Adam Canfield of the Slash Page 2

  “Adam,” said Mr. Brooks. “Let’s make the effort.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brooks,” Adam said, and unable to restrain himself a second longer, he whizzed off.

  The hallway was empty. Jennifer was gone. The bell for the next period was ringing. He raced to the principal’s office.

  Adam had hoped to sneak into the office unnoticed and then act totally overlooked, perhaps even make it seem that he was a little offended at having been kept waiting for his turn to see the principal. But hurtling down three flights to the main floor, his baritone case clanging against every step, Adam arrived about as unnoticed as the lead fire truck at the Fourth of July parade. Worse yet, he was speeding and took the turn into the office too wide, losing control and ricocheting into the far wall. The baritone case popped open, his music spilled all over the floor, and Adam fell backward, escaping serious injury only because his overstuffed backpack doubled as an air bag.

  “Adam Canfield, I presume.” It was Mrs. Rose, the school secretary, a stern-looking woman with permed white hair that arched upward for a good nine inches, then formed a neat circle.

  The office counter was so high, all Adam could see of Mrs. Rose as he looked up was her perfectly circular head. In the lower grades, there were always rumors about Mrs. Rose having no body, that she was just a permed head placed on the counter by the principal to frighten children.

  “You are Adam Canfield?” the Head asked coldly, glancing dramatically at the wall clock. Adam knew what she was thinking: Only a madman or royalty would show up late for Mrs. Marris.

  “The principal is waiting,” said the Head, motioning for Adam to follow. A buzzer sounded, freeing a door latch, and Adam stepped behind the counter.

  Immediately he noted that the Head also had legs, long ones. In fact, Mrs. Rose could move them really fast, and he had trouble keeping up as she sped to the next inner office. There, Adam encountered another fearsome grownup, Miss Esther, the principal’s personal secretary. Miss Esther was unbelievably old, a very mysterious figure at Harris Elementary/Middle School. No one had a clue what she did besides making announcements over the loudspeaker.

  Miss Esther did not look up — a bad sign, Adam thought — and Mrs. Rose did not break stride, leading him through another door and down a flight of steep concrete stairs to a place that few kids had ever seen, but all dreaded.

  The Bunker.

  Mrs. Marris’s office was the school’s old civil defense bomb shelter.

  It was built long ago, during the 1950s, when Tremble County officials feared the Russians had a nuclear warhead pointed at Harris Elementary/Middle School. The Bunker was an enormous windowless room with an astonishingly long desk. Behind the desk, on the white cinder-block wall, were dozens of photos of Mrs. Marris smiling and posing beside important-looking grownups. Staring at the photos too long could be deadly; Mrs. Marris had the exact same smile in each one, and Adam suddenly felt nauseous from absorbing too big a dose of smiling Marrises.

  In a throne-like chair behind the desk sat the actual Mrs. Marris, smiling, of course, and twittering with Jennifer. Adam glanced toward Mrs. Rose for introductions, but she was gone, and it occurred to Adam that with her speed, Mrs. Rose might be a great choice to coach the running club.

  “Adam,” said the principal, lifting her smile a few notches. “At last we have the honor. Am I right? Does the Bible tell us that Adam was the first man?”

  Adam knew where this was leading.

  “I assume you must be no relation to your biblical namesake,” Mrs. Marris continued, “since you are always the last Adam. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  Adam sneaked a knowing look at Jennifer.

  “DON’T MAKE EYEBALLS AT ME, YOUNG MAN!” Mrs. Marris hollered in a voice so hot and sharp, Adam feared he would melt and drip off the seat. But in an instant, Mrs. Marris was smiling doggedly again. “Jennifer tells me you had your first meeting of the Slash yesterday.”

  Adam nodded. Why had he agreed to be Jennifer’s coeditor? At the moment, he blamed her for all his problems.

  “Well, good,” said Mrs. Marris, smiling. “What I tell new editors each year is that we do our best to run a tight ship here at Harris Elementary/Middle School. And as editors, I would hope you will always ask yourselves, Is this story helping propel the Good Ship Harris forward? Because we certainly don’t want the kind of stories that poke holes in our bow, so to speak — bad stories, unhelpful stories, negative stories.”

