than Dad’s tuna casserole. I watch them leave,
trudge upstairs to my room, and flop onto my bed.
I’ve been here before.
(And no, I don’t mean in
bed. Duh.) I mean, I’ve
been in a SITUATION
like this, where some-
thing that SEEMED
great turned into a
giant turd fest. Here’s
what happened:
My mood hasn’t improved much by Monday
morning, as the guys and I take the long, slow
walk toward Jefferson.
We turn to see Dee Dee running after us. Of course.
Who ELSE would scream “yoo-hoo” at 7:30 on a
Monday morning?
“EXCITING?” I repeat in disbelief.
“Oh, sure,” says Teddy, with a what-planet-are-
you-from eye roll.
“I won’t mind that one bit!” Dee Dee counters.
“When people laugh, it means they NOTICE you!”
That shuts Dee Dee up . . . for maybe two seconds.
Then she drops THIS one on us:
We stop dead in our tracks. The three of us stare
at her, completely dumbstruck.
“Well, you ARE!” she says. “Why are you so afraid
of Jefferson?”
“We’re not AFRAID of them,” I shoot back.
“Nobody wins ALL the time,” she declares.
Ooh. Thanks, Dee Dee. The
next time some Jefferson
goons are throwing snow-
balls at my head, I’ll remind
them that they’re no match for P.S. 38 in the
vitally important category of musical theater.
Meanwhile, she’s still babbling. “All I’m saying
is . . .”
Okay. Whatever THAT means. I don’t really have
time to think about it, because . . .
My jaw drops. Holy cow. This
is a SCHOOL? It looks more
like a MUSEUM.
There are glass cases everywhere, filled from top
to bottom with piles of trophies. There are murals
painted on the walls and mobiles hanging from
the ceiling. There’s even a SKYLIGHT. And right
in the middle of the lobby, on a huge pedestal . . .
. . . there’s a knight.
Sorry. A CAVALIER.
They’re always brag-
ging that they’ve got a
better mascot than we
do . . . and they might
be right. Compared to
King Arthur here, the
stuffed bobcat in the
P.S. 38 lobby looks like something we fished out
of a Dumpster.
“Welcome to Jefferson Middle School!” booms a
voice to our left.
“So are we!” agrees Dee Dee, who’s apparently
elected herself our official spokesperson.
“There’s still plenty of time before homeroom,”
Mrs. Williger tells us.
At HOME? Yeah, sure. This place is about as homey
as the Grand Canyon.
Francis is right. The more we look around, the
more there is to see.
“This is quite a place, isn’t it, kids?”
“How come you’re HERE?” Teddy asks him.
“I thought you were fixing up OUR school.”
He chuckles. “I’ll leave that to people who know
what they’re doing . . . like Dee Dee’s father.”
“So the teachers from P.S.
38 are here at Jefferson,
too?” Francis asks.
“Absolutely!” he answers.
Nuts. My chance for a two-week break from Mrs.
Godfrey just got flushed.
Sure, bring it on, big fella. Considering how
SWANKY this school is . . .
Principal Nichols leads us through a maze of hall-
ways and down a flight of stairs.
“Almost there!” he says cheerfully, as he pushes
open a metal door. But hold on . . . what’s with the
sign that says ?
“This is it!” Principal Nichols announces.
We stand at the back door of Jefferson, staring out
at . . . um . . . okay, I have no clue. What ARE those
things?
“They’re modular classrooms, Nate,” Principal
Nichols explains. “Jefferson used them last fall
when they renovated their seventh grade wing . . .”
“Fortunately for us”??
Is he SERIOUS? What’s
fortunate about going to
class in a giant SHOEBOX?
“Think of it as a grand
adventure!” he tells us.
Uh . . . no, it won’t. Not unless your camp’s in the
middle of a parking lot. But obviously, Principal
Nichols HAS to say that. Making lousy stuff sound
good is one of those things ALL grown-ups do.
Principal Nichols steers us toward one of the
boxes. “You’re in Room F.”
“Hear that, Nate?” Teddy
cracks. “Room F!”
We swing open the
door, and there’s Mrs.
Godfrey. At P.S. 38,
she’s always surrounded
by books, maps, and other torture devices. Here, all
she’s got is a flimsy little desk. It feels different.
Different, but exactly the same.
“Hmph,” I grumble, looking around. “The REAL
classrooms are all tricked out with murals and
posters and stuff . . .”
Teddy nods. “Yeah,
the only thing to
look at is . . .” He
points silently at
Mrs. Godfrey.
