The 6th Grade Nickname Game

by Gordon Korman

  Copyright © 1998 by Gordon Korman

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-01274-4

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Nicknamers

  2 Break!

  3 Birdbrain

  4 No Hustle, No Bustle

  5 He’s Losing What’s Left of His Mind

  6 Know Any Good Bird Doctors?

  7 Stop Cops

  8 Marathon

  9 The Rollerblading Lesson

  10 Didn’t

  11 Ask the Iceman

  12 Together or Not at All

  13 A Hundred-and-Ten Percent

  14 Transportation

  15 How Does My Mane Look?

  16 Cockroaches Are Smarter Than Us

  17 Worst to First

  Want More Gordon korman?

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  Also by Gordon Korman

  About the Author

  To the schools I’ve visited;

  thanks for the nicknames

  THE SUBSTITUTE TEACHER must have been six-feet-five, and solid as an oak tree. He shrugged his massive shoulders out of his warm-up jacket, revealing a barrel chest and giant muscles rippling under his T-shirt.

  In the back row, Wiley Adamson opened his notebook to a clean page, and wrote: King Kong?

  At the next desk, Jeff Greenbaum examined the paper critically. His brown eyes narrowed, as they always did when he was deep in thought. Deliberately, he reached out his pencil and drew a line through the nickname. Below it, he printed: The Incredible Hulk?

  Wiley flashed a grudging grin of admiration, but he crossed that one out too, and added: Tiny?

  This brought a snicker from Jeff, which he swallowed when the new teacher began to speak.

  “I guess I don’t look very much like Mrs. Regan.” He chuckled in a deep voice. This was true. The regular teacher stood four-feet-nine, and was wispy and white-haired. She had just retired to Florida. “I’ll be taking over this class until a permanent replacement is found.”

  An uncomfortable murmur passed through the room. It wasn’t so bad losing Mrs. Regan, and having a sub was usually a license to goof off. But this sub was obviously no pushover. He looked like the Terminator.

  Through the speech, Wiley and Jeff continued to trade ideas.

  Hercules?

  Mr. E. Normous?

  But nothing seemed just right. And if there was anything the two nicknamers of 6B knew for certain, it was that a true nickname had to fit perfectly.

  “Now, some of you might recognize me as the assistant coach of the football team over at the high school,” the big teacher was saying. “I never expected to wind up in sixth grade but, you know, with budget cuts—”

  Musclehead?

  Conan the Grammarian?

  He picked up the chalk and wrote his name on the board. “I’m Mr. Hughes.”

  Wiley and Jeff exchanged a look of pure delight.

  Peter Widman was the leadoff hitter in the softball game at recess. He already had a nickname, courtesy of Wiley and Jeff. Because of the thin blond streak in his jet-black hair, he was known affectionately as Skunk. He tapped his bat on home plate and assumed his stance.

  “Hey, Skunk,” said Wiley from his catcher’s crouch. “What do you think of Mr. Huge?”

  Peter stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “Mr. Huge!” he cackled. “I get it. That’s funny!”

  “What’s the holdup?” called Jeff from the pitcher’s mound.

  “We’re talking about Mr. Huge!” roared Peter.

  Jeff pretended not to understand. “You mean Mr. Hughes?” he yelled back with a wink aimed at Wiley.

  “No, Mr. Huge!”

  Peter got a hit. Soon he and the first baseman were laughing over the new nickname. When Peter stole second and then third, the entire infield was brought in on the joke. By the end of the inning, the word was out. Raymond Vaughn, the shortstop, had even taught himself how to burp “Mr. Huge” at top volume. Most of what Raymond said was communicated by a series of belches. This talent had earned him the nickname Gasbag.

  “Mr. Huge” spread through the softball game like a case of measles. Every few seconds a burst of laughter or shout of approval sprang up as the new nickname was passed from mouth to mouth.

  “Mr.—Oh, I get it! Because he’s so big!”

  “And his name—Hughes, Huge—”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Wiley looked at his watch. “Eleven minutes and forty-five seconds.”

