“You know his answer?” asked Jennifer.
“I totally give,” said Phoebe.
“For every word in that book, there were ten that he cut,” she said. “By cutting and making sure he chose the right word, he turned an eight-hundred-and-sixty-four-page first draft into a one-hundred-twenty-page book. That’s what they mean when they say less is more. So how about if you stop looking at the ceiling and we’ll figure out the best way to redo this.”
“That’s a pretty good story,” said Phoebe. “Only one thing. If less is more, how come the fourth Harry Potter is seven hundred thirty-four pages?”
“What?” said Jennifer.
“And the fifth is eight hundred seventy pages.”
“She has a point,” said Adam.
“Shut up!” shouted Jennifer. “Phoebe, you unflop your head right now and sit up. We’re going to edit this story, and it’s going to come in at somewhere under eight hundred seventy pages!”
“Geez,” said Phoebe, straightening up at long last. “No need to get worked up. You sound like him.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” said Adam. “Jennifer, you have to work on controlling your outbursts.”
“Right,” said Jennifer. “Phoebe, pull out your notes. Maybe that’ll help me figure this out.”
Phoebe produced a folder, which Jennifer pored through, asking several questions.
“Ahhh,” Jennifer finally said. “I think I get it. The state has been sued a bunch of times because old trees keep falling on people. And these lawsuits blame the state for not keeping a close eye on dangerous trees. And when these people sue, they can get lots of money from the state. So to save money, the state decided to cut down old trees before they fall on anybody. And they’re going to hold a hearing in March to let people know.”
“I think that’s it,” said Phoebe.
“Then why didn’t you put the state’s reason in?” asked Jennifer. “There’s nothing about dangerous trees falling on people.”
Phoebe flopped her head back again, but Jennifer jumped up, grabbed Phoebe’s head, and set it straight. “No way,” said Jennifer. “We’re done flopping. Why isn’t it in the story?”
With their faces so close, the tear rolling down Phoebe’s cheek looked huge. “Oh geez, Phoebe, forget it,” said Jennifer. “No big deal.”
Adam handed Phoebe a tissue.
“I bet you were afraid if you put the state’s reason in,” Adam said, “it would be bad for the tree.”
Phoebe nodded through her sniffles.
“I love that tree, too,” Adam said.
Adam spent the evening making calls to people on his To-Do list. His goal was to get the list down to two feet.
Right away, he knew he’d dialed the right number for Mrs. Willard, the lady from the Willows, because from the first hello, she was yelling.
“My name’s on that federal No Call list!” she hollered. “No way you sales vultures can call me.” And she slammed down the phone.
Adam pressed redial.
“You again,” she yelled. “I’m going to star-sixty-nine you so fast, your head’ll spin. Consider yourself reported to the proper authorities. Hope you’re set for a ten-thousand-dollar fine — and that’s just first offenders, which I’m sure is not you.”
“Mrs. Willard,” Adam pleaded, “stop. It’s me, Adam. Adam Canfield of the Slash. Remember? You helped me on the story about Miss Bloch leaving her money to Harris.”
The line was quiet. She must have been debating whether to star-69 him. Finally she said, “How I know it’s you?”
“If it wasn’t me,” said Adam, “would I know you make really good cocoa with little bobbing marshmallows?”
“That is me,” she said. “So this must be you. How you doing, Adam?”
They had a nice time catching up. Mrs. Willard apologized for not calling after his story came out to say how much she’d enjoyed it — especially the part about her being a superb neighbor. And Adam apologized for not stopping by, like he’d promised.
Then he explained that they were trying to do a story on renaming the street in the Willows for Dr. King. He told her how the school had big plans for a celebration but no date yet. He said they didn’t know exactly what was going on but smelled a rat.
“Bless your little white nose,” said Mrs. Willard. “Ain’t a thing wrong with your olfactory sense, child. A rat it is.”
