“What did you do?” yelled his mother. “Where do I begin? You failed to show up for detention, not that you felt you should tell us you even had a detention. Two detentions, no less. So now it’s strike three! Let me shake your hand. Please, stand to accept the award. You’ve won a day of in-school suspension. What’s going on? You bomb at the science fair, but you’re number one with the Dean of Discipline?”
Adam felt enormous relief. That was all? He’d done it! He pumped his fist.
The moment he did, he knew it was a mistake.
“You’re celebrating?” It was his father’s turn. “Do you know what they call someone who does something wrong and feels no remorse? A sociopath! You know what happens to sociopaths? They grow up to be serial killers. They murder innocent people and sit in the courtroom smirking.”
“No, Dad, I swear, I’m sorry. I wasn’t happy about getting in trouble. I was just afraid it was something worse.”
“Worse?” said his father. “There’s something worse? Adam, we’re on the slippery slope. No science fair medal. Suspended from school. I notice your hair’s getting a little long. Half the time, your baseball cap’s on backward. What’s next?”
Adam dropped his head. He tried to look like a person who would never smirk in a courtroom.
He blew his nose.
It might have worked. His parents left the room and were whispering.
When they returned, they started by saying that they knew he was a good boy and was under a lot of pressure.
Then they said they were worried he might have been traumatized by being mugged and felt it would be good for him to see a therapist. They kept emphasizing that his problems seemed to have started after the mugging. “It doesn’t mean we think you’re crazy,” said his father. “It just means it might be good if you talked things out with someone. Even this cold you have. Emotional problems can lead to physical illness.”
Adam considered protesting. The only reason he had a cold was that his baseball coach believed in practicing in level-five hurricanes.
But Adam held his tongue. Things were going too good. All he said was “OK.”
When his dad went to get the car keys, Adam sat back and let out his breath. He’d pulled it off. It was the second terrific thing that happened to him in twenty-four hours.
The night before, he’d lain in bed and thanked God for putting Mr. Buchanan’s room on the first floor.
Jennifer and Phoebe walked into 306, looked at each other, dropped their backpacks, executed synchronized swoons, and fell to the floor, apparently dead.
“Very funny,” said Adam, who was finishing putting toner in the Slash copy machine. “You guys are hilarious. I assume you know that slapstick is the lowest form of humor.”
Phoebe lifted her head. “The pun is the lowest form of humor,” she said, and flopped back to a dead position.
“You two can stay dead the rest of your lives for all I care,” said Adam. “I will never enter a room again without knowing the location of the nearest copy machine.” He took out the two science fair score sheets and made copies. “Too bad you’re dead,” he said. “These may be the most important documents ever to enter this room.”
Immediately Phoebe jumped to her feet. “The Top Ten Bully list!” she shouted. “Let me see.”
“Get back,” said Adam. “I liked you better when you were dead.”
Jennifer was still on the floor but now was glaring at the ceiling. “Phoebe!” she said. “I told you the coeditors had things to do before showing you the list. I told you we were afraid the list would hurt some good people. Is any of this familiar?”
“Yeah,” said Phoebe. “But I thought maybe the junior coeditor was finished.”
“I just told you on the way up,” said Jennifer. “Ten seconds ago.”
“I see your point,” said Phoebe.
The three gathered at the newsroom conference table — a picnic bench that some editor years ago had saved from the trash. “So here’s the good news,” said Jennifer. “The public meeting on the three-hundred-year-old tree was great, plus Phoebe dug up amazing stuff from her secret iceberger sources.”
Phoebe was beaming shamelessly.
“It’s nice to see you happy,” Jennifer said. “Tell the junior coeditor what you got.”
“Quite a story,” Phoebe said. “But to appreciate it, you have to go back to ancient Mesopotamia . . .”
Adam shot Jennifer a panicked look.
“Phoebe, we’re in a hurry,” said Jennifer. “How about if I tell Adam how you nailed it for the front page?”
