“Oh.” Oliver wondered how she knew that. He sat behind her in English and saw she’d tanked her Outsiders essay last week.
“My local historians,” Mr. Carrow said, buzzing by their table. “You’ve hit the jackpot.”
“How?” Oliver asked.
“Private Raymond Stone lived about five miles from this school.”
Oliver waited for some other information that would make their pick a “jackpot.”
“Come on, Ollie—this is good stuff. You two actually get to hold primary sources in your hands instead of just staring at a computer screen like everyone else.” Mr. Carrow wrote a website on Ollie’s paper. “Private Raymond Stone’s great-great-somebody donated a bunch of family papers to a local historical society. You two can check them out whenever you want. Some really cool stuff there, I bet.”
Oliver looked to Ella for confirmation that this sounded like the lamest thing ever.
She was busy sketching something on her paper.
“So we’re thinking trifold,” Mr. Carrow said, glancing at Oliver’s design. He looked at Ella’s, which had a bunch of squares covering the paper numbered 1-20. “Ah—a storyboard. Interesting. So you want to do a documentary?”
Ella shrugged.
Oliver panicked.
“We’re doing a trifold,” he told Mr. Carrow. “I’ve got it all planned. In the center—”
“Come on now—take a risk,” Mr. Carrow said. He tapped Ella’s storyboard. “I like this. Do you know how to use any editing software? Windows Movie Maker or iMovie?”
Ella shook her head.
“No worries. I can show you the basics, and YouTube will fill in the rest.”
“Uh,” Oliver said, “but I don’t even know what kind of things go in a documentary.”
“If only you had an amazing teacher who made a rubric with all the essential elements,” Mr. Carrow said. He flipped over Oliver’s paper. “O. M. G. It’s a miracle.” He blocked the side of his face with one hand. “Please, no pictures.”
Oliver frowned at the bullet point descriptions: a storyboard, a script, images, music, and voiceovers. Then there was the issue of editing—which neither he nor Ella knew how to do.
“You’ve seen the PBS Civil War series by Ken Burns, right?” Mr. Carrow asked Oliver.
“Of course.”
“Right. It’s older, but a solid documentary example. Think about maybe borrowing a few of the techniques for your project. And again I’ll refer you to YouTube for other examples.” He surveyed them both, smiling like he was really proud of himself. “I think this is going to be a great partnership.”
I think . . . you need your head examined, Oliver thought.
—CHAPTER FIVE—
THE FIRST MISTAKE
Oliver stared at his perfect ham sandwich. His mom made the best sandwiches.
But he couldn’t eat. He was too upset.
Unfortunately, there was no one to tell because the only semi-normal kid at his lunch table—Kevin—was at a doctor’s appointment. The rest of the kids were watching really confusing anime movies on their phones. Normally, Oliver would be reading one of his Time-Life Civil War books, but he wasn’t in the mood.
He was in the mood to ask Mr. Carrow for a new group. A group of one.
A group of himself.
So back to Mr. Carrow’s room he went.
“Hey buddy,” Mr. Carrow said when Oliver came in. He forked fruit from a nearby bowl while his other hand scribbled on a stack of papers. “Leave something in here?”
“Uh, no.” Oliver walked up to the desk. Out of nowhere he got a bad feeling about what he was about to say. But he had to ask anyway. Civil War greatness depended on it.
“I was wondering if I could work alone. For the project.”
Mr. Carrow looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He scribbled a comment in the margin of a quiz. Oliver couldn’t make it out. For a teacher, Mr. Carrow’s handwriting was pretty bad. No, it was beyond bad. It was embarrassingly bad, actually, for any adult. Just awful. “Okay,” he said, putting down the pen and giving Oliver his full attention. “Why do you want to work alone?”
“I just do.”
“Why?”
The answer in Oliver’s head went something like Because my partner is ruining the project. “Because I don’t always get along with other students,” he said instead.
“And you’re worried that you won’t get along with Ella.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You two seemed to be getting along today.”
“I just want to work alone.”
Mr. Carrow leaned back in his chair, fingers folded into a steeple. “What percentage of Civil War soldiers died from disease?”
“Close to seventy percent.” Oliver had no idea how this was connected to his partner situation. “Why?”
“What’s the range on a Civil War rifle?”
“About three hundred yards.”
“What former Confederate city didn’t celebrate Independence Day for almost eighty years because the citizens still hadn’t gotten over their surrender to Union forces on July 4, 1863?”
“Vicksburg.”
Mr. Carrow pounded a fist on the desk and laughed. “Ollie, look at this,” he said, motioning to a poster hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was a photograph of General Ulysses S. Grant leaning against a tree. Oliver had always thought the man looked totally awesome in that shot. “You probably know more about this guy than I do. I really admire that. Your love of the Civil War gets me excited about it too.”
“Uh, thanks,” Oliver said. Still completely lost.
“What was Grant’s life like, before the war?”
“One business failure after another,” Oliver said. “He had to sell firewood on the streets of St. Louis just to feed his family.”