“Not exactly a scenic view.” I snicker.
“But look at the UPSIDE, guys,” Francis chimes
in. “Since they’ve separated us from the Jefferson
students . . .”
Hm. That actually makes sense. As the classroom
fills up and the bell rings, it starts to feel like just
another brain-frying, butt-numbing school day.
By the end of third period, we’ve almost forgotten
we’re even AT Jefferson.
And then comes lunch.
LUNCH FACT:
All-time worst dessert
Even a fancy-pants
in P.S. 38 history:
school like Jefferson has
only one cafetorium.
Which means they
HAVE to share it with
us. When the noon bell
rings, we scurry away
from our little boxcar
village and into the main building.
“Excuse me, which way to the cafetorium?” Francis
asks some Jefferson kid.
“Oh, brother,” Teddy mumbles as we continue down
the hall. “Can this place get any more stuck-up?”
“Wonder what they call the BATHROOMS,”
Francis says.
We turn the corner and see a crowd of kids pour-
ing into the cafeteria. (No, I will NOT call it the food
court.) That’s when it hits us: Something smells . . .
That’s weird. We’re not
used to ANYTHING smell-
ing good in school. Because,
frankly, P.S. 38 is the
stinkiest place on earth.
“Holy COW!” Teddy exclaims. “Can you believe
this MENU?”
We can’t believe our eyes. There’s not a stewed
prune in sight. Okay, we don’t have to like
Jefferson. But we can like their FOOD.
“What are we waiting for?” Francis says.
I
spin around and spot
Chad with his tailbone
pillow . . . and look who’s
giving him the evil eye:
Nolan. Teddy’s right.
This IS trouble.
“You’re not at P.S. 38 anymore!” he sneers.
That’s just wrong. Chad’s the smallest kid in the
sixth grade. AND he’s hurt. The last thing he needs
is a scuzzbucket like Nolan piling on.
“Or maybe it’s NOT a toilet seat!” Nolan laughs.
I look for a teacher, but there aren’t any. Typical.
When you don’t want them around, they’re on you
like white on rice. But when you actually NEED
one? Good luck.
I feel my hands curl into fists. I’m no match for
Nolan. But SOMEBODY’S got to help Chad.
She marches over to Nolan and sticks her finger
right in his chest. “You give him back his pillow!”
she demands.
Nolan does a quick three sixty to make sure no
teachers are watching. Then he slaps Dee Dee’s
hand away. “Beat it,” he growls.
“Dee Dee’s going to get herself killed,” Francis says.
I take a deep breath.
We park ourselves next to Dee Dee and Chad.
“Come on, Nolan,” Teddy says. “Knock it off.”
He laughs right in Teddy’s face. “Why?” he asks.
Hm. Okay, so much for Dad’s bully theory.
Thanks for the wisdom, Dad. I’ll file that away
with all your other brilliant theories, like “Making
your bed every day helps you live longer” and
“If you really get to know her, Mrs. Godfrey is
probably a very nice person.”
“Give it here!” Dee Dee says suddenly, trying to
snatch the pillow from Nolan. But he’s too quick
for her.
He tosses it toward one of his crew, but it veers the
tiniest bit off target.
By the time I realize I’m losing my balance,
it’s too late. There’s no way to stop myself. Look
out below.
Oof. I lie there stunned, hoping I didn’t just join
Chad in the bruised tailbone club.
“Good gravy! Nate, are you all right?” It’s Principal
Nichols. Great timing. NOW he shows up?
Mrs. Williger is here, too. But she doesn’t look
quite as friendly as she did this morning.
“Horseplay?” I protest. “But I wasn’t . . .”
“We’ll sort it out later, Nate,” Principal Nichols
tells me. “Let’s get you up on your feet.”
“What hurts?” he asks.
“My wrist!” I groan. I try to flex it, and the pain
hits about a fifty on a scale of one to ten.
“Is he going to live?” asks Dee Dee.
“I think he’ll make it,” says Principal Nichols,
lifting me off the floor.
“You know, that’s not a bad joke,” Teddy says
as we file into the art room the next morning.
“For a principal.”
“Joke, shmoke,” I grumble. “What’s funny about a
broken wrist?”
Oh, sure, Francis, it’s a RIOT. And having a hunk
of plaster wrapped around my hand for the next
month should be a barrel of laughs.
I used to think
it might be kind
of COOL to have
a cast. Last year,
when Eric Fleury
broke his arm,
everyone treated
him like Joe
Celebrity. All the girls were lining up for Eric time.
