I don’t want to brag or anything, but I happen to
be the president of the greatest club ever invented.
Our official name is the P.S. 38 Cartooning Club,
but we call ourselves the Doodlers. We meet every
Wednesday after school in the art studio, and we
sit around drawing comics until the custodian
kicks us out. It’s the best club in the whole school.
By a MILE. Don’t believe me? Well, then, check
out this lineup.
See? Most of these so-called clubs look about as
fun as an ingrown toenail.
But the Doodlers rock. And we only got started a
few months ago. That’s when it all came together. . .
It was a typical social studies class.
Mrs. Godfrey was babbling about some
dead guy who wasn’t a good enough president
to get his picture on any money . . .
Gina had already asked about nineteen completely
useless questions in a row . . .
. . . and I was about five seconds away from falling
into a coma.
Then Glenn Swenson walked by my desk on his
way to the pencil sharpener . . .
. . . and suddenly things got a LOT more interesting!
He had food on his face. That’s nothing new. Glenn
usually has enough crumbs stuck on him to feed
a family of four. But this was different. He had a
glob of peanut butter the size of a hubcap . . .
He had no clue it was there. And neither did any-
body else. It was hilarious. But I couldn’t just crack
up in the middle of class. Not unless I wanted She-
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to go Full Godfrey on
me. So I did what I always do when something
funny happens:
I drew a cartoon about it!
It was a good cartoon. Too good to keep to myself.
Teachers always ask that. What was I supposed to
say . . . YES? Then even Glenn, who’s dumber than a
bag of hammers, would have realized I was making
fun of him. And that would have been a problem,
because whenever Glenn gets mad at people, he
chases them down during recess and crushes them
into the school yard fence until they can’t breathe.
I decided I wanted to keep breathing.
Things went downhill from there. Mrs. Godfrey
took my drawing and stuck it in her desk. Then
she gave me a little pink slip of paper.
Hello, detention. And hello, Mrs. Czerwicki.
What could I say? She was right. But she didn’t
stop there. Mrs. Czerwicki didn’t realize it, but the
next thing out of her mouth was about to CHANGE
THE COURSE OF CARTOONING HISTORY!!!
I have to admit, it was a brilliant idea—even for
me. I ran and asked Principal Nichols if I could
start a cartooning club . . .
Oop! It’s almost 3:00. The bell’s going to ring in
5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
We all make a pit
stop at our lockers,
then head for the
art studio. The art
teacher, Mr. Rosa, is
our faculty adviser.
Every club has an
adviser. That’s school policy. But most clubs have
one already in place. Ms. Clarke has always
run the school newspaper. And Mr. Galvin has
been the adviser
for the Science
Club since the last
Ice Age.
That’s okay if you
end up liking your
adviser. But what
if you join some
club, and the adviser’s horrible? Then you’re just
like that glob of peanut butter on Glenn Swenson’s
forehead. You’re stuck.
That’s where the Doodlers got lucky. Since we
started our club from scratch, WE got to decide
who our adviser would be. I mean, can you imag-
ine if we’d ended up with somebody like. . .
Everybody freezes. We’re all thinking the same
thing: What’s HE doing here? Did the school
switch advisers on us or something? My stomach
starts churning as I picture a Doodlers meeting
with Coach John in charge.
Finally Francis speaks up. “Uh . . . where’s
Mr. Rosa?” he asks nervously.
Coach John chuckles in sort of a scary way. Did I
mention the guy’s a few peas short of a casserole?
“You can RELAX,
scrubs,” he says.
“And here I am!” comes a voice from behind us.
“Sorry I’m a bit late, everyone,” he says as he takes
off his jacket. Then he pats Coach John on the
shoulder. “Thanks for covering for me, Coach.”
Coach John grunts something in return, then
waddles out of the room. Finally we can all exhale.
“Listen, gang, before we get started, there’s some-
one I’d like you to meet,” Mr. Rosa tells us as we sit
down. He motions toward the door.
Colleague? What’s THAT supposed to mean? This
lady doesn’t work at P.S. 38.
“Hi, Doodlers.” She smiles as she pulls a folder
from her tote bag. “I’m delighted Mr. Rosa invited
me to visit with you today.”
Chad raises his hand. “Are YOU a cartoonist?”
She laughs. “I’m a teacher who TRIES to be a
cartoonist. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Whoa, WHAT? Did she say
“another cartooning club”?