“A decade later most of the country called him a hero; a few years after that they all called him Mr. President. Pretty crazy, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Question is, how did those early struggles shape him as a leader? Things weren’t always easy for him during the war, remember: some pretty costly battle blunders, a demotion, struggles with alcohol.”
Oliver realized they were arriving at the point. He didn’t like it. “I guess they made him a better commander. Taught him to stick with it, even when it was hard.”
“Maybe he learned that difficulty precedes greatness.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I’m going to copyright that. Steal it and I’ll sue you into oblivion.”
“So I can’t work alone.”
“Nope.”
“Even if I’m pretty sure my partner will ruin the project.”
Mr. Carrow didn’t respond for a second. “That’s a pretty bold statement, Ollie. I’d caution you to not judge people on a first impression.”
Oliver felt horrible. “Okay. Can I have a pass back to lunch?”
Mr. Carrow scrawled on a Post-it note and handed it to Oliver. It looked like a three-year-old kid had tried to draw ancient runes. “Difficulty precedes greatness.”
Oliver walked into the hall, wishing he hadn’t come down. It had been pointless. And stupid. And wrong.
And when he saw Ella standing at her locker just a few feet from the door, and their eyes locked, those reasons slapped him, open-palm, directly in the face.
—CHAPTER SIX—
THE APOLOGY (ROUND ONE)
“Hey.” It sounded so stupid, echoing in the empty hall.
Ella looked away. Had she overheard what he’d asked Mr. Carrow?
Of course she had; the door had been wide-freaking-open.
“So I was thinking—” Oliver started.
Students flooded the hall. Seventh-grade lunch was over and the sixth and eighth graders were changing classes. Oli
ver needed to get going, or he’d be late to fifth period.
But guilt forced him to weave through the crowd toward Ella. He had to make things right. “About the project—”
Ella shut her locker and walked into the stream of students.
The guilt formed an angry fist in Oliver’s stomach during Spanish. By the end of gym, it was punching him repeatedly in the lungs. He couldn’t remember feeling this awful. Was it possible to die of guilt?
“I need to go to Mrs. Mason’s,” Oliver told Mr. Carrow at Resource, their thirty-minute study period at the end of the day.
“Oliver, are you failing English?” Mr. Carrow asked.
“No.”
“JK, Ollie. Got your team pass?” Oliver tapped the blue square on the front of his binder. “Boom. Sign out on the board so I know where you’re at.”
Oliver hurried down the hall, rehearsing his apology. Ella: I’m sorry I asked to leave our group. The fist of guilt pulverized a kidney. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I’m looking forward to our partnership.
Oliver walked into Mrs. Mason’s room and halted. Twenty-six dead-silent students stared at him, including Kevin, Oliver’s lunch buddy. He sat at Mrs. Mason’s desk while she graded something he probably missed from being at the doctor’s. He waved at Oliver like he was on the other side of a prison fence.
“What do you need, Oliver?” Mrs. Mason asked. Her pen found another mistake, bringing her one step closer to her life goal of making sure every seventh grader knew their writing was terrible. Her other life goals included having perfect hair and a cold stare that could turn you to stone.
So far she was winning at life.
“I’m here to see Ella.”
Mrs. Mason cut short the ripple of “oooohs” with one swivel of her head. “About?”
“Our social studies project.” Oliver spotted Ella in the back of the room doing her favorite thing: staring out the window.
“Good initiative.” Mrs. Mason pointed to an empty table. “You two may work there.”
Oliver sat down.
Ella didn’t move.
Everyone stared.
“Ella?” Mrs. Mason asked. More window staring. Oliver’s face tingled. This was getting embarrassing.
Ella picked up her binder and walked to the front of the room. She handed Mrs. Mason a yellow slip.
“Ella’s leaving for an appointment, Oliver. Try again tomorrow.”
“Uh. Okay.” Oliver picked up his binder and walked out of the room. He could feel people staring at him as he went.
So he’d apologize tomorrow.
But then he turned around and saw Ella walking toward the office. The fist of guilt jabbed his diaphragm.
Run-walking down the hall behind her, Oliver dove right in. “I’m sorry I asked Mr. Carrow to leave our group. It was mean. I’m sorry.” He finally caught up, scooted in front of her, and stuck out his hand. “I look forward to a productive partnership.”
Ella brushed past him.
“Come on,” he said, hurrying after her. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I did it. Actually, that’s not true. I know why. See, I really like the Civil War. My little sister says I’m obsessed. Anyway, I guess I got overprotective and felt like you were ruining the project—”
She stopped dead in her tracks. Oliver actually ran into her. She faced him.
“No—not that you were ruining it,” he said. “But that’s what I thought. You know, because you picked Private Stone. But you didn’t really. I mean, you did pick him but it wasn’t on purpose. This isn’t coming out right. I think I’m making it worse. Am I making it worse?” He tried to find her eyes behind the hair for confirmation. Nothing. She started walking again, faster this time.
They had passed through the choking smog of the sixth-grade hallway, which always smelled like vanilla, Axe body spray, and sweat. In a few steps they would turn the corner to the office. Oliver’s blue team pass would be no good in these waters if he got questioned. He had to wrap this up fast.