Suddenly the guy was a total babe magnet. (And,
PS: All he did was fall down in the school yard
while doing cheesy kung fu moves! At least
I got hurt trying to help Chad.)
Anyway, Eric’s moment of glory lasted about
three minutes. After that, he said having a cast
turned into a major pain—
and, boy, was he right.
This thing is hot. It itches
like crazy. And it’s already
starting to smell like Coach
John’s tube socks.
But you know the worst part about it? It’s on my
right hand. My DRAWING hand.
Brilliant deduction, Chad. There’s only one little
problem: I CAN’T DRAW!!
Oh, I’ve TRIED. It’s the
first thing I did when
I got home from the
hospital yesterday. But
I can’t even hold a
pencil with this stupid
cast on. It’s like wearing
a cement mitten.
So then I went with plan B: drawing left-handed.
Pathetic, right? I did better drawings back in
KINDERGARTEN. And
Dad made it worse by
doing that fake praise
thing parents always
do. I hate that.
So now you know why
I’m not exactly turning
cartwheels when Mr. Rosa tells us to get to work.
But I give it a shot.
“Maybe you should try sticking
the pencil up your nose,” Teddy
cracks, after watching me draw
a dog that looks more like a
radioactive spider.
“Maybe YOU should,” I snap back.
“I don’t have a broken wrist,” he reminds me.
“Okay, everyone, five-
minute warning!” Mr.
Rosa calls out. As we
all start cleaning up,
he stops by our table.
“Do you kids remember Mrs. Everett?” he asks.
“Sure!” says Francis. “She came to our Doodlers
meeting!”
When science ends (and not a moment too soon,
because Mr. Galvin was about to hit a new low on
the Charisma meter), the Doodlers head for Mrs.
Everett’s room . . .
. . . along with our newest member.
Dee Dee’s yapping like a Chihuahua on a sugar
buzz. I guess she’s all amped up about listening
to the almighty C.I.C. tell us how TALENTED
they are. Or maybe she can’t wait to see one of my
amazingly lame left-handed drawings.
“It seems pretty quiet,” Teddy says as we approach
an open doorway. “Are you sure we’re in the right
place?”
“You’re ABSOLUTELY in the right place!” says
Mrs. Everett, waving us into the room.
Here’s a shocker: Jefferson has the swankiest art
studio I’ve ever seen. And it’s packed with kids
drawing comics.
A few look up and nod, but most of them don’t
even notice us. They just keep drawing. Wow,
it’s like an ASSEMBLY LINE in here.
“Yes.” Mrs. Everett
nods. “They have a
deadline.”
“It’s a local literary magazine,” Mrs. Everett
explains. “It’s sponsoring a kids’ writing contest!”
Chad looks baffled. “But . . . comics aren’t
WRITING!”
“SURE they are!” she says.
“I have entry forms, if you’re interested,” she adds.
“I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Everett smiles.
Everybody chatters excitedly as she goes to her
desk. Except me. I don’t say a word.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Teddy asks.
“Huh?” I mumble.
“Because I can’t enter the CONTEST, Einstein,”
>
I answer. “I’m halfway through my most hilarious
‘Doctor Cesspool’ adventure EVER . . . ”
Mrs. Everett is back. “Why not collaborate?” she
suggests. “You could write the rest of the story,
and couldn’t one of your fellow Doodlers supply
the artwork?”
What? Whoa, WHOA. No offense, Dee Dee, but
you’re not exactly at the top of my A-list. I’ll team
up with Francis or Teddy or . . .
“I think that’s a GREAT idea!” Mr. Rosa just
appeared out of nowhere at our table.
Oh, come on. I already took her to the dance and
carried her home on my back. Haven’t I suffered
enough? But Mr. Rosa’s wearing his happy adviser
face. Nuts. I guess it’s settled.
“Just hand them back by Friday,
along with your comics!”
Dee Dee scoots her chair over next to mine. “Tell
me about Doctor Cesspool! What’s his story?”
“Yeah, but this isn’t the Drama Club!” I hiss at her.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” My voice trails off.
“What’s the matter?” she whispers.
I look around the room at all the Jefferson kids
bent over their drawings.
I’m not used to this.
Doodlers meetings are
FUN. Mr. Rosa lets us
talk and play the radio
and eat snacks. This
is different.
“You’re right, Nate, it
IS awfully quiet,” Mr.
Rosa says. Then he
gives me a wink. “But
maybe the Doodlers
can find a way to liven
things up!”
He walks over to Mrs.
Big Nate Goes for Broke Page 3