Adam was excited and asked if it was OK to take notes.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Willard. “You going to put me in every article you write? I’m not looking to be a regular feature in that Slash.” She said he needed to speak to their minister at the Pine Street AME Zion Church. She said this was too touchy for someone like her, with loose lips and a waggy tongue. She suggested that Adam come by on Sunday, around three. The church mothers were holding their winter buffet. “Good eatin’,” said Mrs. Willard.
“Oh, it won’t be me,” said Adam, explaining that Jennifer was doing the story.
“Wait,” said Mrs. Willard. “I been expecting you. I know I can trust you. I seen you doing your reportering live-at-five. This story is easy to take the wrong way. I don’t know no Jennifer.”
“She’s great,” said Adam. “She was the byline with me on the Miss Bloch story. She’s my coeditor. Actually, I’m her coeditor. She’s a better editor than me. The whole paper would collapse without Jennifer.”
“That so?” said Mrs. Willard. “You sweet on that girl?”
“Nah,” said Adam.
“That so?” said Mrs. Willard. “Guess I got that wrong. Please accept my apologies. I was hallucinating. Now I sure hope I can trust you, child. This so-called friend Jennifer — she going to be comfortable in a church full of black folk?”
“I think so,” said Adam. “Jennifer’s black.”
“That so?” said Mrs. Willard. “Whose girl is she? She’s not in the Willows?”
Adam told Mrs. Willard about Jennifer’s parents, her mom being a PTA honcho, her dad a lawyer in the city, her third-grade twin sisters, their dog SayHey, their house in River Bluffs.
“River Bluffs,” repeated Mrs. Willard. “Sounds like you got yourself one of them rich Jennifers.”
“Jennifer’s not like that,” said Adam. “She’s not snotty, Mrs. Willard. She’s pretty normal. Honest.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mrs. Willard. “OK. I guess that’ll have to do. Reverend Shorty’s a big man; he can take care of himself. We going to find out exactly how normal your Jennifer is.”
Adam thanked her and crossed her off his To-Do list. But Mrs. Willard wasn’t done. “While I got you,” she said, “there’s a bigger story here in the Willows. I tried to tell you last time you was here. You know how Minnie’s house was boarded up —”
“Mrs. Willard,” said Adam. “Can I ask a favor? Would you mind telling Jennifer? My To-Do list — it’s almost four feet long.”
“All righty,” said Mrs. Willard. “Forget it. You got what you wanted. You got to be going now.” And she hung up.
Adam called his grown-up friend Danny several times, but kept getting the answering machine. He needed to talk to someone about the shoveling case and knew Danny would be honest with him. His parents were being so nice, it was wearing him out. They kept asking how he was feeling. “You OK, Adam?” “Anything you want to discuss, Adam?” They were overjoyed that he’d come out of his room, but it was like they were checking to see if he’d crack up again. He didn’t know how to answer them. And their nervousness made him nervous that he wasn’t nervous enough.
Adam wanted to know if Danny thought he’d have to testify in court. What would happen when Adam said he’d seen only two kids’ faces? Should he pretend he saw them all? He didn’t even know who grabbed him from behind.
Adam sent Danny e-mails but got no response, which was strange. When Danny was worked up, he could shoot Adam ten e-mails an hour.
Where was Danny?
And Danny wasn’t the only one missing. Adam had no luck reaching
Outraged Single Mother for his science fair investigation and after leaving several messages, crossed her off his list.
It was an amazing weekend, the kind that comes once a winter. After two months of temperatures ranging from single digits to the thirties, a warm front sneaked in from the south. It was in the high fifties and felt warmer. Adam couldn’t figure it out. In summer, if the temperature dropped to the fifties, he was freezing and needed a heavy sweatshirt. But in winter, if it went up to the fifties, a T-shirt and sports shorts were plenty. He’d once asked Danny, who explained that Adam had pinpointed a classic example of Bernoulli’s inverse windchill phenomenon. However, Adam was never sure if it was that or if he’d pinpointed a case of Danny teasing him.