“Nobody ever wants to work with me,” he blurted out. “I’m pretty sure people think I’m weird. I don’t know why. I guess I don’t really know how to talk to people. I mean, I know how to talk, other people just don’t listen. Is that mean? Oh jeez. This isn’t coming out right.” Ella rounded the corner. Oliver planted his feet inside students-allowed-with-a-pass territory and let his words carry down the short hallway. “I just really like the Civil War, okay? I love it. A lot. It’s my thing, and I felt like you were kind of taking control of my thing. And that was hard for me. I’m sorry.”
Ella stopped in front of the main office’s glass doors. Oliver tried one last time: “Ella. I. Am. Sorry!”
She definitely wasn’t listening. She was staring through the glass at a man and a woman, arguing. Both were dressed in expensive-looking clothes that Oliver figured all business people wore. Spotting Ella, they stopped fighting and waved like everything was fine. Both of them looked tired.
Ella turned around and looked at Oliver for a few seconds. “Okay.”
The fist of guilt ceased its merciless punching. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Ella opened the office door and walked inside.
And then she and her parents walked into the conference room attached to Principal Fastbender’s office.
—CHAPTER SEVEN—
THE MANY TERRIFYING CONFESSIONS OF ELLA BERRY
“Grab a seat next to your partner and log on,” Mr. Carrow said two days later as third-period social studies trailed into the computer lab. “Once you’re on, go to my website. If you forgot the address, ask someone other than me because asking me will result in a very sarcastic response such as, ‘You forgot the website we’ve been using all year? The website that literally contains my first initial and last name?’”
Oliver hadn’t talked to Ella since their “Okay okay okay” moment. He wasn’t ignoring her, he just wasn’t sure what to say. It was like they were sitting on opposite ends of a seesaw: He didn’t know if she wanted to actually interact on the thing, so he’d just planted his feet to keep it balanced.
“Hey,” Oliver said.
Ella slid into the chair next to him and turned on the computer. Another ratty T-shirt and pair of too-big jeans. Hair like she’d been fighting off bees.
“Hey,” she said back.
At least the seesaw was moving.
“Today’s goal is simple,” Mr. Carrow said. “I want you to start digging up the basic biographical info on your HP using the links I provided.” He held up a worksheet. “This is where you’ll begin listing the information you find. Some of the documents have hard facts, like town or church registries that list births, marriages, and deaths; others might focus on the big picture, like letters home from the battlefield. Every source tells us something that’s critical to understanding your HP and their experience during the war.” He looked at the clock. “Hands up for questions, I’ll be buzzing around. Fifty minutes, gang. Don’t waste it.”
Oliver went up and got their worksheets. “I picked these computers because they’re the fastest,” he said, giving Ella a sheet. “And because they’re the farthest from the teacher’s desk in the back. You know why it’s in the back? So they can watch our screens. But I found out that the distance and glare from the ceiling lights make our screens basically impossible to read. One time I watched this History Channel video during Tech and no one noticed.”
Why couldn’t he just stop talking?
Ella opened up a browser and clicked around. “Fastbender told my parents I’m in danger of failing the year. That’s what that meeting was about.”
Oliver swiveled his head and stared at her.
“What?” Ella asked.
“Uh, nothing. Just . . . you haven’t said much, and then you kind of just dropped an information atom bomb on me.”
“I say
things when they need to be said.”
“Oh. Okay.” Oliver paused. “What subjects are you failing?”
“Most of them.” Ella didn’t sound happy or sad. She wasn’t bragging either. It was more like a statement of the facts—an observation, really.
A small fire of injustice flared in Oliver’s chest. This was exactly why he’d asked to work alone. Ella obviously didn’t care about her grades, so she obviously wouldn’t care about the Civil War. She was going to sink the project. This was a giant catastrophe.
“So what happened, at the meeting?” Oliver asked.
“Fastbender said I have to get a D in this class if I want to move on to eighth grade.”
“A D? What do you have now?”
“An F.”
The small fire of injustice roared to a forest fire of fury. “How low of an F?”
“Forty-two percent.”
“Sweet Moses.” It was a phrase Oliver’s mom said when something really shocked her. He didn’t really know what it meant, other than that someone had just said something horribly shocking. “There’s only two big assessments left in the marking period—this project and the Civil War unit test.”
“I know.”
“What grade do you—”
“I have to get hundreds on both.”
“Mary, Mother of all that is holy.” He’d heard his dad whisper that only once: when his little sister, Addie, had drawn stick figures all over their white couch with a Sharpie.
Now felt just as appropriate.
“I can fail two classes and still move on to eighth grade,” Ella said, unfazed by Oliver’s reaction. “English and math are low F’s—really low—but social studies is salvageable.” She did a quick calculation in the air with an index finger. “If I keep science and French at steady C’s, then a perfect score on this project will bring social studies to a D. I’ll pass. Barely.”
The strangest part about the last three minutes—aside from Ella detailing a master plan to barely pass seventh grade—was that she’d somehow been reading her screen the entire time.
The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody Page 2