  “That’s got to be our fastest time ever,” Jeff said proudly.

  Then the bush in front of them sneezed. Charles Rossi sprang up out of the scratchy branches.

  “I’m onto you guys!” he raged. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re up to. You just got everybody to call the new teacher Mr. Huge.”

  Wiley shrugged. “The guy’s enormous and his name is Hughes. It was only a matter of time before somebody came up with it.”

  “But you did. You do it all the time,” Charles accused them. “I’ll bet it’s like a game to you jerks.”

  Wiley snorted in disgust. “Ignore him,” he advised Jeff. “You know what this is about, and it has nothing to do with Mr. Huge. Charles just doesn’t like being called Snoopy.”

  Charles Rossi’s face turned beet red. If looks could kill, Wiley and Jeff would have fallen down dead right on the spot. “Snoopy is a stupid nickname! A mean nickname! A dog’s nickname!”

  “Face it,” Jeff said reasonably. “You know why everyone calls you Snoopy? Because you spend more time minding other people’s business than your own.”

  Wiley nodded in agreement. “Where did we find you just now? In the bushes, snooping.”

  “I was not!” Charles raged. “I was tying my shoe. You’re the ones who thought up Snoopy. And you blabbed it all over the world. Exactly like you just did with Mr. Huge!”

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “If Snoopy was a bad nickname nobody else would even bother repeating it. You’re Snoopy because you’re the biggest snoop in school. It’s a well-known fact that a nickname will never stick if it’s not the right one.”

  “Baloney!” Charles accused. “You can make any name stick if you say it often enough.”

  “No way,” said Jeff.

  “We’ll prove it,” Wiley added. “Pick a kid—any kid—and we’ll give him a nickname that’s totally, completely, absolutely wrong. You’ll see. It won’t stick.”

  Charles’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for me if I’m right?”

  Wiley shrugged. “What have you got in mind?”

  “I want a new nickname,” Charles said instantly. “A good nickname. A person’s nickname.”

  “It’s a deal,” agreed Jeff. With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the playground. “All we need now is a guinea pig for our experiment.”

  The three looked around. Most of the softball players already had nicknames. Kelly Warnover was known as Warmed-Over-Leftovers; Christy Jones was Crusty Bones; Gordon Wu’s monster appetite had earned him the title Smorgas-Gord; identical twin brothers Dinky and Stan were dubbed Stinky and Dan; and of course, Gasbag and Skunk.

  “I’ve got it,” said Charles. “Him.”

  Wiley and Jeff followed the direction of his pointing finger. There stood
Mike Smith, a tall blond boy from 6A. Mike was in the midst of a spirited game of dodgeball, but he definitely wasn’t participating. He wasn’t even watching. Actually, he wasn’t doing anything.

  Wiley and Jeff groaned in unison. They knew it wasn’t going to be easy to come up with a nickname, good or bad, for Mike Smith. Mike was simply the blandest student in the history of Old Orchard Public School (called OOPS, thanks to the two nicknamers). He was neither happy nor unhappy. He didn’t really have any friends, but no one was his enemy. What was he like? What was his favorite food? Did he watch TV? Was he a sports fan? Computer nerd? Musician? Martian? Nobody really knew.

  “Come on, Snoopy,” Wiley wheedled. “Pick somebody else. That guy’s so nothing! If we can’t figure out what he is, how can we nickname him what he isn’t?”

  Charles folded his arms in front of him. “He’s my choice.”

  Jeff threw his hands in the air. “What are you supposed to call a blob like that—Iceman?”

  “That’s it!” crowed Wiley. “Iceman!” He turned to Charles. “If that name sticks, I’ll eat your backpack!”

  The bell rang to signal the end of recess. Wiley, Jeff, and Charles joined the parade to the door.

  Charles elbowed Jeff in the ribs. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Jeff frowned. “What are you listening for—bird calls?”

  Charles gestured toward Mike Smith. “You have to call him Iceman. You know, spread it around. Just like you did with Mr. Huge.”

  Jeff looked helpless. “I feel so stupid. He’s about as cool as a loaf of bread. Why don’t you do it, Snoopy?”

