The Wizzle War

by Gordon Korman

  “She never says anything that isn’t mean.”

  “I meant something really mean. Don’t forget, cry loud. When the girls hear us, they’ll all start, too. I don’t want a dry eye in the place.”

  “Now,” Miss Peabody was saying, “there’s been a little improvement since I came, but you are still the most nauseating, miserable bunch of softies —”

  “Waaah!” Cathy wailed at top volume.

  Diane joined in with a series of sobs like hiccups. And one by one the entire student body burst into uncontrolled tears, until the whole gymnasium echoed with sobbing, wailing, crying, shrieking and howling voices.

  Miss Scrimmage leapt up from her chair and began running back and forth in front of the assembly. “Girls! Girls! Please don’t cry! Oh dear! Don’t cry! Miss Peabody didn’t mean it! Please don’t cry!”

  This encouraged the girls, who cried harder. Miss Peabody stood at the front of the group, arms folded, glancing dispassionately at her wristwatch.

  After a full five minutes, the wailing began to diminish. Cathy looked. Miss Peabody was still there, staring at her watch.

  “Waaah!” Cathy howled, and the crying swelled again.

  “Oh dear! Oh dear!” agonized Miss Scrimmage. “Miss Peabody, what shall we do?” She looked desperately at the sea of red faces and burst into tears herself.

  Miss Peabody remained unmoved. After another five minutes, voices began to grow hoarse and, slowly but surely, the wailing petered out. Cathy kept crying to rally the girls, but finally the last echo of her wailing bounced off the walls and the room fell into total silence.

  Miss Peabody stepped forward and fixed them all with a look that would have melted lead. “Are you quite finished with that blubbering?”

  The only reply was the sound of Miss Scrimmage blowing her nose.

  “I’ll see you all out on the track this afternoon. You wasted ten good minutes! Ten good laps should cover it.

  “Now, I want to tell you about our new program. You girls lack spirit, excitement and initiative. That’s why I’m dividing up the whole school into four squadrons by last names. A to G — Blue Squadron; H to L — Red Squadron; M to R — Green Squadron; S to Z — White Squadron. Now, instead of calisthenics in the morning I’ll be teaching you how to march. Then you’re on your own to practise and get ready for Saturday’s parade.”

  There was an alarmed murmur.

  “Stow it! The squadron that presents the best parade gets an overnight trip somewhere or other with Miss Scrimmage. Okay, that’s all. Dismissed. See you on the track.”

  As the girls began to file out of the gym, Cathy leaned over to Diane. “Did you hear that? A trip with Miss Scrimmage! That means a trip without Peabody!”

  “Overnight!” added Diane wistfully.

  Cathy’s face took on a look of determination. “We’re going to win that parade! I’d do anything for a twenty-four-hour pass!”

  * * *

  Mr. Wizzle ushered Wilbur Hackenschleimer briskly into his office. “Well, Hacken, and how are you today?”

  Wilbur looked at him. “That’s Hackenschleimer, sir.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Hackenschleimer — that’s fifteen letters. WizzleWare doesn’t like that. Our programs conserve memory for improved processing speed. Twelve letters is the maximum. I’ve decided to shorten your name down to Hacken.”

  Wilbur was taken aback. “But, sir, we’ve always been Hackenschleimer!”

  “It’s all in the interests of efficiency, Hacken,” said Mr. Wizzle. “Besides, I think it has quite a nice ring to it. Wilbur Hacken. Yes. When you turn eighteen you should seriously consider having it changed permanently. Well, that’s settled then.”

  Wilbur’s face was red. “But, sir —”

  “No buts, Hacken. That’s all. You can go. Try to cut down on the eating, will you? Good day.”

  Big Wilbur Hackenschleimer stormed out of the office. By the time he stepped out of the Faculty Building he was running, and when he reached Dormitory 3 his pounding footsteps were shaking the ground. He entered the building, stormed down the hall and burst unannounced into room 306. Boots was out. Bruno and Elmer, discussing strategy, looked up questioningly.

  “Bruno,” roared Wilbur, “Wizzle’s got to go!”

  Bruno smiled. “Sit down. We’re having a committee meeting. Welcome to Operation Quake.”

