Tish leaned toward Adam. “You go write your hero stories. Big Adam going to save the Willows. Read all about it. Can’t get his own basketball back hisself, but he’s saving us. Just keep me out of it. And next time, get your own ball back, junior cheese.”
Adam felt awful. He was in a daze when he heard his name over the loudspeaker in math, summoning him to the office.
Mrs. Rose led him in and offered him milk and two Moisty Deluxe. “Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” she said. “Mrs. Quigley will be right in.”
It was amazing. When that evil Marris was principal, Mrs. Rose was known as the ominous Head. Now, working for Mrs. Quigley, she was the sugar-plum fairy.
Adam hoped it was a good omen. But when Mrs. Quigley walked in, she didn’t look sugary or plummy — she looked mad.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.
Adam’s heart sank. Danny was right: Beware of principals bearing cookies.
“Young man, I’ve been a principal twenty-five years in four schools, and NEVER have I seen such devious behavior. I am too old for this.” She yanked open a drawer, grabbed Adam’s confidential envelope, and shook the contents onto her desk.
“How did you get these score sheets?” she asked. “Students aren’t given copies of their raw scores.”
Adam hung his head.
“Now listen,” she said. “This may be the most important question you answer in your middle-school life: Did you take these score sheets without permission?”
Adam was looking down. “No,” he said.
“Did you break into Mr. Devillio’s files to get these?”
“No,” he said.
“Did you break into a classroom?”
“No.”
“A window?”
Adam looked at Mrs. Quigley. Did she know? She was eyeing him real close. Maybe it was his imagination, but she didn’t seem that worked up. Her face wasn’t purple.
“A window,” she repeated. “Did you climb in a window, young man?”
Climb in a window? “No!” Adam said cheerfully. “I definitely did not climb in any windows. If there’s one thing that is one hundred percent guaranteed, I did not climb in a window. If you need me to swear on my grandpa Harold’s holy grave —”
“I get it,” she interrupted. “Did someone hand you these score sheets?”
“No,” Adam said.
“Once more. How did you get them?”
Adam didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t give up Mr. Buchanan. Reporters had to protect their sources. Otherwise, no one would ever tell a reporter a secret again. What was he supposed to do?
He could not lie, and that wasn’t because he was such a moral human.
He couldn’t think of any believable lies fast enough that would stick.
“For the last time. How did you get those score sheets?”
“Please, Mrs. Quigley,” said Adam. “A reporter can’t give up his secret sources. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Quigley eyed him. “Secret sources,” she said. “I suppose next thing, you’ll be claiming protection under the First Amendment.”
Adam’s mind was racing. He needed all the protection he could get, but which amendment was that? He wished Jennifer was there. She had a great mind for remembering amendments. Every year, without fail, Adam did terribly on the U.S. Constitution unit. The teachers always talked about what an immortal document it was, and Adam had no doubt it would outlive him, but the words were so old-fashioned and general. The only amendment he could ever remember was the second, the right to bear arms. Guns! He could have used that amendment — he would have shot himself in the foot to distract Mrs. Quigley.
“I guarantee you,” she said, “I won’t be the last to ask you those questions. And I must say, you did fine. If you can keep this between us,” she said, “I’m just as happy not knowing how you got the goods.” She picked up the plate. “Another Moisty Deluxe?”
It took Adam several moments to realize what was happening, and then it all came flooding in and welling up. Jennifer was right. Mrs. Quigley was a force for good. Decency was not dead on the planet.
However, the cookies were not the only moisty thing in the room. Adam grabbed his handkerchief, gave a big blow and in the same motion, wiped those wet spots off his cheeks.
“Seems like everyone has a cold,” Mrs. Quigley said, smiling. “Must be the change of weather.”
Adam nodded; it was unbelievable how much the weather and everything else was changing. There was so much he wanted to say — he felt like giving this dear old acting principal the hug of the century. But he was so worked up, he couldn’t move a muscle, not even his lip muscles.
