Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  She tried pushing deeper under the covers, then froze. It was Saturday. No school! No church! A wave of joy surged through her and she sat bolt upright.

  Until it all came back: she was going to the mall to baby-sit Phoebe for the smile contest story. Instantly, all the juices drained out of her, and Jennifer flopped back on the pillow.

  She hated Adam.

  The two girls met at 11:30, a half-hour before the contest. Phoebe was standing with her mom, and as Jennifer walked up, she could hear Phoebe hissing, “You can go now, Mom. Really, you can go. Bye, Mom. I mean it.”

  “Hello, you must be Phoebe’s mother,” Jennifer said in a reassuring coeditor’s voice. Then Jennifer explained that her parents had some shopping to do and would be happy to take the two girls home.

  It was easy to see Phoebe had thought of everything. Her hair was in a ponytail with two barrettes on each side so her bangs didn’t fall in her eyes when she took notes. She wore pants with a back pocket for a reporter’s notebook and kept sliding her hand back there to make sure the notepad hadn’t fallen out.

  “Got plenty of pens?” asked Jennifer, knowing the answer, but trying to make conversation.

  “Right here,” said Phoebe, twirling around to show Jennifer her leather backpack. “Eight pens, plus a camera and two extra notebooks.”

  “Whoa,” said Jennifer. “You covering a smile contest or an earthquake?”

  “I know what you mean,” said Phoebe, “but I was surprised — for the Eddie the janitor story, I filled two reporter’s notebooks on both sides. The first time I interviewed Eddie, I was thinking, I’m going to get one page of notes, at most. He kept answering yes, no, yes, no. When I asked him to tell me his life story, he said, ‘Young lady, there’s not much to tell.’”

  “I hate when that happens,” said Jennifer.

  “That’s happened to you?” said Phoebe. “Well, I got double worried, because I’m thinking, What if that guy Adam was right? What if Eddie was a crappy story? So I just started asking everything I could think of: ‘How’d you save the baby birds? How’d you know to feed them with the eyedropper? How’d you know about using a toothbrush to wipe off bugs?’ Eddie started talking in sentences and my notebook started filling up. It was like he got patience for me. He said, ‘You like all those nitty-gritties, don’t you, girl?’ And I said, ‘You bet, Eddie.’”

  “On my fourth visit,” continued Phoebe, “Eddie said —”

  “Fourth visit?” said Jennifer.

  “Oh yeah,” said Phoebe. “The fourth visit was when he said he was going to have to set up an office for me in the boiler room. And on the fifth visit —”

  “Fifth visit?” said Jennifer.

  “Oh yeah, on the fifth visit, Eddie let me tag along when he worked in Mrs. Marris’s office after school. That was so neat being in the Bunker when everyone was gone for the day.”

  “That is neat,” said Jennifer. “Last time I was in the Bunker, Marris grilled me like a hot dog on Memorial Day weekend. I was so nervous, I could barely think.”

  Phoebe stopped in her tracks. “You get nervous? The coeditor of the Slash? I don’t believe it.”

  “Even the coeditor of the Slash,” said Jennifer.

  “Can I tell you something off the record?” Phoebe said. “You seem like a nice person for a big kid. But that coeditor Adam guy, I don’t think he likes me. Even if I do great on this story, I think he’ll say it stinks.”

  “Oh no,” said Jennifer. “Why would you think that?”

  “He yelled really loud at me for no good reason.”

  “He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Jennifer. “It makes him stupid sometimes. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a third grader; it’s hard for you to understand. In middle school, they have us so programmed, the pressure builds and builds. You just happened to be in the way when Adam needed to blow. The thing about Adam — he’s a great reporter. He cares about truth too much to lie about whether a story’s good or not.”

  “I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “It seems like he’s prejudiced against third graders.”

  “Nah,” said Jennifer. “He used to be a third grader himself”

  “Sounds like you like him.”

  “I’m actually unbelievably pissed at him,” said Jennifer. “Last night I told my mom I never wanted to see that jerk again. And Mom said, ‘Jen, you must have patience for middle-school boys. They’re slow developing.’ Mom said they’re like cartoons. Funny to watch, zipping around a lot, but inside, there’s nothing there yet except the back side of the cartoon.”