  As Mrs. Marris spoke, Adam and Jennifer smiled and nodded, though they had no clue why. There was something about adults who smiled at Adam while they forced him to do stuff that gave him the creeps. He preferred his mother’s method of yelling and telling. At least he knew where he stood.

  “The other thing to remember,” Mrs. Marris said, “is that the Slash is not just any school paper. It is an award-winning newspaper, and I expect you to continue that glorious tradition.”

  Adam understood what she meant. Award certificates and photos were plastered all over the bulletin board in room 306. Every spring for as long as Adam could remember, there was a photograph in the local paper announcing that the Slash had again won a prestigious “Citation for Excellence” in the county student-newspaper competition. Each year that photo in the Tremble County Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser looked exactly the same: the Slash editors stood in the center holding plaques, flanked by Mrs. Marris and Sumner J. Boland, publisher of the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser.

  And that wasn’t all. Every year, the local cable company, Bolandvision Cable, sent a Cable TV Action News 12 crew to do a feature on the Slash’s citation for excellence. Adam could not figure out what the fuss was. As far as he could tell, any student paper that filled out an application got one of those annoying citations. Adam had been in 306 when News 12 had arrived last year. The News 12 reporter picked out four kids — one white, one black, one Hispanic, one Asian (two boys, two girls) and had them sit at computers, pretending to write award-winning stories. The News 12 reporter asked just one question — “Is it fun working for the paper?” — then, in the middle of the answer, walked away. When Adam and his parents watched Bolandvision Cable that night, there were a few shots of kids, but mostly it was Mrs. Marris and Sumner J. Boland of Bolandvision Cable talking about how quality education was Tremble’s greatest asset.

  “Adam?” Mrs. Marris said now, circling out from behind her desk and heading his way. “Adam. Are you with us? I have a wonderful story for the next Slash about a kindly woman who has passed on and left a gift to our school.” She paused, but when Jennifer and Adam just stared, Mrs. Marris said, “You may want to pull out some paper and take notes.” Adam immediately searched his backpack, sifting through textbooks, back issues of Mad magazine, his three favorite Calvin and Hobbes books, a bunch of CDs, a couple dozen empty iced-tea cartons, all coated in a thin layer of pistachio nutshells. Privately he gave thanks that this was a rare day when he was able to find a sharpened pencil in there.

  The principal explained that not much was known about Miss Minnie Bloch, who had “gone to her reward” a few years back at age ninety-two. She had lived alone, Mrs. Marris said, never married, had no surviving relatives, and was a sweet, warm woman with a fondness for children and animals. She loved Tremble, Mrs. Marris said, and was a lifelong resident. The principal explained that Miss Bloch had left money to several groups, including the Tremble animal shelter and Harris Elementary/ Middle.

  “And then I’d like you to write,” Mrs. Marris said, and here she started talking very slowly, “‘School officials . . . have decided . . . to spend the money for general improvements . . . according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’ All righty? ‘General improvements, according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’ All righty?” The principal peered over their shoulders at their notes. “All righty, ‘general improvements, according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’

  “Good,” said Mrs. Marris. “Sound like everything?”

  It sounded like nothing to Adam — he had a zillion questions
— but something about Marris made him feel it would be impolite to ask even one.

  “Mrs. Marris,” said Jennifer. “Should we say how much money Minnie Bloch left the school?” Adam’s eyes popped open and he looked at Jennifer with fresh respect.

  “Oh, Jennifer, I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?” said Mrs. Marris. “Everything these days is money, money, money. Who has the most expensive car, the biggest house. Don’t you think it’s the thought that counts?”

  The three smiled and nodded, and then Mrs. Marris said, “I really do feel you have enough for a lovely story,” and from her tone it was clear that the interview was over.

  “One more thing,” said the principal, looking at Jennifer. “You’re doing a story on Multicultural Month?”