  * * *

  Mr. Wizzle went to bed that night in a state of nervous tension. He had placed a crystal glass carefully on the night table beside his bed and stood a spoon up in the glass. If there was another tremor, this would be his early warning.

  As he climbed into bed, the spoon rattled sharply in the glass. He looked around nervously, trying to calm the beating of his heart. This would never do. He had to be sensible.

  He lay down on his back, closed his eyes and opened them again, noticing that the ceiling light fixture was right over the bed. If it came down, it would kill him. He got up, causing the spoon and glass to rattle again, and pushed the bed all the way up against the far wall, under the window. That was a good idea — an emergency exit. Come on, get a grip on things, he told himself. He climbed back into bed and, after much tossing and turning, finally fell asleep.

  Mr. Wizzle awoke early, with a start, the bright sun from the window shining in his eyes. He yawned, stretched and got up. “Wonderful! What a wonderful morning!” he declared aloud, even though his head was pounding from insufficient sleep. Sturgeon had been right. There was no earthquake fault. He’d probably imagined it all. What a relief! He felt so invigorated that he began to do deep knee-bends. The spoon in the glass vibrated from his movements, and he laughed at his anxiety of the previous night.

  He went out to the linen closet, grabbed a towel for his shower and re-entered the bedroom. The spoon was still rattling in the glass. The fixture was swaying from side to side and the floor began to vibrate under his feet. Then came the roar, louder this time, and he could feel a deep churning in his stomach.

  “Earthquake!”

  * * *

  “There,” said Bruno. “Switch it off. I think he’s had enough for this morning.”

  Wilbur had a look of wonder on his face. “And that’s honestly making an earthquake in his house?”

  Elmer nodded.

  Boots stirred in his bed and looked up sleepily. “What’s going on at this hour of the morning? Wilbur? Elmer? Where did you guys come from? Bruno, what’s going on? You never get up before a quarter to nine.”

  “I changed my hours,” said Bruno, “when I changed my colleagues.”

  Bruno, Elmer and Wilbur sat at a corner table in the dining hall at lunch that day, listening to an earnest Chris Talbot.

  “Then he said that he and his software had decided that I was much too artistic ever to become a well-rounded person. So I pointed out that maybe I didn’t want to be a well-rounded person and he gave me five demerits for mouthing off. He confiscated all my art supplies and switched me out of my art courses into physics, chemistry and algebraic structures. Now my average is going to go down twenty percent, not to mention that I hate that kind of stuff.”

  “That’s a real bummer,” said Bruno sympathetically. “What do you think you can do about it?”

  “I want to join your committee,” said Chris positively. “You were right all along, Bruno. We’ve got to get rid of Wizzle.”

  “We’re well on the way already,” said Bruno cheerfully. “Elmer, tell the man about Operation Quake.”

  * * *

  Mr. Wizzle leaned back. “Now, Rampulsky, I have something very interesting planned for you.”

  Sidney squirmed in his chair, tipping himself over sideways. “Sorry, sir.” He scrambled to his feet and sat down again.

  “You’ve illustrated our point exactly,” said Mr. Wizzle. “You’re far too clumsy. You need something that will teach you grace and coordination. By special arrangement with Miss Peabody, you will be joining the beginners’ ball
et class at Scrimmage’s.”

  Sidney leapt to his feet, banging his knee against the desk. “Ow! But sir —”

  “No buts, Rampulsky. With your every motion you more than prove the need for this project. Their course convenes at three o’clock, so you will be dismissed five minutes early from your last class of the afternoon, starting today.”

  “But — but sir, you can’t do this to me! I’ll be the only guy there and —”

  “This is your prescribed course of study, Rampulsky, arrived at through great effort and expense. Don’t argue with me.”

  “But I can’t just go over there and —”

  “That will do,” said Mr. Wizzle firmly. “Presuming to argue with me will cost you five demerits.”

  “I won’t go!” howled Sidney.

  “Ten demerits.”

  “I’ll go,” mumbled Sidney.

  “Fine,” said Mr. Wizzle. “And I want to see two hundred lines — I will obey fully all the rules of Macdonald Hall. You may go. Send Anderson in, will you?”