  “We’re still off the record?” said Phoebe. “That Adam guy said Cable News 12 might be here. I think maybe he gave me this story because he thought I’d do terrible compared to News 12.”

  Jennifer just stared at Phoebe. To prepare for being a coeditor, she had read a book over the summer about the ten secrets to becoming a great manager. But there wasn’t a single secret in that book that seemed to cover Phoebe. “Does that brain of yours ever rest?” Jennifer said, then smiled kindly. “Look, I guarantee, you will do a better job than News 12.”

  “I know,” Phoebe said. “Why are they so bad?”

  “Their news always makes me sleepy,” said Jennifer. “A truck crash on the Beltway, a spelling bee champion, a triple murder — every story feels the same.”

  “Jennifer, you know what I like about you?” said Phoebe. “You give me confidence.”

  “That’s my job,” said Jennifer. “It’s my job as coeditor to be here for you.”

  “Is that Adam guy coming, too?” asked Phoebe.

  “No,” said Jennifer.

  “Isn’t it his job to be here for me, too?”

  “I think he had a, uh, soccer game,” said Jennifer.

  Phoebe looked at Jennifer funny. “Can I ask you a favor,” the third grader said. “Can you not help me on this story?”

  “I won’t be a bother,” Jennifer said. “I just thought, if you had some questions, I’d hang out, and —”

  “I need to do it myself,” said Phoebe. “I need to show that Adam guy I can do it. Otherwise he’ll say you did it all for me.”

  “He’s not like that,” said Jennifer.

  “I think he is,” said Phoebe.

  The press release said the contest was being held along the west strollway, in the opening by the Gap. Sure enough, there were sixty folding chairs set up in rows in the middle of the strollway and three tables along the side — one for contestants to sign in, one for judges, and one for the press. As children arrived, they were given a packet that included rules, a toothbrush, dental floss, and a foot-long construction-paper tooth with a number. The paper tooth came with a piece of string and was to be worn around their necks for identification purposes.

  The winner would be the child who smiled longest. First prize was a five-hundred-dollar savings bond.

  When Phoebe went to the press table, the woman there assumed she was confused. “Oh no, sweetheart,” the woman said to Phoebe, “you want the contestants’ table. That’s for little smilers like you. Hurry, now — get your paper tooth.”

  Phoebe explained that she was actually a reporter, from the Slash, the Harris student newspaper.

  “A reporter? Oh, is that adorable,” said the woman, calling over her friend Phyllis. “Phyllis, look, she’s a reporter. Did you ever see anything so cute in your life? From the Harris Slash.”

  “The Slash?” said the woman named Phyllis. “Where did they ever get a name like that?”

  Phoebe was getting irritated. They were wasting time she could be using to do pre-game interviews. “Harris . . . Elementary . . . SLASH”— and here Phoebe made a slash line in the air with her finger —“Middle School,” said Phoebe, speaking slowly so as not to confuse the poor women.

  “And where’s the Slash photographer?” asked the first woman. “Don’t tell me. I bet it’s his nap time.” After a few more ridiculous jokes, the first woman issued Phoebe a press pass in the shape of a toot
h and the Phyllis person pinned it on.

  As Phoebe turned to go, someone very large bumped into her, stepped on her foot, then elbowed past her to the press table without apologizing.

  “Peter Friendly,” the man said in a booming voice to the two women at the press table. “Cable Action News 12.”

  “My favorite TV news station,” the first woman said.

  “All the news I ever need,” said her friend Phyllis.

  “All news, all the time,” said Peter Friendly, repeating the station’s twenty-four-hour news slogan. He explained that unfortunately he had only a few minutes. “We just heard over the police scanner that a four-hundred-pound man sat on his stepson out in West Tremble. Very nasty domestic dispute. Apparently it was intentional. We must get there ASAP. Could be the lead item at the top of the hour. The guys in the News 12 truck are beaming up our remote transmitter; we’ll go live on that one. So we’re here on the run. Would you mind if we just have all the kids quickly sit in the chairs with their paper teeth and give us a fast smile, pretending the competition has started?”

  “We’ll have to ask Dr. Cooper,” the first woman said coldly. “He is adamant about sticking to the schedule. He’s the incoming president of the Tremble Dental Association. A very civic-minded dentist. He puts his patients’ teeth first.”