  Adam studied his feet. “That’s January,” he said. “We thought it could wait awhile.” Adam hated Multicultural Month. They never talked about the real stuff that went on between different kids at school. Jennifer had told him to ease up, that it was just a harmless way for suburban people to pretend they loved everybody the same, but Adam was not convinced. During Multicultural Month, they spent their time making annoying recipes from other countries, dressing up in native costumes from around the world, and learning to say hello in sixty languages. Last year Adam’s teacher made him wear a sheet — he couldn’t remember why, something to do with Italian people.

  “I suppose it can wait a month,” said Mrs. Marris. “It’s just all those wonderful foods and costumes. It’s the high point of the year for our students. You looked so cute in your Roman toga last year, Adamo Canfieldio.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” said Jennifer, and Adam took back every nice thought he ever had about Jennifer Brownnose Kissbutt.

  “Go now,” Mrs. Marris said. “And remember, Adam, what is your job?”

  “Coeditor?” he said.

  “Propel the Good Ship Harris forward,” said Mrs. Marris. “Poke no holes in the bow, so to speak.”

  Adam’s mind was made up. He was turning over a new leaf. From now on, he was going to make daily lists of Things To Do, so he would always know precisely where to be, when. Never again would he get a tardy dot from Mr. Brooks. People were about to witness a new Adam Canfield. Before going to bed now, he wrote down all the important things on his schedule for the next day. It took half an hour; the list came to a little over two feet long. No more rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off.

  The New Adam remembered his baritone without Jennifer reminding him. The New Adam remembered this was the second other Thursday of the month, and — miracle of miracles — he was not late for Quiz Bowl Gladiator practice. Jennifer pretended to faint when he walked in on time, but Adam ignored it, not wanting to encourage that kind of humor.

  Their coach, the Supreme High Gladiator Chieftain (really just Mrs. Finch, the guidance counselor), began practice by quizzing the young warriors on long lists of facts. The warriors next used the Supreme High Gladiator Chieftain’s desk computer to visit the nationally sanctioned Quiz Bowl Gladiator website and sharpen their response times to trivia questions. Each question was assigned a point total, according to degree of difficulty. Jennifer had the highest total among Harris warriors for a five-minute session: 114,712 points. She was the only one at Harris to reach a True Gladiator rating; the best Adam had scored was Gladiator-in-Training.

  Afterward, Adam went to soccer practice and Jennifer to tennis, and then the two rode the late bus to Adam’s house. Jennifer liked going over to Adam’s. Both his parents worked and he was an only child, so there was no one to pester them — like Jennifer’s twin third-grade sisters.

  The coeditors needed to figure out which stories would actually be getting done for the October issue.

  Adam’s mom had left them a bowl of tuna, baby carrots, and celery sticks in the kitchen refrigerator along with a bag of Cheez Doodles on the kitchen table. Her note said they could each take a soda from the garage refrigerator.

  They had lots to do and had planned to work at the computer while they ate. But it was a perfect, balmy fall afternoon, and they couldn’t help themselves. For a half-hour, they shot baskets out front on Adam’s hoop, a big portable one on the edge of the curb that they shot at from the street. Having someone to play with was a treat, but the thing Adam loved about basketball was that he didn’t need anybody. For football he had to have at least one other person for a catch. With baseball, it took a dozen for a decent pickup game. But basketball — he spent hours practicing alone, dribbling without looking at the ball, strengthening his opposite-hand lay-up, making himself better for the day when it counted.

  He and Jennifer played one-on-one, horse, knockout, and 5-3-1 before going inside, where they grabbed sodas and the Cheez Doodles, then headed for the family room in the back of the house. Jennifer watched Adam entering each room and jumping as high as he could, trying to touch the top of the door frame or ceiling.

  “You know why boys do that?” she asked.

  “What?” said Adam.

  “Jump when they enter a room.”

  “No,” said Adam. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “That’s why I asked.”

  “Oh,” said Adam. “I thought you were giving me a Quiz Bowl Gladiator question. I figured the correct answer was something like ‘male frontal lobe hyper-synaptic jumping reflex.’”

  “That’s good,” said Jennifer. “Someday you’ll be a True Gladiator, too. But I’m serious. Why do boys jump from room to room like that?”

  “Never thought of it,” said Adam. “I guess it makes me feel taller, reaching things so high up.”