“Front page?” said Phoebe. She leaped up and started sashaying her hips and snapping her fingers in the latest version of her renowned front-page dance. “The streak goes on!”
Jennifer motioned for quiet. She explained that to determine the sturdiness of the climbing tree, the state forestry department took borings of the trunk and discovered that the tree is a shell with a two-foot hollow center shaft surrounded by an outer ring of solid wood one foot wide that supports the tree.
“Sounds like it might fall any second,” said Adam.
“Exactly my reaction,” Jennifer said.
“This is the front-page part,” said Phoebe. “The streak goes on!”
It was nowhere near that bad. After reading Phoebe’s first story in the Slash, a secret source mailed her an inspection report of the tree that was done twenty years ago by the Tremble Nature Center. That old study calculated that the climbing tree had a two-foot hollow shaft and a solid outer ring one foot wide. “In other words,” said Jennifer, “the tree is exactly as strong today as twenty years ago. Nothing changed!”
“And for those twenty years,” said Phoebe, “it never fell once. Baby, the streak goes on.”
Adam was impressed, but Phoebe made it hard to say so.
“It’s a bit more complicated,” said Jennifer.
“I’m really not sure we need this next part,” said Phoebe. “It just slows down the story.”
“Fairness,” said Jennifer, “remember? The golden rule of journalism? Give both sides of the story.”
At the public meeting, a forester told the audience about the 1802 copper beech tree at West Point Military Academy. In August 1989, experts finished an inspection, pronounced the tree hardy, and predicted it could live another hundred years.
“The next day,” said Jennifer, “the trunk split in half. All that’s left is a desk.”
“Whoa,” said Adam.
“So even though Phoebe’s iceberg reporting has probably saved the climbing tree,” said Jennifer, “we have to make clear that when it comes to old trees . . .”
“No guarantees,” said Adam.
“I’m still not sure we need that last part,” said Phoebe.
After Phoebe left, the coeditors discussed the Willows story, which was nearly done. They loved the way one source led them to the next source, one story to the next story.
Adam’s visit to the Willows last fall for the story about Miss Bloch’s gift to Harris led them to Mrs. Willard.
And Mrs. Willard led them to Pine Street Church.
And that led them to Reverend Shorty, who helped them on the Dr. King story.
And the Dr. King story gave Reverend Shorty confidence to trust them for the story about the Bolands buying up the Willows.
This time, Reverend Shorty gave Jennifer several juicy quotes on the record.
“If they keep boarding up homes,” he said, “pretty soon there will be no houses left in Tremble that average working people can afford.”
And: “Many children now attending Harris Elementary/Middle will be forced to move away.”
They had just two things to do. They still had to interview kids from the Willows. Reverend Shorty gave Jennifer names of several families, plus there was Tish. Jennifer asked Adam to interview him; she said she’d feel funny doing it, after she and Tish had talked about it as friends.
“Friends?” said Adam.
“Just fr
iends,” said Jennifer.
“OK,” said Adam.
Last and worst, Mrs. Boland had to be interviewed. “I dread that,” Jennifer said. “I felt like she held us prisoner in our own newsroom.”
“Don’t worry,” said Adam. “I’ve got a secret plan. She won’t trap us again. I dreamed about it.” Adam blew his nose.
“What secret plan?” asked Jennifer.
“You’re looking at it,” said Adam, blowing his nose again. But that was all Jennifer got out of him.
He did, however, have lots to say about his science fair investigation, and after swearing Jennifer to top secrecy, told the whole story of the visit to Mr. Buchanan’s room.
Then he explained how he was going to fix his science fair grade. He would go to Devillio and confront the man with the two score sheets. He wanted to see Devillio beg for forgiveness. And if Devillio dared rip up the evidence, Adam would flash two fresh copies right in his pathetic face. “He’ll never forget my name again,” said Adam.
