Summer held one handlebar and I held the other and together we pushed the bike up the street. I carried my skates. The pavement felt cold through my socks. At the top, she pointed to the blue and yellow trailer.
“Better sit right in the middle,” she said. “You can move the blanket if you want.”
I climbed in and set my skates on one side.
“Contact!” Summer yelled.
The big orange cat bounded out of the house, ran up the street, and leaped into the trailer right next to me.
“Contact loves to come for rides,” Summer told me. “Don’t worry, she won’t hop out or anything.” Contact’s hopping out wasn’t even on the same planet as my worries. Summer started pedaling.
The orange cat looked me over. She put out her paw and swatted my thigh. I gulped. She swatted me with her other paw.
“Don’t let Contact bother you,” Summer called over her shoulder. “She thinks she should get all of the room just because she’s having kittens.”
Great, I thought. I get through all of this and now I’m going to get slashed to death by a pregnant orange version of Francis.
Then Contact leaped right into my lap.
“Eep!” I squeaked.
Summer didn’t hear me. Contact prodded my legs with the pads of her paws, turned around in two circles, and curled up in my lap. It was hard work to sit perfectly still in a moving bike trailer. The cat was big and lumpy, and parts of her shifted as we rode. I felt, more than heard, a noise I’d surely never heard Francis make—a continuous, quiet sort of rumble. I picked up my hand very slowly and ran it along her soft fur. I scratched her behind her crooked orange ears. Contact’s noise got louder.
Purring, I decided. This cat is purring.
8
ROOM TWENTY, FREEZE!
Zack got so excited telling me about what he was going to play at preschool that he drenched me with his bowl of Banana-O’s the next morning. Nick had to go on ahead to school while I changed my clothes. I hoped Mr. Allen wouldn’t say anything about our issue of the Spark before I got there. I wanted to hear every word of his rave review firsthand.
Nick and I had talked about our issue of the class magazine for hours on Sunday afternoon while we chalked new and better roads for Brambletown. We couldn’t wait to see Mr. Allen’s face when he saw the cover, and the editorial, too.
“He’s going to be impressed,” I’d ventured.
“He’s going to be amazed! Poor Gordon. Mr. Allen will probably put you back in charge right away.”
But I knew Nick’s last comment had probably been a bit optimistic, since there was still the little matter of me mopping the lunchroom floor during today’s editorial meeting, and Tuesday’s, too.
I got to school in record time. On my way into the building, I picked up my copy of the Spark from the pile next to the office door. I smiled down to my toes. If I had to say so myself, the cover was a masterpiece. The solar system stood out against a beautiful blue-green wash. And there in the center was our teacher holding up the Earth on an open science book, like he was giving it to us on a platter. Just in case anyone was too dense to get it, I’d changed the title to The Springville Spark: Mr. Allen Brings New Life to the Solar System!
I strode into the classroom and risked a quick grin at Nick. But he was slumped in his seat staring straight ahead, his chin on his fists.
Although Mr. Allen wasn’t in the room, lots of other kids were sitting at their desks, writing or drawing something. That was normal for Gordon, but not for everybody else. I had expected the classroom to be buzzing about the new Spark issue.
Jess and Alima had their heads together, and they were giggling like mad. I peered over their shoulders. I didn’t get it.
They were making changes to my drawing of Mr. Allen, and the changes were not at all complimentary. Mr. Allen now had what looked like four green trumpets coming out of his head. His eyebrows stretched up over his head in big black points, and his sneakers had turned into giant purple paws.
“Why are you wrecking it?” I cried.
“What?” Alima looked at me like I was the one doing something stupid. At the next table, Max’s Spark cover was a different version of the same horrible joke. So was everyone else’s in his group, except Gordon’s. Oddly, Gordon seemed to be the only person not drawing that morning besides Nick. I ran to the next group, and then to mine. Lacey was just finishing her cover.
“How could you?” I yelled at her.
“I’m just going along with the joke,” she said. She tugged on her bangs, looking a little confused.
I turned to Nick. “Why aren’t you doing anything? They’re ruining all our work!”