  “Mom says she can always tell a house with boys from the fingerprints on the ceiling,” said Jennifer.

  Adam pretended to be offended and rolled his eyes.

  “DON’T MAKE EYEBALLS AT ME, YOUNG MAN!” Jennifer shouted, and they collapsed on the couch, laughing hysterically.

  “Is that Marris a lizard or what?” said Adam when he’d finally regained his composure. “It will be a miracle if we can get one interesting fact into this newspaper.”

  A half-dozen stories had been turned in so far. The kid who did the Halloween safety tips simply rehashed the press release, and Jennifer suggested displaying it in a box, with a check mark for each tip.

  The article on the Say No to Drugs Community Players was also dull, a set of dates for tryouts and a list of times when the group would be rehearsing. Jennifer and Adam agreed that was all they needed for now. As the school year cranked up, they’d have to write bigger stories about the Say No’s. For reasons that baffled the coeditors, the Say No spring pageant was a huge deal. It got more press than every other activity at Harris combined. Every politician within one hundred miles would squeeze onto the Harris stage to have his picture taken saying no to drugs.

  Whatever attracted them, Adam knew it had nothing to do with the quality of the theatrical production, which was numbingly boring.

  Except two years ago. That year Franky Cutty, a very with-it older kid now at the high school, had dressed up as a giant marijuana cigarette. He had totally wrapped himself in white packing paper, spiked his black hair so that it was the only thing that could be seen coming out of the top of the paper, and used dry ice for smoke. All the kindergarten Say No’s formed a circle around him onstage and wagged their fingers at Franky the Joint, chanting, “Get Out of Our Town! Get Out of Our Town!” As the curtain fell, the little Say No’s chased Franky offstage, wagging their fingers to thunderous applause from the student body. For five minutes, kids in the audience refused to go back to class despite all Mrs. Marris’s efforts; they were stamping their feet, wagging their fingers, shouting, “GET OUT OF OUR TOWN! GET OUT OF OUR TOWN!” The scene was such a hit — it cinched Franky Cutty’s reputation for life. So last year, as an eighth grader, Franky had offered to dress up as a line of cocaine. He said he would make a gigantic dollar bill out of green poster board, roll it around his body, and pour baby powder over his hair
so he looked ready to be snorted. Then Franky said that the kindergarten Say No’s would toss a net over him and haul him off to jail, chanting, “THROW AWAY THE KEY! THROW AWAY THE KEY!”

  For some reason, Mrs. Marris had nixed that idea.

  Those kindergarten Say No’s were Adam’s idea of great theater, and Franky Cutty was Adam’s idea of an impressive human being: daring, funny, living on the edge, and not as overprogrammed as Adam.

  Adam suggested they run a short sidebar of Franky recalling his most famous role, to go along with the Say No article, but Jennifer disagreed. “That definitely will NOT propel the Good Ship Harris forward,” Jennifer said. She said she had no problem with poking holes in the bow so to speak, but felt they needed to pick their battles with Marris carefully.

  Jennifer did offer to write up the article on Miss Minnie Bloch, the rich old woman who left the school money.

  “No,” said Adam. “I don’t think we’re ready to write that yet. I don’t think we know enough.”

  “Come on,” said Jennifer. “This is another one — we just have to cut our losses. Marris gave us enough for an article.”

  “That’s not it,” said Adam. “I felt like — like Marris was covering something up. Didn’t you think it was strange the way she kept dictating that sentence about how the money was supposed to be used for general improvements? She said general improvements a thousand times.”

  Jennifer nodded. “The thing is,” Jennifer said, “everything is so strange about Marris, I don’t have a clue what’s some big scheme and what’s Marris just being her bizarre self.”

  “This will surprise you,” said Adam. “But I have an idea. I have a friend working at the Tremble animal shelter who might have information. An adult. Remember Marris said that the rich lady left money to the school and the animal shelter? And the lady loved animals? Well, my friend Danny — he’s actually my dad’s friend, they went to college together, but he’s my friend, too — he knows everybody who loves animals in Tremble. He’s a placement specialist. His job is getting families to adopt hard-to-place dogs and cats — nippers, biters, three-legged dogs, cats with glaucoma.”