  “It only works when it’s you.”

  “Oh, all right,” sighed Wiley. He waved at Mike and piped up, “Hey, Iceman!”

  The tall boy from 6A didn’t even look up. They were obviously talking to somebody else.

  Wiley nudged Jeff. “This is one bet we can’t lose.”

  MR. HUGHES TAUGHT sixth grade exactly the same way he coached high school football.

  “Men—” He always referred to the class as men, even though twelve of the students were girls. “Men, this math quiz is tough. This may be the biggest challenge we’ve ever faced together as a team.”

  The class listened, stunned. The teacher was acting like this pop quiz was the Super Bowl. The papers were tucked in an iron grip in the crook of his arm as he stood before them, poised for flight like a halfback. His face reddened in concentration. A thin film of perspiration beaded his upper lip.

  Wiley answered Jeff’s unspoken question. “No, he’s still Mr. Huge. But he’s nuts.”

  “Maintain your intensity level,” the teacher advised. “Stay focused on your opponents.”

  Christy Jones raised her hand. “Uh, sir? What opponents?”

  Mr. Hughes stared at her in disbelief. “What opponents? Only long division, improper fractions, and the twelve times table! An all-star team of hazards and easy mistakes! But we’ve trained long and hard to get here,” the teacher continued, placing a quiz facedown on each desk. “We’re no pushovers! We can fight!”

  Charles reached for his paper, and Mr. Hughes popped a whistle in his mouth and blew three sharp blasts. “False start!” He waited until all the students were poised motionless above their tests. The whistle blew. “Break!”

  The class sat frozen. Finally, Peter raised his hand. “We get a break already?” he asked in confusion. “We haven’t even started yet.”

  “No, no, no,” said the big teacher. “Break! Like ‘break the huddle.’ In football, ‘break’ is the signal that talk is over; it’s time for action.”

  “You mean ‘start’?” ventured Gordon.

  “I mean break!” exclaimed Mr. Hughes.

  6B turned their attention to their papers. It was a routine quiz with only ten questions. Wiley and Jeff, who were both good at math, finished in the first five minutes. They spent the rest of the time watching Mr. Hughes, who was jogging between the rows of desks, barking out instructions like, “Come on, men! Let’s give it a hundred-and-ten percent!” and “Keep your breathing steady!”

  Actually, the only breathing problems were coming from the teacher himself. He was galloping around the room, gasping out encouragement. Sweat streamed down his face.

  “He’s like a real football player,” whispered Jeff in awe.

  “During a ninety-eight-yard punt return,” added Wiley.

  Mr. Hughes popped open a half-gallon bottle of Gatorade and downed it in three colossal gulps. He didn’t seem to notice that most of 6B had already finished the easy quiz—and that he was the center of amazed attention.

  “Two minute warning!” he cried.

  Only Christy and Raymond were still working. They struggled to concentrate with the new teacher raving in their faces.

  “Come on, Crusty!” piped up Wiley.

  “Attaway, Gasbag!” added Jeff.

  “You can do it!” cheered Dinky and Stan.

  Egged on, Mr. Hughes got louder and wilder. When Christy finished, he bellowed, “Yes!” and turned his attention to Raymond. “Come on, Raymond! Last question! Fourth down, goal to go! Concentrate! Now, simplify the fraction! Time’s running out! Five—four—three—two—you did it! Touchdown!!”

  Mr. Hughes took off like a nuclear missile. Two mighty steps propelled him to the front of the class, and he spiked his clipboard football-style, throwing it hard against the tile floor. Springs flew every which way as the mechanism broke apart. Loose papers fluttered around the celebrating coach.

  At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Doncaster entered the room. The principal watched the blizzard of papers settle at the feet of his newest teacher.

  “Mr. Hughes?” he began. When Mr. Doncaster spoke, he kept his saucer-wide eyes riveted on the person he was talking to. Wiley and Jeff had awarded him the nickname Deer in Headlights because he always looked hypnotized, like a deer that had strayed onto a highway.