Whichever, the soft breeze off the river made Adam hungry to play ball at the Rec courts. Those courts were the center of basketball in Adam’s part of Tremble. There were six outdoor hoops and lights for night play. Even grown-ups came around for games.
The bad news was that Adam had swim practice. The good news was that the pool was near the courts. So, along with his swim things, Adam took a bag with a basketball and money for food. Danny had once said that a basketball and a few dollars were all a kid needed for a happy life, and Adam agreed.
The courts looked great. The snow had melted, and someone was out early to squeegee away the puddles. For a long time, Adam shot alone. When he got warm, he took off his sweatshirt and sweatpants. As more kids showed and the courts filled, boys asked to shoot with him. He played several two-on-two and three-on-three half-court games. They always chose his ball. It was a good feeling, having a ball older kids respected.
By late morning, most of the first stringers from the Harris team showed up, including Tish. They nodded from a distance. Tish wasn’t angry anymore; he’d wiped Adam all over the court the last two practices.
They were choosing teams for a full-court game — a lot of ninth and tenth graders, maybe two-thirds of them black. Tish was picked early. When each team needed one more, Tish leaned his head toward the tenth grader making the picks, who pointed at Adam and said, “Him.”
Taking advantage of Bernoulli’s inverse windchill, they played skins and shirts. Adam was relieved to be a shirt; his body was pretty skinny. He hit one outside shot, but that was all he took. They didn’t know him, rarely passed to him. Mostly he touched the ball when he stole it or a rebound bounced his way. Then he’d dish off quick, usually to Tish.
As morning passed into afternoon, more older kids came. Some were high-school players, some out of high school. The next full-court game, Tish was the only middle-schooler picked.
Adam was ready to go, but they were using his ball. He’d waited too long to say something. He decided to hang around until the game ended and plopped down on the sideline, his back against the chain-link fence.
From his bag, he pulled out a can of iced tea and drained it. He was starving and considered going back to the Rec pool and getting something from the vending machines, but figured he’d better stay and watch his ball.
“Noticing anything about how the courts are nice and dry?”
Adam startled. What jerk was talking in his ear?
He turned from the game to look over his shoulder. Someone was crouching on the other side of the fence, his head inches from Adam’s. Adam was about to make a comment, then realized who it was.
“Hey, Shadow,” said Adam. “How’s it going?”
“I don’t know,” said the other boy. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” said Adam. “Couldn’t be better.” As Adam stood to talk more easily, the other boy stood too, his timing in sync with Adam’s. He moved like Adam’s reflection.
Shadow’s face was pressed against the chain links, and Adam backed up a step so their noses wouldn’t bump. The boy was wearing a bubble jacket that was too big zipped to his chin, and his fingers were hidden in the jacket’s arms. An orange wool cap covered his ears.
“Aren’t you warm?” asked Adam. “It’s like spring.”
“It is not like spring,” said Shadow. “Spring begins March twentieth.” He pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Today is January thirtieth, 1:23 P.M. Definitely winter.”
“You’re a hard man to argue with,” said Adam.
“I am a hard man to argue with,” said Shadow. “Why is that?”
“You just know a lot of stuff,” said Adam.
Shadow nodded. “I do,” said Shadow. “Not every watch has the date. Want to see?” He held it against the fence for Adam, then looked at it again himself. “It’s the numbers in the little square. Still January thirtieth,” said Shadow. “Except 1:24 P.M. One minute since I checked.”
Adam nodded. Shadow was definitely not the easiest person to talk to. He was at Harris Middle, too, but was in special ed, the famous Room 107A. A few geniuses actually called him “107A,” though mostly he was Shadow. The boy had this uncanny ability to suddenly materialize and, if he liked you, follow you around asking questions. Adam occasionally noticed him around town at odd hours — early Saturday morning, when Adam was going to swim practice, or weekday nights, if Adam had a baseball game under the lights.
Always alone.
Adam had been in his class one year in the early grades. His real name was Theodore. Adam couldn’t remember his other name and didn’t see him much now. Since middle school, Adam had been in honors classes and Shadow wasn’t in any of those.