“We call it the C.I.C., the Cartooning & Illustration
Club,” she continues. “We’ve got about thirty boys
and girls at our weekly meetings.”
Uh . . . girls? I feel my face getting warm. The guys
sort of steal looks at each other, but nobody says
anything.
“You know,” she says cheerfully, “there are plenty
of girls who enjoy cartooning!” Then she spreads
a whole bunch of drawings around the table.
My jaw just about hits the floor as I look down
at them. Same with the rest of the guys. Even
Artur’s eyes are as big
as pie plates. He can
really draw, but some of
these make his stuff look
like stick figures. These
drawings are PRO.
“Who—who did these?” Teddy stammers.
“Why, the C.I.C., of course,” Mrs. Everett answers.
“My students!”
There’s a stunned silence.
“WHAT students?” Chad finally asks.
I swallow hard. I think I already know the answer.
But when she says it out loud, it still hits me like a
brick in the head.
Of course. Of all the schools to have a bigger and
better cartooning club than the Doodlers . . .
Jefferson Middle School and P.S. 38 are archrivals.
That’s how WE feel about it, anyway. But the kids
from Jefferson don’t exactly see it like that.
And you know what stinks? They’re RIGHT.
Jefferson always beats us. ALWAYS. In the
whole time I’ve been
at P.S. 38, we haven’t won
ANYTHING against them.
Their athletes are more athletic . . .
Their musicians are more musical . . .
Even their math geeks are geekier.
Sure, I know that winning isn’t everything. How
could I NOT? The teachers and coaches remind us
a zillion times a day.
Have FUN? Hey, that’s fine
when you’re six years old,
playing T-ball for Little
Ducklings Day Care. But after
a while, that whole let’s-give-
everyone-a-trophy thing gets
pretty tired. We’re not babies
anymore. We want to WIN.
“I wonder how long it’s been since P.S. 38 actually
beat Jefferson,” Teddy says.
“What a coincidence you should mention that!”
Francis chimes in. “Just for kicks, I was browsing
through the school archives . . .”
“SEVEN YEARS? What’d we win at?” Teddy asks.
“Debating, I think,” Francis answers.
“. . . next Saturday!”
Teddy’s right. I’ve been trying not to think
about it too much—I don’t want to jinx us—but
our basketball team plays Jefferson next week
for the first time since last year’s conference
championship.
What a fiasco THAT was. But this year’s going
to be different. We’re better than we were last
season, for one thing. And it’s a home game for us.
A snowball slams into my head. Everything goes
dark for a second, and then I land face-first in a
puddle of slush. Chunks of snow are starting to
slide down the back of my shirt. I jump up.
At first I can’t tell who they are; they’re scrunched
down behind a stone wall at the top of a little hill.
But then one of them stands, and I see it: a purple
jacket with gold sleeves and a big gold J on the
chest.
We start up the hill,
but it’s no use. They’ve
got a huge pile of
pre-made snowballs.
For every handful of
snow we scoop up and
throw at them, they
send a dozen back
at us. It’s like an
avalanche. There’s
only one thing to do:
We run for half a block until we’re out of range . . .
of the snowballs, that is. But we can still hear them
laughing at us . . .
“That was Nolan,” Teddy says,
breathing hard.
“Who?”
“He lives near me,” Teddy says matter-of-factly.
“He’s kind of a jerk.”
“Oh, really?” I snap, trying to shake the snow out
of my pants.
I should probably explain something. Maybe
you only have one middle school in your town.
But in OUR town, there are FIVE of ’em. And
Jefferson’s close to P.S. 38. It’s practically in the
same neighborhood. That’s why the rivalry is such
a big deal: because we KNOW a lot of those kids.
“Can we talk about something besides Jefferson?”
Francis says.
“Okay,” he continues. “What did you guys think of
what Mrs. Everett said at the Doodlers meeting?”
“I meant what she said about the club not having
any girls.”
I shrug. The only answer I can come up with
sounds pretty lame:
“Girls can join if they WANT to,” Teddy says. “It’s
just that none of them have asked.”
“We haven’t asked THEM, either,” Francis says,
sounding more and more like my dad. “Maybe we
should.”
Francis gets all exasperated. “That’s the whole
POINT, you pinhead!”