Lucky for Adam, he didn’t have to. Good reporters know when to keep their big mouths shut, and this was Adam’s opportunity. Mrs. Quigley had a plan.
“It isn’t perfect,” she said. “But in real life, we have to compromise. If the world were fair, the devil would get his due.”
Adam’s eyes bugged out. The Devil get his due? Mrs. Quigley knew, too?
“For the purposes of this conversation,” she said, “that’s devil getting his due with a small d.”
She said that after a long talk with Mr. Devillio, plus an in-depth review of certain documents, the science chairman now realized that there had been an “unfortunate mistabulation,” compounded by a “bureaucratic snafu” that had “impacted negatively, situationally speaking” on Adam’s project.
Adam’s score was 98, not 76.
The science chairman, of course, felt terrible. And as a result, he now saw Adam’s project in a new light, Mrs. Quigley reported.
Mr. Devillio now realized it was entirely possible that parents were doing too much.
“He did mention,” said Mrs. Quigley, “that just a few months ago he asked your class if parents were helping and everyone said no, including you.”
“Wait,” said Adam. “That’s not fair —”
“You wait,” said Mrs. Quigley. “I can envision what hearty give-and-take discussions Mr. Devillio encourages with his students.”
Mrs. Quigley wasn’t done. “Mr. Devillio and I agreed that the rescoring of your project did not need to be included in your news story. We agreed we could classify that as a private, teacher-student matter. I told him I didn’t think there’d be a problem leaving that out of the story. Was I right?”
Adam didn’t know what to say. He was so happy and couldn’t care less, as long as the score was fixed. But he was nervous he might be breaking some journalism tenets.
“We can still write about parents doing the projects?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Quigley. “And you can include a comment from the acting principal that she intends to form a committee to see whether projects can be done during school in order to create a more fair fair. Would there be room for a quote like that?”
“Well . . . sure,” said Adam. “Probably on the top of page one.”
“I think if you talk to Mr. Devillio, you’ll find he, too, supports this committee. And you’ll see how shocked and saddened he was to learn that parents were doing projects.”
“Shocked and saddened,” repeated Adam.
“Shocked and saddened,” said Mrs. Quigley. “So, that about does it for the science fair?”
When Adam nodded, she said, “One other thing. I saw you were on the list for in-school suspension. Would that by any chance have anything to do with this?”
“It might,” said Adam.
“Do I want to know the details?” Mrs. Quigley asked.
“Nope,” said Adam. “Don’t think you do.”
“Didn’t think so,” said Mrs. Quigley. “We’ll just sentence you to time served. Come on. I’ll walk you out.” As they headed to the main office, Mrs. Quigley asked how the bully survey turned out.
“Bad,” said Adam, filling her in on the problems with the vote and their worries about printing the names.
Mrs. Quigley listened carefully. Adam loved that. Sh
e seemed like the kind of near-extinct adult who actually heard what kids said.
“I blame myself,” she said when he’d finished. “I never should have allowed you to single out kids like that. I was thinking too much like a newspaperman’s daughter. Not enough like a principal. I figured a bully story might give us the chance to bring in some professionals to work with students on the problem. Pinpoint kids who needed help. What are we going to do, Adam?”
Adam was tempted to suggest that Mrs. Quigley might kill the story. Boy, would that let him and Jennifer off the hook.
But he didn’t think that was something a coeditor should suggest.
“I can’t just kill it,” she said. “That sends a bad message. Think. Wait — you did say seventy-five kids got at least one vote?” Mrs. Quigley slapped her hand on the counter. “I’ve got it!”
Everyone in the office looked up.
“Oops,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Sorry. Don’t mind me.” She motioned for Adam to come close and whispered in his ear.
Adam’s face brightened. “Not bad for a grown-up idea,” he said.
“Not bad at all,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Can you keep another secret?”
Adam nodded, but this time, Mrs. Quigley said it loud enough for everyone to hear. “I love a good newspaper.”
Jennifer’s mom drove them to the Tremble Zoning Board. Technically, Jennifer had not lied. She explained that they needed to interview Mrs. Boland about beautification.