  “Right,” said Peter Friendly. “How about if we videotaped this Dr. Cooper standing in front of our little smilers? Give the doc some free TV exposure.”

  “Rules are made to be broken,” chirped Phyllis. “By the way, I’m Dr. Cooper’s wife, Phyllis Cooper. I’m cochair of today’s event. I’d be delighted to get him, Mr. Friendly.”

  “We’d certainly want Dr. Cooper’s charming wife standing up front with him,” said Peter Friendly, giving Phyllis a big Friendly wink. “I do appreciate it, Mrs. Cochair.”

  “All news, all the time,” said the dentist’s wife, high heels clicking as she hurried to fetch her husband.

  Phoebe used the time before the contest to interview kids. A girl wearing Tooth Number 12 said she’d been practicing smiling all week. “My best time was two hours and two minutes,” said Tooth Number 12. “I’d watch TV and smile. Do my homework and smile. Catch up with my chat room and smile.”

  Phoebe noticed Tooth Number 12’s left leg was bouncing a mile a minute.

  “Nervous?” asked Phoebe, who was writing down Tooth Number 12’s comments.

  “I am,” said Tooth Number 12. “I wish I had something to destroy. I like to rip up stuff when I’m nervous.”

  A girl sitting nearby, Tooth Number 37, said that she had smiled six straight hours one night last week. When Tooth Number 12 overheard this, the color drained from her face and her nervous leg got bouncier. Tooth Number 12 didn’t think it possible, smiling six straight hours. She sure hoped it wasn’t possible.

  “It’s all true,” said Tooth Number 37’s little brother, Tooth Number 38. “She practiced so much, she was talking in her sleep. She kept saying, ‘I won, I won. Bananas, bananas.’ My mom took a picture of her sound asleep, smiling.”

  Phoebe had to stop because Peter Friendly was rounding up kids to pretend the contest was beginning. He hurried them into chairs, making sure there was one white, one black, one Hispanic, and one Asian smiler in the front row. “This isn’t real,” he told the children. “This is just for TV news.” After his crew finished taping Dr. Cooper and the charming Phyllis standing in front of the forty-six smilers, the News 12 crew raced off, bumping into chairs and mall shoppers as they left. When Phoebe last glimpsed Peter Friendly, he was shouting into a cell phone and all three beepers on his belt were buzzing or jingling.

  The commotion over, Dr. Cooper thanked them for their patience. In his remarks, which he read from note cards, he explained that the latest research showed there are over half a billion cavities in America. He said that the smile contest was intended to dramatize the need for proper dental care, the first of many outreach programs he planned during his two-year term as dental association president. Brushing was vital, he said, flossing essential, and, of course, regular visits to the dentist. But too often overlooked, he said, was proper diet.

  “Our children are junk-food junkies,” said Dr. Cooper. “If we don’t control our kids’ sweets intake, we could be looking at a billion new cavities in twenty years.”

  Phoebe noticed people’s eyes glazing over, but they got focused fast when Dr. Cooper’s wife, Phyllis, reviewed the rules for the five-hundred-dollar prize. “For a smile to count,” she said, “the top teeth must be exposed. The upper lip must be up. Up, up, up. If your lip drops, you lose, you’re out, goodbye. The judges’ decision is final.” She made everyone do a practice smile. The ten judges inspected the forty-six smiles. Number 15 was grinning. Phyllis explained that grins didn’t count; you had to show teeth. She said there would be a five-minute break every ninety minutes.

  “OK, ready?” said Phyllis, who was holding a stopwatch. “Three, two, one, SMILE!”

  Immediately, forty-six upper lips shot up. It was infectious. Soon the judges and parents were smiling. Phoebe was smiling. Even the busy shoppers passing by and trying to figure out what was going on were smiling.

  But as often happens in life, smiling is the most natural thing in the world until a person thinks about it. Phoebe had nearly driven herself crazy one night, lying in bed trying to figure out how she fell asleep, and now she could see that same kind of worry creeping over the faces of the forty-six smilers. For the first time in their lives, they were 100 percent focused on their mouths. It was amazing how sore their cheekbones were, how annoying it was to have a tongue in the middle of the mouth doing nothing. At the twenty-two-minute mark, Phoebe noticed a hissing. She suspected a gas leak, until she realized the hissers were smilers straining to breathe through clenched teeth.