  Sidney left and Pete Anderson entered the office.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Wizzle, sir?” he said meekly.

  “Yes, Anderson. Sit down. I’d like to have you write a few more tests.”

  Pete turned deathly white. “More tests? Like the real hard one we had to write the first day?”

  “They’re not hard, Anderson. They’re opinion tests.”

  “Gee,” said Pete, “I must have really flunked that first one!”

  “No one fails, Anderson. Your results were just a little puzzling, that’s all. The software needs some more data.”

  “Mr. Wizzle, do you think you could give me some books so I can study before I write those tests?”

  “There’s nothing to study,” said Mr. Wizzle, a trifle impatiently. “It’s just your own opinions.”

  Pete’s brow furrowed. “What if my own opinions are the wrong answers?”

  “Anderson, are you being deliberately dense?”

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, all right. Never mind. Report to me for testing at three o’clock every day this week. Dismissed.”

  * * *

  Sidney Rampulsky, dressed in his Macdonald Hall phys. ed. uniform, stood in the middle of Miss Scrimmage’s gym. The ballet class was taking place in one half of the room; the other half was being used for advanced gymnastics.

  “Okay, Sidney,” sang out Miss Smedley, “now don’t be self-conscious. Go ahead and try the steps.”

  She put on the music and Sidney started, concentrating hard on his feet. He was determined to get it right this time so he wouldn’t have to come back. He began to dance sideways as directed.

  “That’s far enough, Sidney,” called Miss Smedley. Then, more urgently, “That’s far enough, Sidney! Sidney!”

  His intense concentration blocking her warning, Sidney kept on dancing, tripping across a bench at the sidelines, knocking it over and sending four girls sprawling. He got up and continued to follow the steps as he had learned them.

  “That’s it, Sidney. Very good. Nice and easy does it, Sidney. Sidney! Look out for the wall! Look out for the wall.”

  Still concentrating, Sidney bounced off the wall, dislodging the chalk board. It crashed to the floor, the slate shattering into little pieces. A cloud of chalk dust rose.

  “Okay, Sidney, stop,” called Miss Smedley, choking in the dust. “That’s enough, Sidney. Sidney! You’re going to the wrong side of the gym! Sydney! Stop!”

  Still mentally following his steps, Sidney danced into the midst of the gymnastics class, bumping into the balance beam and knocking it over. There was an enormous crash as the beam hit the polished floor and a girl went flying.

  “No, Sidney!” Miss Smedley was screaming now. “Please! No! Stop! Oh, I can’t look —!”

  Sidney ricocheted off the far wall and bumped into the uneven bars. The girl who was performing on them screamed as she and the bars fell heavily to the floor.

  Still following his routine, and oblivious of all pleading and screaming, Sidney danced on. He wandered aimlessly between the parallel bars, causing the shocked gymnast working on them to leap for her life.

  “Stop, Sidney!” In desperation, Miss Smedley switched off the music, scratching the record from start to finish, but Sidney was no longer aware of what was going on around him. He had been sent here to dance, and he was dancing. He spun around twice and jumped up, landing right on the springboard for the vaulting horse. He sailed through the air, hitting the horse at an angle and knocking it over with a drop kick. It crashed to the floor and broke into three pieces. Then he began the running start for his grand finale.

  Amid tumultuous cheers from the girls, who had crowded to the other side of the room and were watching in awe, Sidney pirouetted across the gym, stubbing his toe on the mat by the climbing apparatus. Desperately he snatched at air and finally gripped a loose climbing rope. With a terrified howl, he swung through the air feet first and became hopelessly entangled in a rope ladder, hanging upside-down in the climbing apparatus.

  “Uh — I’m finished, Miss Smedley,” he called, “but I don’t think I know how to get down.”

  Miss Scrimmage’s girls broke into loud applause and cheering, and ran for the climber to aid the suspended Sidney.

  “Girls, don’t!” cried Miss Smedley in horror, watching as they all began to ascend. “You can’t all be on the climber at the same time! The weight —”

  There was an awful cracking sound as the frame of the apparatus slowly gave way. The whole set-up — Sidney, girls and all — fell with a tremendous crash to the floor.