Her mom was delighted. Being a garden club member plus a PTA leader, she was pro-beautification and in fact, was on the PTA committee making recommendations for beautifying Harris. “Amazing,” her mom said, when Jennifer explained why they needed a ride. “The Slash is writing some positive news?”
“Come on, Mom,” Jennifer said. “We wouldn’t do that.”
Somehow, Jennifer had forgotten to mention that their interview was about the Bolands’ beautification plan to flatten the Willows. Jennifer’s philosophy on this could be summed up in seven words: “Why upset Mom for no good reason?”
The coeditors had plenty of time to talk without worrying about Jennifer’s mom. She had her headset on and was making calls. It was what Jennifer and Adam loved about cell phones; your parents could be right there supervising you and still had no idea what you were up to.
“Why does Mrs. Boland want to do this in person?” Jennifer asked.
“To scare the crap out of us,” said Adam.
“It’s working,” said Jennifer.
“Never fear,” said Adam. He opened his backpack, pulled out a bag of pistachio nuts, and handed her a fistful. “Throw the shells in my backpack when you’re done,” he said.
“I’ve never seen you so calm in the face of certain doom,” she said. “Usually you’re the one falling apart. You do know that we’ve never been so doomed? If we don’t pull this off, we’re dead. And if we do, we’re dead. Mrs. Boland said herself — she’ll shut down the Slash or bring in her goons to mind us.”
Adam nodded. Jennifer was definitely right. “Want to hear something terrible?” he said. “I’m not sure I care. I am so worn out. Writing the truth about people is too hard. Everyone hates you.”
“I don’t hate you,” said Jennifer, handing him an opened pistachio nut as proof of their enduring friendship.
“You’re my coeditor; you have no choice.”
He’d already told Jennifer about his disastrous “interview” with Tish. “Me and Tish should be friends,” said Adam. “He’s a good guy, we both love hoops, but I’ve pissed him off so bad, he’ll never talk to me again. When you’re a reporter, you’re always keeping your distance from people because you might have to write something bad about them. You’re always the outsider.”
“Being a reporter doesn’t make you an outsider,” said Jennifer. “You become a reporter because you’re an outsider; it suits you.”
Adam didn’t know if she was right; he just felt a need to get way inside. At that moment, he would have loved being in the middle of a conga line.
He took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, stared out the window, and shelled some nuts. “Maybe you should’ve talked to Tish,” Adam said. “Maybe me being white made it worse. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get through.”
“I doubt I’d be better,” said Jennifer. “It probably’s a little bit about race stuff, but more rich-poor stuff.”
“Please,” said Adam. “I’m not rich.”
“Compared to Tish we are,” Jennifer said. “Look, don’t worry so much. Tish might feel different if we pull off this Willows story.”
“Right,” said Adam. “A happy ending. That would be a miracle.”
The van pulled into the circular drive leading to the Tremble offices. “How are you so calm?” Jennifer asked.
“Secret weapon,” said Adam.
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s better you don’t know,” he said. “Just don’t worry about her cornering us, like in 306. We can leave anytime we want.”
“How will I know when it’s time?” asked Jennifer.
“When Mrs. Boland starts screaming,” he said, “it’s time.”
“A hint,” she pleaded.
“Notice anything about me?” he asked.
“You mean your hair’s combed, your shirt’s tucked in, and you appear to have bathed within the last month?”
“Right,” said Adam. “You said yourself, clean hands and a clean county.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Jennifer.
“Sorry,” he said. “You used up your one hint.”
He pulled out his handkerchief and gave a honk.
“Your cold’s driving me crazy,” she said. “You’ve had it forever. Are you taking something?”
“Not yet,” said Adam. “I still need it.”
From the front of the van they could hear Jennifer’s mom hanging up. “It’s amazing how you can keep on top of everything with these phones,” her mom said.
“Really, Mom,” said Jennifer. “You are on top of it.”
“Amazing,” said Adam.