It was easy to tell there was something off about Shadow; his questions could get really annoying. But the stuff he said was surprising, too. He had such a fresh take on things — it made Adam smile inside. Shadow wasn’t stupid; it was more complicated than that, but he sure didn’t say stuff the regular way.
“It’s not polite not to answer a person’s question,” said Shadow. “You know that.”
“Uh-oh,” said Adam. “Did I not answer a question?”
“You did not answer a question,” said Shadow. “Do you want to know the question?” Adam nodded. “The question was, ‘Noticing anything about how the courts are nice and dry?’”
“Oh, right,” said Adam. “They are nice and dry.”
“I guess you want to know who made them nice and dry,” said Shadow.
It was Shadow, of course. He told Adam that he had a job working as a special assistant to Mr. Johnny Stack, supervisor for the Tremble Recreation Department. Shadow described how he’d broomed and squeegeed the court — puddle by puddle — plus all the other things he did for his job, like picking up trash, putting up the goalie nets on the roller rink, and painting the benches at the tennis courts. “I make four dollars an hour, cash on the barrel,” said Shadow. “Mr. Johnny Stack pays me off the books, so don’t worry about it. Mr. Johnny Stack says, best not to tell too many people. Why did I tell you?”
“It’s OK,” said Adam. “I’ll keep it secret.”
“Just telling one person,” said Shadow, “is not telling too many people.”
Adam glanced over his shoulder. Was this game ever going to end?
“Want to see my Roger Clemens rookie card?” Shadow said. He took his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out the card, which was framed in clear plastic. “No one can touch it except me,” he said. “Nearly mint condition.”
The game was winding down, finally. Adam wanted to get going and said so to Shadow. Most kids would have understood, but Shadow wasn’t great at taking hints.
“I know something about you that you don’t know about me,” said Shadow.
“I give,” said Adam.
“It’s not polite to give up too fast,” said Shadow. “You have to say an answer.”
Adam tried to think of something. “You can touch your tongue to your nose and I can’t,” he said.
“Can I do that?” said Shadow, sticking out his tongue but not reaching his nose. “I didn’t know if I could. But I can’t.”
“Can I give up?” asked Adam.
“Yes,” said Shadow. “The thing I know about you that
you don’t know about me is my brother’s been arrested —”
“Wow, you know lots of stuff,” said Adam, who was watching the game again. Adam was remembering how you could give Shadow pat answers to keep the conversation moving without draining your brain.
“Next basket wins!” a kid hollered. Adam needed to slip in and get his ball. He needed something to eat, too — he was starved.
“He’s going to jail,” said Shadow. “Guess who —”
Adam felt bad ignoring Shadow, but he just wanted to go home. His patience was about over. “I give,” said Adam.
“It’s not polite to give too fast,” said Shadow. “You have to answer. Mr. Johnny Stack says conversation is a two-way street.”
Adam did not have a clue what they were talking about. “Hot fudge sundae,” said Adam, who was wishing for one right now.
“That does not count,” said Shadow. “You’re supposed to guess a person who’s making my brother —”
“What person?” said Adam, who was completely lost.
A heavy kid banked in a shot and someone shouted, “Game!” Kids were giving each other fives and knucks.
“Guess who is making my brother go to jail,” said Shadow.
Adam hurried onto the court. A tall kid had his ball. The boy was moving off the court, dribbling and talking to a friend. Adam just wanted to grab his ball and go.
“You have to answer,” called Shadow. “It’s not polite.”
Adam trotted up to the tall kid. “Need my ball,” Adam said, trying to sound casual. “Got to go.”
The tall boy stopped and looked at Adam like Adam was garbage. “I don’t know nothing about this being your ball,” the tall boy said. “I don’t see no name, and I sure don’t see your fingerprints. Be getting home, junior cheese; you don’t want to be starting.”
“You have to answer!” Shadow yelled, his face pressed against the fence.
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 6