I know what Teddy’s getting at. Yeah, there are
some girls who’d probably make good Doodlers . . .
I shiver, but not because of the snow. The thought
of Gina walking into a Doodlers meeting just made
my blood run cold.
“Hey, what about Dee Dee?” Francis says. “SHE’S
pretty artsy!”
“She’s such a DRAMA QUEEN, though.” Teddy
frowns.
“Speaking of Dee Dee,” I say, “that sounded sort
of like her.”
“It IS her,” Teddy says as she comes closer. “Acting
like she’s onstage, as usual.”
Francis shakes his head. “I don’t think she’s
acting,” he says seriously. All three of us run to
meet her.
“Dee Dee! What’s wrong?” Francis says.
When we reach Chad, he’s lying on his back in the
middle of the sidewalk like a flipped-over turtle.
Take it easy, Dee Dee. You’re not a doctor. And play-
ing Nurse Ouchie in our second grade production
of “Bunny Gets a Boo-Boo” doesn’t mean you know
what you’re talking about.
“Where does it hurt,
Chad?” Francis asks.
“My butt,” Chad groans.
With a flourish, Dee
Dee pulls out her cell phone.
“An emergency?” Teddy repeats. “It’s a sore butt!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Francis says as we help
Chad to his feet. “I have a different diagnosis.”
“How TRAGIC!” Dee Dee wails, as if we’d just told
Chad he has two weeks to live.
See why Teddy called her a drama queen? She
can take any situation and turn it into a major
theatrical production. Starring herself.
We ignore her. “Can you walk?” I ask Chad.
He takes a couple steps, then winces. “I CAN,”
he says miserably. “But it doesn’t feel very good.”
So Dee Dee calls Chad’s mom, and we wait with
him until she shows up.
“Alas,” says Dee Dee as they drive off. “Poor Chad.”
Poor Chad is right. The next day in school,
he’s sitting on a donut.
A MEDICAL donut, I
mean. It’s a giant inflat-
able ring, almost like
a life preserver. When
he walks from class to
class, it looks like he’s
carrying a toilet seat.
So Francis was right. It WAS his tailbone.
I feel bad for Chad. Not just because he’s hurt, but
because . . . well, having a bruised tailbone is sort
of embarrassing, don’t you think? I mean, when
you’re talking about different kinds of injuries . . .
I’ve been lucky. I’ve never had one of those really
embarrassing injuries.
“Good gravy!” Mr. Rosa yelps in surprise. “Nate,
are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m okay,” I say as I get off the floor.
“Well, since you’re all here,” Mr. Rosa continues,
“I’d like to mention that Mrs. Everett made a good
point yesterday . . .”
Not THIS again. Why
do we have to change
the club? Why mess
with perfection?
“Boys aren’t the ONLY ones who wind up in deten-
tion for drawing comics.” Mr. Rosa chuckles. “Girls
can be pretty cartoony, too!”
We watch as he disappears down the hallway.
“Recruiting,” I grumble. “Whoop-de-stinkin’-do.”
&nbs
p; “Who are we supposed to recruit?” Teddy wonders.
Uh, right WHERE? All
I see is a poster for the
dance tomorrow night.
“DEE DEE drew that!”
Francis explains.
I examine the poster.
Okay, three cheers for
Dee Dee. She can draw
a half-decent seagull.
But why does that
mean she gets to join
the Doodlers? I don’t
want our meetings
turning into the Amazing Dee Dee Show.
“Aren’t there any other girls we can recruit?” I ask
hopefully.
Teddy jumps in. “What about Jenny?”
I cringe. Jenny would be an AWESOME Doodler.
That’s obvious. But there’s one huge problem:
And—don’t ask me why—
Jenny and Artur are still
an item. So if she joined
the club, Wednesday afternoons would probably
turn into . . .
Ugh. I’m supposed to draw comics while those
two count each other’s freckles? I’d rather eat
egg salad. Hey, I’d rather BATHE in egg salad.
“I already talked to Jenny,” I lie. “She can’t do it.”
“Then it’s decided!” Francis declares with a clap
of his hands. “Dee Dee it is!”
Teddy grimaces. “Who’s going to ask her?”
“We’ll shoot for it,” Teddy says. “Odds or evens?”
“Evens,” I say automatically. I ALWAYS pick evens.
Big Nate Goes for Broke Page 1