“No offense,” said Jennifer. “That’s a rotten plan.” She accused Adam of letting “blood lust for sweet revenge” cloud his judgment. She said that if Adam went to him first, it would give Devillio the chance to twist things around and blame Mr. Buchanan. She said that Devillio would probably run to the principal and act like he deserved credit for uncovering this terrible plot. Then Devillio would look like the hero and Mr. Buchanan would get fired.
Jennifer believed that Adam’s best hope was Mrs. Quigley. He needed to show her the two sets of science fair grades, explain his project, and then tell her what Devillio did.
“You think I can trust Mrs. Quigley?” Adam said. “Remember how she left us trapped in 306 with Mrs. Boland?”
“Remember how she gave us cookies and told us her dad was a newspaperman?” said Jennifer.
“Remember how nice the witch was in the first half of Hansel and Gretel?” said Adam. “And remember the oven in the second half?”
Jennifer tore a page from her notebook. On one side she wrote Mr. Devillio’s name, on the other Mrs. Quigley’s. “OK,” she said. “Let’s put down all the positive reasons for going to Devillio first.”
Adam thought about it. He tapped his forehead to loosen up his brain juices.
All he could think of was blood lust for sweet revenge.
The next morning, Adam stopped in the office and told Mrs. Rose he needed to see the principal. “It’s important,” he said, waving a sealed envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL.
Mrs. Rose said the principal was busy, but he could leave the envelope.
Adam hesitated.
“Don’t worry, Adam,” said Mrs. Rose, smiling kindly. “I won’t lose it.”
“It’s not that,” said Adam. “I made fifty copies of everything.”
“Then we’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Rose. “Normally, the most we ever lose is twenty or thirty copies.”
“Want to see my Roger Clemens rookie card?” Shadow said. “No one can touch it except me. Nearly mint condition.”
Jennifer nodded. This was the eighth time she’d seen it since Shadow joined the Slash. He held Roger up to her face. Jennifer liked looking at the card. It made Shadow happy.
She was dreading what she had to say. She figured that every day Shadow got treated ten times more unfairly than most kids. Now it was her turn. Her great bully survey.
“Roger Clemens must be your favorite,” said Shadow. “You’re really looking a lot. Mr. Johnny Stack says, ‘Don’t let anyone near that card too long — it might disappear.’”
“I’m sorry,” said Jennifer. “I was kind of lost in thought. Was that too long?”
“It was,” said Shadow. “Forty-five seconds. Mr. Johnny Stack says, ‘Anything more than thirty seconds is getting to be a lot.’ You want to see my watch? It has the date, too. There’s no time limit for seeing my watch.”
Jennifer shook her head. “What I want to do,” said Jennifer, “is apologize.”
“Apologize?” Shadow looked surprised. Finally he said, “Did you not listen to a good person who was trying to tell you something important?”
Jennifer was lost.
“That’s why Adam apologized,” said Shadow.
“No, that’s not it,” said Jennifer.
Shadow took a deep sniff. “I don’t smell a fart.”
Jennifer burst out laughing. “Shadow,” she said, touching his arm. “That’s bad manners.”
“No,” said Shadow. “It’s bad manners to fart in public,” and he took another sniff. “It’s not bad manners not to fart. You’re OK as far as I can tell.”
“Not totally OK,” said Jennifer. Slowly, she led up to the bad news, telling him how they had assumed the bully list would be full of mean kids who deserved to be shamed, how she and Adam had felt sick after they counted the votes, and how they decided they couldn’t kill the story, though they wanted to.
Shadow nodded, saying nothing.
“Some kids treated the survey like a goof,” Jennifer continued. “They voted for people who should not be on the list because — I don’t know — they’re jerks and bullies themselves. They used the secret ballot to be mean.”
He kept nodding. Did Shadow have a clue what she was talking about? “Are you following me?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“And one of the kids they did this to was you. You shouldn’t be, but you’re a top ten bully.”
She was bracing herself, but he just kept looking at her. “Say something. Please.”
“You’re not mad at me?” said Shadow. “I checked 162 kids voting and that bossy, short girl —”
“Phoebe,” said Jennifer.