He folded his arms across his chest and stared straight through me like I wasn’t even there.
I heard a scraping sound from the back of the room. Owen had dragged over a chair, and he was pinning his own messy masterpiece high on the bulletin board. Some other kids raced back and handed theirs up to him.
“Stop it!” I shouted. “Don’t!” I ran over to the bulletin board. Owen hopped down and knocked the chair away. I jumped up as high as I could, but I couldn’t reach those pictures. I grabbed for the chair. Owen pulled it back in a crazy tug-of-war. Kids ran toward us. Desks crashed and books toppled.
“ROOM TWENTY, FREEZE!”
We froze. One of the ruined Spark covers detached from the bulletin board and floated gently down like a falling leaf. I snatched it out of the air and stuffed it in my pocket.
“Return to your seats,” said Mr. Allen sternly. “This behavior is extremely disappointing.”
We slunk back to our desks. Nick didn’t look up. How had everything gone so wrong? I covered my face with my hands.
“Nadie and Nick, I’ll see you both out in the hall,” our teacher said. “I expect the rest of you to spend the time putting our classroom back in order. In silence!”
“I’ve just come from Mrs. Winger’s office,” Mr. Allen began. “Apparently this cover of yours has created quite a sensation in other classrooms as well. There have been many creative additions to the cover, including some very unflattering drawings of other teachers. I must say, Nadie, I would have expected you to come up with something more suitable for this particular issue of the Spark. You too, Nick. Satire has its place, but it isn’t always appropriate, especially in a school magazine that goes out to younger students, as well as teachers, parents, the principal—”
“S-satire?” I stammered.
“Yes, that was satire. Making fun of something in a sarcastic way.”
“But Mr. Allen, it wasn’t—”
He held up his hand. “It was a poor choice, and one that wouldn’t have been made if we had worked on the issue together as we should have. I take responsibility for that, and I told Mrs. Winger as much. I assured her that I wouldn’t let anything like this happen again. If it does, we’ll lose the privilege of publishing our magazine.”
I knew that Mr. Allen was speaking to us in his usual exact manner. He was using the English language. So why couldn’t I understand a word of what he was saying? Satire? Poor choice? Lose the Spark? I felt as if I’d been transported into some kind of weird parallel universe.
Mr. Allen spoke again. “I’d like the two of you to go down to the media center computers and work on a note of explanation and apology to Mrs. Winger. We will go over it together after school. I’m sorry,” he added, “but as of now you are both relieved of your duties on the Spark.”
Nick took off down the hall. He was practically running.
“Nick, wait!”
I caught up with him at the door of the media center and grabbed his arm, but he shook me off and went inside. He sat down at a computer in the far corner. I pulled up a chair and sat beside him.
“Thanks a lot!” Nick’s face was flushed. He was really angry.
“Thanks for what? What’s going on here? We didn’t do satire! You never do anything sarcastic!”
“But you do,” Nick shot back. �
��I can’t believe you changed our title to that!”
“Shhhh!” A fifth-grade boy at the next computer glared at us.
I leaned in close to Nick. “What do you mean, you can’t believe I changed it to that?” I hissed. “It’s a great title.”
“I can’t even talk to you,” Nick said.
I exploded. “What is going on, Nick? What’s wrong with Mr. Allen Brings New Life to the Solar System?”
Nick stared at me. “That’s not what it says,” he said evenly. “And you know it.” He clamped his mouth shut in a thin line. He turned away from me and opened a blank file on the computer.
I snatched the crumpled cover out of my pocket and looked at the title. What I saw hit me like a punch in the stomach. My title for the issue didn’t say: Mr. Allen Brings New Life to the Solar System! It said: Mr. Alien Brings New Life to the Solar System!
“But—but I didn’t write that,” I sputtered. I pulled my chair in closer and tried to calm my shaky voice. “I wrote Mr. Allen.”
“You were mad at Mr. Allen the whole time we were working on this issue—making fun of him, even. But I can’t believe you’d do this to the Spark.”
“I—I must have typed it wrong. I didn’t mean to write ‘alien’!”
“Well,”—Nick’s ears were bright red—“then you made a really stupid mistake.”