  “Mr. Hughes?” the principal repeated. “What’s going on here?”

  Gasping, Mr. Hughes faced his boss. “We’ve just had a math quiz!” he puffed.

  Still staring, the principal thought it over. “I see,” he said finally. He took another step into the room, ushering before him a slender red-haired girl. “I’ve brought you a new student,” he announced, casting the deer-in-headlights look all around the room. “This is Cassandra Levy. She’s going to be joining your class.”

  Wiley and Jeff exchanged a knowing glance. To the nicknamers, a new student meant a new challenge.

  Wiley opened his notebook to a blank page and wrote: Carrot-top?

  Jeff frowned. Not bad, but a whole lot more than hair color separated Cassandra from the average OOPS girl. There was a special spring in her step, a natural bounciness, as if she were walking on a trampoline and not merely taking the empty seat beside Wiley and Jeff. Also, she wore a full-length cotton skirt with a wildly colorful pattern of a circus parade. Jeff surveyed the classroom. Everybody else—girl or boy—was in jeans or khakis. Instead of the usual sneakers, she wore what looked like combat boots with massive rubber treads. Somehow, these were just right instead of big and clunky in Cassandra’s tiny size. As she settled in the chair, she smiled at the boys and whispered, “Hi.”

  Jeff knew he should already have a dozen possible nicknames for someone so different—her little pug nose; tiny freckles like microdots! But all he could do was cross out Carrot-top and mumble “Hi” back.

  “I think you’re going to enjoy this class, Cassandra,” said Mr. Doncaster. “Welcome to our school.” And he left them.

  Mr. Hughes mopped his face with a towel. “Clutch timing, Cassandra,” he approved. “We were just about to go to the lab for science. All right, men, line up by the door.”

  In a body, 6B rose, and fell into two-by-two formation at the front of the room. Everyone looked back. Cassandra was still seated at her desk.

  “Come on, Cassandra,” the big teacher urged. “You’re part of the team now.”

  The
new girl’s fair eyebrows were raised in an expression of confusion. “You said ‘men.’ Why are the girls lined up?”

  Mr. Hughes laughed. “Oh, that’s just an expression. You see, in football, you always call the players ‘men.’”

  “But this isn’t a football game,” Cassandra pointed out. “We’re not a football team.”

  “Well, uh—” The smile was gone from Mr. Hughes’s face. “I guess…uh…since I’m a football coach—”

  “And none of us are totally men,” Cassandra went on. “I mean, there are boys—”

  An uncomfortable murmur went through the class. Who was this girl who had the guts to go head-to-head with Mr. Hughes?

  The big teacher grinned sheepishly. “Well, this is your official invitation. Come and join the line.”

  As they marched down the hall, Wiley turned to Jeff. “You’re right. Carrot-top doesn’t say it all.”

  “Hey—” Charles poked Jeff’s arm. He pointed in the open door of class 6A.

  There sat Mike Smith, bland as ever, in the front row. His head was buried deep in a textbook.

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “What about him?”

  “You’re not calling him Iceman,” Charles whispered. “How is everyone supposed to pick up the new nickname if they never hear it?”

  “Okay,” groaned Jeff. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Iceman,” he said softly.

  “Louder,” Charles hissed.

  “Iceman!” chorused Wiley and Jeff.

  A pair of puzzled eyes rose above the top of the book. Mike stared. Wiley, Jeff, and Charles were squeezed into the doorway, waving at him.

  “Michael,” came Miss Hardaway’s stern voice from inside the room. “You’ll have plenty of time to see your friends after school.”

  Mike, who never saw anybody before or after school, nodded. His face was a picture of astonishment.

  “Iceman?” questioned Raymond in a rolling burp. “Him?”

  “Everybody calls him that,” Jeff offered dubiously. “It’s—all over the school.”

  “Oh, yeah,” agreed Wiley. “He’s very cool.”

  Charles nodded his approval.

  THE TOWN OF OLD ORCHARD, Pennsylvania, had never known two such close friends as Wiley Adamson and Jeff Greenbaum.