“That bossy one did 161. But she would do 162, too, except there was no more one to do. So it couldn’t be 161 + 1, 162, same as me. It was 161 + 0. Is that why you’re mad?”
“Oh, Shadow, I’m not mad at you — I’m mad at me,” said Jennifer. “I’m mad at the idiots who saw you and wrote your name for a joke.”
He was quiet, then said, “So many people know me. Before, only 107A knew. Now all them know me.”
“That’s not how you want to be known,” said Jennifer. “It’s not fair or true.” She hesitated. “A lot of those kids voted for you just because you are 107A.”
Shadow nodded. “Mr. Johnny Stack says there’s a lot of anti-dismental people. He says, ‘Theodore, just go about your business and ignore the fools and you’ll be fine.’ So, that’s what I do. Ignore the fools and I’ll be fine.”
“Ignore the fools,” repeated Jennifer. “We should make that the official Slash motto. And you know what? The kids in 306, we know how great you are.”
“Yup,” said Shadow, “a lot of people know me these days.”
Jennifer wanted to shout with joy. She asked if she could give Shadow a hug.
“Nope,” he said.
“Oh, come on,” said Jennifer, stretching her arms toward him.
Shadow backed off. “No hugs,” he said, gazing down. “I do not like hugs.”
“How about a handshake?” asked Jennifer. “That OK?”
“That would be OK,” he said.
Jennifer extended her hand, and Shadow gave her a firm, forthright handshake, just like he’d learned in his life skills class.
Adam’s talk with Tish did not go nearly so well. Tish and his buddies were at their lunch table, and Adam asked to talk to him alone. They walked over to an empty spot along the wall.
“Ain’t basketball season,” said Tish. “Since when you looking for me out of season?”
“Right,” said Adam. “Like you’re calling me every minute to hang out.”
“No biggy,” said Tish. “Just saying. Seems a little questionable.”
“This isn’t why,” said Adam, “but I’ve got to tell you something I should’ve said a long time ago.” He thanked Tish for that day at the courts. “No joke,” said Adam. “That big kid would have walked off with my ball. Or beat the crap out of me.”
“No p
rob,” said Tish. “I didn’t do nothing. Just a mix-up. That boy didn’t know he was messing with the best white point guard at Harris.”
“Very funny,” said Adam. “You wait, my growth spurt’s coming.”
“I’m worried,” said Tish, smiling.
“I can tell,” said Adam.
Adam said there were two things he needed to talk about. He told Tish how the Slash was going to write about the Bolands and try to save the Willows. He told Tish they wanted to show that Willows kids who go to Harris could be forced to move away.
Adam asked if he could interview Tish.
Adam figured this would soften up Tish before talking about that stupid bully survey. Adam was sure Tish would appreciate it.
Big mistake.
Tish said he didn’t want anyone knowing his private business, including where he lived. He said he didn’t need to be saved, didn’t need people feeling sorry for “poor Willows children,” and he could take care of himself fine. “What you write in your paper don’t have nothing to do with me,” he said.
Adam stood there, mute.
“You said two things,” Tish went on. “Come on, I got to be going. I don’t got time for this pretend crap.”
It was hard for Adam to tell Tish about the bully survey fast and include all the apologizing he’d planned to do.
Tish cut him off way before the end.
“How many black boys on that list?” Tish said. “There any whites?”
Adam explained that the top vote-getter was white.
“That kid’s an animal,” said Tish. “He’d be in juvey lockup, except who his parents are. I’m on a list with him?” He grabbed Adam by the shirt and pulled him close. “You make me puke,” Tish said. “You don’t know nothing about me. You don’t know how I live.”
A lunch aide hurried over. “Gentlemen, are we having a problem?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Tish. “I’m bullying this poor boy.” He thrust out his hands. “Cuff me. I’ll go peaceful.”
“There’s no problem,” said Adam. “Just joking around. Ha, ha.”
The aide gave them a hard look. “I’m watching,” she said.
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 16