That did it. “You’re the editor!” I shouted. “It’s your job to check the issue for mistakes, and you didn’t!”
“I would have if you’d showed me the cover before you sent it!”
“Could you take your lovers’ quarrel somewhere else?” the fifth grader said with a smirk.
I bumped my chair away from Nick’s. “I’m going to write my own note to Mrs. Winger,” I told him. “I’m not working with you.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” I moved to a different computer and glared at the monitor. A skier tumbled down a mountain in a giant snowball screen saver. I knew just how that skier felt.
9
A CHANGE SET
IN MOTION
Have invigorating insect investigations!” Mr. Allen told the class as everyone filed out for the day. Everyone except Nick and me.
Mr. Allen sat down at the computer where Nick was waiting to show him the apology letter to the principal. I dragged my feet and the rest of me over to stand near them.
“Dear Mrs. Winger,” Mr. Allen read aloud. He trailed the cursor across Nick’s words on the screen. “We’re sorry that we typed a stupid mistake on the cover of the Spark. It was not supposed to be a bad joke. It was supposed to say Mr. Allen, not Mr. Alien. If we get another chance to work on the Spark, the editor will be much more careful to check for stupid mistakes.”
Our teacher turned to look at us. “Does this message represent the best effort from both of you?”
“No,” I said.
Mr. Allen looked over at Nick, then back at me. The tick tick tick of the wall clock echoed in the empty classroom. “You know, the two of you had the best editorial partnership I’ve ever seen in a school magazine. You are capable of remarkable work together.”
I made sure my face didn’t move. I watched the cursor blink on and off where Mr. Allen had left it, right on top of the word “stupid.”
Stupid magazine, stupid school, stupid friendship.
Mr. Allen cleared his throat. “I’ve had all day to reflect on this, and I am quite certain that you each had the best intentions for this issue of the Spark. A mistake was made, and I apologize for reacting to it so harshly this morning in the heat of the moment. Clearly your exuberant artwork and your editorial about showing understanding to others demonstrate the tone you meant to set.”
Right. Nick shows understanding to others—to Summer, to outer-space life forms—to everybody but me. Some friend.
“Other students do need a chance to serve on the editorial board at some point,” Mr. Allen said. “I’m sorry about the unfortunate circumstances, but a change has been set in motion. I think we’ll use this opportunity to let some of your classmates work on the Spark for a while, and then at a future date we’ll reassess the situation.”
Nick was staring at the wall. I shifted from foot to foot.
“Do either of you want to add anything?” Mr. Allen asked.
I shook my head.
“Nope,” Nick said.
“All right then. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He eyed the computer screen, then turned to us again. “I suppose,” he added, “that for now we’ll let my apology to Mrs. Winger stand on its own.”
Nick and I practically got stuck in the doorway trying to be the first out. We racewalked down the hall and slammed open the double doors, me on the left, Nick on the right. We separated down the steps and stomped off in our opposite directions. When I was sure he could no longer see me, I broke into a run. He wasn’t at the corner of Broom and Laurel. I ran the rest of the way home and slammed the kitchen door behind me.
“Aren’t you guys a little late?” Dad asked, coming up from his studio. He looked around. “Where’s Nick? Getting his skates?” He whisked a plate of something off the counter and set it on the table. “Well, he’d better hurry back. I made his favorite—peach, banana, and peanut butter sandwiches.” He hugged me around my shoulders, grabbed the car keys from the hook, and went out the door. “See you guys when I get back with Zack,” he called.
“I hate peach, banana, and peanut butter sandwiches,” I muttered as Dad drove away. I sat at the table and pushed the sandwich triangles around on the plate. After a while I heard the rhurr-rhurr of skate wheels on pavement. From the corner of the window I saw Nick gliding through Brambletown. It’s not fair that he’s out there, I thought. Brambletown was my idea.
Nick glanced toward our house and I shrank back against the wall. When I looked again, he was skating straight across the lot, ignoring the chalked roads and crossing over the houses and shops. He went up his driveway, threw his helmet down on the grass, and clomped over to his front steps. He took off his skates and disappeared into his house.
