hush-hush.”

  Secret Agent Phoebe, Adam thought. He could already hear Mr. Landmass in Geography Challenge: “Ah, Mr. Canfield, late again. If you can’t locate room 328 in a timely fashion, tell me how will you ever locate the Serengeti Plain at the next meet?”

  “Look, kid,” Adam said to Phoebe. “Do you happen to notice the corridors are empty? Do you happen to notice we’re late for eighth period?”

  “This is important,” said Phoebe. Adam glared at her. He was rushing toward the up stairway, hunched forward, trying to maintain the exact center of gravity needed to balance a full backpack plus an instrument case as big as a bathtub. She would not go away. Finally he stopped.

  “What?” he screamed. “What is so important that I’m going to be late for Geography Challenge? Go ahead, Secret Agent Phoebe, you can tell me. I used to be in the FBI myself.”

  Phoebe ignored his crabbiness. She had three older brothers, so it was normal for her to be hollered at by big boys. She stared right up at Adam. “Eddie the janitor could be really important for us,” she said. “Have you seen all those keys on his belt? He can get in anywhere in this building.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Adam.

  “I mean, I think he’s more than a pine tree,” said Phoebe.

  “A pine tree?” said Adam.

  “You know,” said Phoebe, “a pine tree, a story that’s good at any time.”

  “Evergreen,” said Adam. “Evergreen. Not pine tree. Evergreen.”

  “Whatever,” said Phoebe. “The point is, a good story on Eddie might help us —”

  “STOP!” Adam yelled. “Are you out of your mind? I’m late for class and you’re telling me the guy who empties the wastebaskets is the news scoop of the century?” He bolted off.

  But when he’d put a safe distance between them, he turned and shouted, “Do it! I don’t care. Do the stupid story! I warn you, though. If it turns out so boring we can’t use it, don’t come crying to me. . . .”

  As he raced around the corner, a piercing sound echoed through those empty halls, a loud, squeaky Phoebe “YES!”

  The bell rang to end world history class. Mr. Brooks had just reached the part in The Story of the Roman Empire when the great mathematician Archimedes runs through the streets of Syracuse naked. “Sorry, boys and girls,” said the teacher, closing the book. “We’ll just have to hold on to that thought until tomorrow. You have the reading for tonight. Hurry, young scholars. Tempus fugit; time is fleeting. Ave atque vale!”

  Adam quickly gathered his books and, keeping his head down, tried to slip out unnoticed. He was hoping Mr. Brooks had forgotten that he had been late for class again today. Adam was almost to the door and could see Jennifer waiting for him in the hallway, when the teacher’s voice stopped him cold. “Adam Canfield,” said Mr. Brooks. “I need a word with you.”

  The teacher had his grade book open. He placed
a sheet of paper under the row of boxes beside Adam’s name. “Notice anything?” asked Mr. Brooks.

  Over half of Adam’s boxes had dots.

  “Do you know what those dots are?” asked Mr. Brooks.

  Adam was pretty sure he did, but was hoping against hope there was just the teeniest little chance they might be good dots.

  “Class participation?” asked Adam.

  “Tardiness,” said Mr. Brooks. “We’re three weeks into the school year, Adam, and you’ve been late to my class ten times.” It was true. Adam’s row of boxes looked like it had caught the chicken pox.

  He glanced out the door. Jennifer was waving frantically.

  “I don’t like to make too much of these things,” said Mr. Brooks, “especially with a good student, but — is there a problem, Adam?”

  Was there a problem? Of course there was a problem. Adam was the most overprogrammed middle-school student in America. He was on the verge of being enriched to death. The whole world plus Adam’s parents were yelling at him to hurry up or he’d be late for his next activity. Late for baritone horn lesson, late for jazz band, late for marching band, late for the Math Olympiad club, late for the Quiz Bowl Gladiator meet, late for Geography Challenge, late for soccer, late for swimming, late for snowflake baseball, late for running club, and, yes, late for weekly rehearsals of the Say No to Drugs Community Players. No matter how hard Adam tried to concentrate on where he was supposed to be next, in the end he always seemed to be the late, late Adam Canfield.

  And now, because he was getting yelled at by Mr. Brooks — his favorite teacher — for being late to World History, he was going to be late for the principal. Late for his meeting with Mrs. Marris! It was amazing how a few little problems could multiply and destroy a person.

  Of course, Adam did not mention any of this to Mr. Brooks; it was way too complicated to explain to a grownup. He just mumbled something about having trouble adjusting to a new school year and promised to try harder.

  “Punctuality,” said Mr. Brooks. “Very important. From the Latin, punctum.” Adam was nodding a lot now, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was sliding sideways out the door.