  At twenty-four minutes, the first Tooth, Number 17, was yanked by the judges and broke down crying. “That’s what worried me,” her mother told Phoebe in a post-smile interview. “It’s a lot of pressure, and she had no teeth to show. Open your mouth, kitty. Let the reporter see.” Number 17 obliged, and where her two front teeth would be someday was a gap.

  “The Tooth Faiwy took away my baby teeth,” sniffled Number 17, her blond pigtails drooping, “and no one bwought me big teeth yet. I am misweble.”

  “When they inspected her upper lip,” explained the mother, “the judges just got air.” She took her daughter’s cheeks in her hands and said, “Don’t you worry, kitten-witten. We’ll walk over to McDonald’s, get a Happy Meal, and we’ll both feel better.”

  With the first tooth pulled, the rest felt wobbly, and many fell out. After a while Phoebe could tell when a smile was about to go. The hissing got louder, the top lip wiggled, stiffened, drooped, collapsed. The child would look around to see if anyone noticed — but of course the judges were right there and their decision was final.

  The defeated smilers looked grim trudging off. A crestfallen Tooth Number 29 told Phoebe, “I tried resting my top teeth on my bottom lip, but the judges kept giving me warnings. I didn’t have the energy to go on.”

  With just a few minutes to the break, parents of the remaining smilers hurried down the strollway. It seemed an odd time to go shopping, but they were back quickly, clutching paper sacks.

  “All right,” said Phyllis, staring at the stopwatch. “Three, two, one. Stop smiling. Great job. You should be proud. You are all helping advance modern dentistry. You have five minutes. Nineteen smilers left.”

  The smilers looked droopy, exhausted. Fortunately, their parents were prepared.

  “Take these,” Number 12’s mom whispered, ripping open a ten-pound, giant economy-size bag of M&M’s. “You need to reenergize.” The girl put the bag to her mouth and funneled in the M&M’s. Everywhere Phoebe looked, little smilers were munching Sweetarts, Sugar Gushers, Necco Wafers, Skittles, Gummi Bears, Crazy Dips, and Brown Sugar Wallops. To wash it down, they took huge gulps of forty-eight-ounce McDonald’s supersize Cokes.
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  It took a while for Phoebe to understand what she was seeing, but as it sunk in, she could not believe it. Quietly she pulled out her camera and snapped the smilers “reenergizing” for Round Two. No one else seemed to notice. She glanced at Dr. Cooper, the charming Phyllis, and the judges, but they were talking among themselves in tight adult circles, congratulating each other on this wonderful community education event.

  As Round Two started, the hissing was louder, the smilers looked bug-eyed, their hands shook, and their feet tapped feverishly.

  “Where do they get all the energy?” Phyllis marveled. Phoebe didn’t say a word, but she was pretty sure this was what a level-one sugar fit looked like.

  Halfway through Round Two, she asked Phyllis for a copy of the list of contestants.

  “Now, why would you want that, Miss Cutie-Pie Reporter?” asked Phyllis.

  Phoebe explained it was to match each smiler’s tooth number with the name on the list to make sure she spelled everything right.

  “Aren’t you the little worker bee?” said Phyllis. “I can’t wait to see your story in the Slash”— and Phyllis made a dramatic slash in the air with her finger. “I will be suggesting to Dr. Cooper that the dental association give an award to the student publication that does the most to promote dental hygiene. And I bet you know who I’m nominating. . . .”

  “I guess so, ma’am,” said Phoebe, who was staring at the floor. Phoebe felt guilty, a traitor to the cause of modern dentistry and everything the dental association, Dr. Cooper, and Phyllis stood for. Was she the only one who saw it? Had she blown it out of proportion? But, no, the same thing happened during the second break.

  It was as if the dental association was promoting Rapid Tooth Decay Week, the way the eight remaining smilers wolfed down red licorice, bite-size Milky Ways, Reese’s peanut butter cups, creamy caramels, Hershey’s Kisses, and Triple-Strength Sugar Booger Dips. “I need another hit from the two-liter!” bellowed Tooth Number 12, taking several mammoth sucks of orange soda.