“Now, remember,” said Jennifer’s mom. “It’s an honor having an interview with someone as important as Mrs. Boland. If you make a good impression, someday it could lead to a summer internship at the Citizen-Gazette or Boland News 12.”
“Right, Mom,” said Jennifer. “Working for Bolandvision would be great.”
“Amazing,” said Adam.
Jennifer’s mom was going to the mall and said she’d back in an hour.
“Oh no,” said Adam. “We won’t need an hour. Twenty minutes, max.”
“What?” said Jennifer.
“Trust me,” said Adam.
The office was on the top floor of the county building. It was nothing like the shabby, cramped Code Enforcement room in the subbasement where they’d interviewed Herb and Herb the previous fall.
When the attendant opened the elevator gate, Jennifer and Adam stepped onto wall-to-wall carpeting done in a tasteful muted brown. The doors leading to each department were glass, and the desks where the receptionists sat were made of mahogony with large county seals in the middle.
“Hi,” Jennifer said. “We’re from —”
“They’re expecting you,” said the receptionist. “Clarence will be out shortly.”
Clarence was short, thin, and dressed stylishly in a black three-button suit with a black turtleneck and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He had shaggy hair that was a mix of blond and black, like Mrs. Boland’s. Adam had the weirdest thought: Clarence had been dressed by Mrs. Boland.
The coeditors followed Clarence down a hallway and into a magnificent boardroom that was dominated by a glass table so long that a dozen stuffed chairs fit on each side. It was a corner office, and two of the walls were windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Looking out, they could see for miles. Adam thought it would be fun working so high up, like having an office in the climbing tree.
Along the other two walls we
re several maps. The largest had a banner that read TREMBLE PLANS FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.
Inspirational slogans bordered the maps. One said PERSONAL NEATNESS AND COUNTY BEAUTIFICATION GO HAND IN HAND. Another said, EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE — NOW!! There were two doors, and behind one, Adam guessed, in her private office, lurked Mrs. Boland.
“MRS. BOLAND,” Clarence said — and the coeditors snapped to attention —“will be out soon.” Clarence walked over to one of the doors and opened it. Adam and Jennifer tensed; they were expecting Mrs. Boland to leap out, like a circus tiger.
“The washroom. Would you mind cleaning your hands?” said Clarence, gesturing to the PERSONAL NEATNESS sign. “It’s one of Mrs. Boland’s eccentricities.”
Adam and Jennifer looked at each other, but said nothing. While Adam was inside, he gave his nose one final blow to freshen up his handkerchief.
Clarence put place mats in front of them so they wouldn’t get marks on the glass table. He hurried to the sideboard, where a silver coffeepot along with white, flowered china cups were set up, and poured a spot of coffee into a cup. He tasted it, then hurried to the washroom and returned with the cup, clean and dry.
“You’ve met Mrs. Boland,” said Clarence, “so you know she’ll be in a much better mood if everything proceeds in an orderly fashion. Sit up straight. I must say, I’m very pleased. Based on what I heard, I thought you”— he pointed at Adam —“would be problematic. But you look sooo handsome today. Do you play sports? . . . I knew it! And you,” he said to Jennifer. “Your outfit is sensational. Is that a Klarey Konner micromini? . . . I knew it! As they say on Broadway, you’ve got the figure for it, toots.”
Adam was surprised. This Clarence seemed nice.
“Now, I’d be the first to admit,” Clarence continued, “Mrs. Boland isn’t the easiest person. But she is such a good woman. She really cares about people and making the world better. You probably don’t know, but she is the number-one supporter of the Tremble Symphony Orchestra, the Tremble Opera, and the county libraries. It’s a lot of work. And sometimes, she just feels she has to do it all herself or it won’t be done right. Maybe she’s too much that way, but only because she cares. Now she has something to show you. She’s very excited. She really hopes you’ll like it. We’ve worked so hard on this. It would mean so much if you could reach a compromise with her. She doesn’t want to have to . . . you know . . .”
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 17