  The gym door burst open and in rushed Miss Peabody. She spied Sidney amid the debris and made straight for him.

  “A little clumsy?! A little clumsy?!” she shouted, hauling him bodily out of the wreckage. “I’ll give Wizzle a little clumsy!”

  She grabbed Sidney by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants and began to run him out the door. “Stop crying!” she tossed over her shoulder at the whimpering Miss Smedley. Pushing Sidney, the Assistant Headmistress burst out the front door of the school, propelled him to the highway, saw there was no traffic, and hurled him out into the road. “Now, beat it! And don’t come back!”

  Sidney ran for his life. Only one thing could save him now — Bruno’s committee.

  Chapter 8

  The Committee

  “Miss Scrimmage, would you kindly repeat that?” said Mr. Sturgeon into the telephone that afternoon. “One of my boys destroyed your gymnasium? Miss Scrimmage, I hardly see how that’s possible. The boys were all in classes … Mr. Wizzle sent him?” The Headmaster’s grip tightened on the pen he was holding. “Did he? I see. Tell me, Miss Scrimmage, would the boy’s name by any chance be Rampulsky? … I thought so … Twelve hundred dollars damage … But how? … No, Miss Scrimmage, I don’t really want to know. I shall look into the matter. Good afternoon.”

  Mr. Sturgeon hung up the phone and walked to the outer office where Mr. Wizzle was pounding a keyboard.

  “Wizzle,” said the Headmaster gravely, “what’s all this about Sidney Rampulsky taking ballet lessons at Scrimmage’s?”

  Mr. Wizzle turned around. “Oh, that. Well, it seems that Rampulsky had — uh — a little accident and —”

  “A little accident? Would you call twelve hundred dollars damage a little accident?”

  “Well, he had an accident, and now Miss Peabody’s a little upset.” He grimaced. On the phone earlier she had bluntly threatened to come over and take the twelve hundred dollars out of his hide.

  “Have you informed the Board about this?” asked Mr. Sturgeon.

  “Well, no. I mean, I was just about to and — uh — er — I’ll do it right now.”

  “Good,” approved Mr. Sturgeon. “And make sure you tell them exactly what happened, without leaving anything out.”

  Mr. Wizzle watched as his WizzleWare automatically switched to screen-saver mode and the printer whirred into action
. What with the earthquakes and now this, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse.

  Mr. Sturgeon returned to his office and sat down with a frown. He would certainly not have a moment’s peace as long as Wizzle was here.

  * * *

  “Oh, man!” Pete Anderson was holding his head at dinner that evening. “Those tests — were they ever hard! There’s no way I passed! The best I could have done was about thirty percent — forty, tops! And Wizzle’s got more for me to do every day! I’m doomed!”

  Bruno, surrounded by Wilbur, Chris and Elmer, chewed thoughtfully. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well,” said Pete, “I thought maybe — you know, maybe I — that is, we — uh — do you still have your committee?”

  “Forget the tests,” grinned Bruno. “Welcome back.”

  A loud crash signified that Sidney was at the table. “Bruno,” he said, picking up the cutlery that had fallen from his tray, “the most terrible thing just happened to me!” He related the events of his first ballet lesson, which had the boys howling with laughter.

  “Then Miss Peabody threw me across the road. It’s not funny, you guys! I want to join your committee and get rid of Wizzle before he finds me and gives me demerits!”

  Larry Wilson and Mark Davies sat down at the end of the table. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” said Mark, “but if it’s getting rid of Wizzle, I’m in. He just kicked me out of being editor of the school newspaper!”

  “Yeah?” said Wilbur between bites. “So who’s the editor now?”

  “Pete,” said Mark sourly.

  Pete choked on his sandwich. “Me? Editor?”

  “Yeah. The results of your latest tests are just in, and Wizzle says you need the job more than I do.”

  “Oh, no,” moaned Pete. “Now I have to do the newspaper! I was better off with the tests!”

  “How about you, Larry?” asked Bruno. “Are you joining up with us?”

  “Sure,” said Larry.

  “What’s your grievance?” asked Chris.

  “I don’t have one,” replied Larry. “I just like being on committees.”