I waited a few minutes, then got my bucket of chalk from the garage and went out to Brambletown. I sat for a while with a piece of chalk in my hand.
“How could one little typing mistake have caused such a mess?” I wailed. It made me ache from the inside out.
Instead of thinking about the Spark, I started making lines on the blacktop. The vibration of the chalk against the rough pavement traveled up my arm. The bandage Summer had put there was starting to curl at the edges. So what if she helped me, I thought. None of this, NONE of it would have happened if she hadn’t come here in the first place.
I examined the set of lines I’d made. They looked like rows of bricks. I filled them in with brown chalk so they looked more like stacks of chocolate bars and added a sign lettered in gumdrop colors for a candy shop. I knew Nick would like the chocolate part. I got halfway up to go and get him, then sat back down. I thought about rubbing the brown bricks away, but I didn’t. Dad drove up with Zack.
“I want to draw!” Zack called. He ran down the driveway and barreled into me. He smelled like paste, and a construction paper circle was stuck on his elbow.
“Okay,” I told him. I held out a handful of fat pastel chalk. “You pick the color.”
He grabbed a piece of chalk and sat down. I watched him make pink squiggles, pink stripes, and pink blobs. I took my own piece of chalk and finished the striped awning of my candy shop. Zack leaned over my shoulder.
“It’s a candy shop,” I said.
Zack smiled. “I like candy.” He bit off a piece of his pink chalk. In Dad’s health-food universe, I wondered which was worse, Zack eating candy or Zack eating pink sidewalk chalk.
“Spit that out,” I told him.
He clamped his mouth shut.
“Okay, Zacky, let’s go show Dad, then.” I took him by the hand and hurried him inside.
“Bleah.” He stuck his tongue out for Dad to see.
“Uh-oh!”
Dad wiped the chalk off of Zack’s tongue and handed him a sandwich triangle.
“Is Nick all right?” Dad asked me. He pointed to the plate of sandwiches. “Why isn’t he here?”
“Because he lives across the street,” I said, concentrating hard on washing my hands at the kitchen sink.
“Oh?” Dad laughed. “Since when?”
“He’s in fourth grade, Dad. He doesn’t need a babysitter.”
I wiped my hands on the dish towel. I could feel Dad watching me. “Something going on?” he asked.
“Yup,” I said past the wedge in my throat. “What’s going on is I’m going skating.”
I coasted around Brambletown alone. The skate town had seemed like such a great idea. Now just following a bunch of colored lines on the flat lot was boring. Shadows stretched across the chalk roads and my skate hit a pebble, launching me forward onto the pavement. My palms stung. Just in case Nick had seen me fall, I stayed on the ground, pretending to look for something.
A big ant crawled into my line of vision, right across a red and white Brambletown stop sign. I found the pebble I’d tripped on and hurled it into the woods. Now the ant was crawling across the letter P in STOP. Watching that ant reminded me about my science homework. We were supposed to collect a bug and bring it in tomorrow for the new unit, Insects and How They Eat. Mr. Allen had raved on and on about how much fun this assignment would be. But after today, I wasn’t in the mood for Mr. Allen’s kind of fun.
Some ants bite, so I wasn’t about to pick up that big one with my bare fingers. I skated up to my house, changed into my sneakers, and dug around in my backpack for the little plastic vial Mr. Allen had passed out to each of us. By the time I got back to Brambletown, the ant was gone. I didn’t bother to look for it. I figured I could find something better anyway. I’d show Nick and Mr. Allen and everyone else by bringing in something really different. Something really cool.
I headed for our garden, but the sun was almost all the way down now. It was getting colder, and I couldn’t see much of anything in the deep shadows between the bushes. A couple of times I thought I spotted something crawling in some old dead leaves, but when I looked closer it wasn’t there. I shook the branches of the rhododendron, hoping an interesting specimen would drop out. No luck. Dark was seeping into the garden and I still didn’t have a bug. I couldn’t go to school tomorrow empty-handed after what had happened today. I wondered what kind of bug Nick had found.
The Trouble with Rules Page 5
