Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before,” Adam continued. “It’s my foolproof method for waking myself up in the middle of the night. I use it in the winter when it’s supposed to snow and I want to get up early to see if it really did, so I’ll know if we’re going to have a snow day.”

  He paused. He was a little embarrassed to say it in front of girls and stalled, trying to think of the right words. When he finally told everybody, his voice was so soft, they had to lean forward and strain to hear. A little mouse in the corner of that boathouse trying to listen in would have missed it.

  And then suddenly, as they all understood what it was, they laughed, they howled, they thought it hilarious, outrageous, brilliant in its simplicity. They were totally in love with, totally sold on Adam Canfield’s 100 percent guaranteed, foolproof middle-of-the-night wake-up system. They crushed in around him, they were so excited, and slapped him high-fives, pushed him affectionately, punched him in the shoulder. Sammy gave him a bear hug and lifted him off the ground.

  When he came back down to earth, Adam said, “The only thing is, after you go, don’t flush the toilet. You don’t want to wake anybody.”

  His dad had to come in three times to wake him on Monday morning. After Adam’s head cleared, he lay there savoring the boathouse meeting. It was their finest hour. He’d felt so sure of himself as they’d all jumped on their bikes and raced home through the dark.

  Then everything began pressing down on him. He was seized by panic. Marris! He sat straight up in bed. Marris! They had the meeting today. It always amazed him how you could go to bed feeling like a million bucks and wake up needing change for a nickel. How would they pull it off? When they turned up in her office without the Slash, she was going to — Adam shut his mind down and jumped out of bed. He did not want to follow that thought through to its logical conclusion.

  His dad had to take an early train and had left out a glass of milk along with several cereal snack boxes for him. Adam did not have the energy to choose one. He’d never been much of a breakfast eater, although most days he would at least pick the marshmallow bits out of the Lucky Charms. This morning, the thought of food made him sick. Right before he was to walk out the door to catch the bus, he dropped his backpack and baritone and raced to the bathroom, where he wretched and heaved. His stomach was empty, nothing came up, but he lay flat on the bathroom floor, staring at the ceiling, convinced he was too sick to go to school.

  This hadn’t happened to him since he was a four-year-old, terrified of starting kindergarten. He tried to remind himself that he was Adam Canfield of the Slash, but sprawled on the bathroom floor, he felt so small, so unimportant, an impostor in his own skin.

  As he climbed off the bus, he spotted Jennifer waiting by the flagpole. She gave him a big smile. “Ready?” she said. “You did great last night.”

  “No,” he said weakly. “You did.”

  She looked him over. “You OK?” she asked. “No offense, but you look really white.”

  “I’m like a total wreck,” he said. He told her about getting sick. He said he wasn’t sure if he could go through with the Marris meeting. He suggested they put it off a day.

  “Listen,” Jennifer said. “You know how my father’s always making me read biographies of famous black people?” And then she told him about a book she’d just done a report on, about Bill Russell, a great basketball player for the Boston Celtics from long ago. Before all the big games, the book said, Russell would be in the locker room throwing up from nerves. “And then he’d go out and dominate,” Jennifer continued. “He won more NBA championships than Jordan, Shaq, and Magic.”

  “If we were just playing for the NBA championship, I’d be fine,” said Adam.

  Together, they walked into school. Once again Marris was standing by her office welcoming everyone back from Thanksgiving, the signature smile shining bright. “Holiday’s over, boys and girls,” she kept saying. “Let’s zip those lips. I hope you all have your thinking caps on. Lots of work between now and Christmas. We’re going to be busy, busy, so tighten those thinking caps for liftoff.”

  Before Marris spotted them, Jennifer called out, “Mrs. Marris! Hi, over here. Yoo-hoo! Can we talk to you?” Jennifer waved.

  Adam could not believe this. He was hoping that somehow they could just slip by and wait to be called down to the office. Maybe Marris would have a heart attack or die of cancer during second period. What was Jennifer yoo-hooing about? He’d never heard Jennifer yoo-hoo before.

  Yoo-hoo, Adam thought to himself, we’re ready to face the firing squad now, Mrs. Marris. Yoo-hoo, drop the guillotine blade now, Mrs. Marris. Yoo-hoo, it’s a convenient time for the lethal injection.

  “When do you want to see us about the Slash?” Jennifer asked coolly.

  Mrs. Marris paused, then said, “Why don’t we do it right now? Let’s get it over with.”

  They followed her out of the noisy corridor and into the outer office. Adam had expected more time to prepare. He wasn’t ready. He’d been counting on having several periods to psyche himself up.

  “How about if you just give me the Slash proof and wait here,” said Mrs. Marris. “I’ll take it to my office, do a quick read, then call you down for my edits. It’ll go faster that way.”

  “We wanted to talk to you about that,” said Jennifer. “The November issue’s not quite done.”

  Marris froze. She glared. Her mouth opened like she wanted to bite something; Adam had never noticed how sharp her eyeteeth looked.

  “Let me explain,” said Jennifer, and she started talking about how hard they’d worked over Thanksgiving break.

  Adam knew he should say something. Poor Jennifer was doing all the talking. What was wrong with him? Maybe he’d come down with lockjaw. He’d seen a science special about how this pernicious disease was becoming a real problem in Africa. It was his parents’ fault; they’d forgotten to get him his tetanus booster. He was letting everyone down. He had to say something.

  “Was your Thanksgiving joyous, Mrs. Marris?” he blurted out. Jennifer and Marris both turned and stared at him. Why did he say that? Maybe he had early onset Alzheimer’s. Doctors were finding it in people as young as their forties; scientists just didn’t realize yet how incredibly early this devastating disease could strike. “We’ve been busy, busy,” Adam said. “The entire Thanksgiving break we kept our thinking caps on.”

  “Cut that ridiculous babble,” said Marris. “What’s going on now?”

  “We just had one story where we had a few questions for you,” said Jennifer.

  “One story,” repeated Marris.

  “The Miss Bloch story,” said Jennifer.

  “The Miss Bloch story again!” shouted Mrs. Marris. “The Miss Bloch story. What is it about that story that seems to be causing you such problems? It’s been two months. I could have given it to a couple of linemen on the football team, and they’d have been done in two hours. What is wrong with you?”

  Adam tried not to look her in the eye. He was thinking of that poor little Discovery Channel mouse being carried off by the owl, butt twitching. He was feeling pretty twitchy himself. What if he cried? All the good he had done until now would be ruined. He glanced around the room, anything not to meet Marris’s evil eye, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Rose’s head.

  He was shocked.

  It was plain as day. He could see it on her face, in her eyes, around her mouth and forehead — an unmistakable look of sympathy. Even she knew what Marris was; in that instant Adam was sure of it. When he tried to catch Mrs. Rose’s eye, she shuddered, her face flushed, and immediately she resumed her stone front. But that was all Adam needed. He had spotted weakness right in the palace’s inner circle. He remembered Mr. Brooks’s lesson: Even the mighty Caesar was vulnerable from those closest at hand. Brutus knew what a monster Caesar had become, and the Head knew it about Marris. Adam could feel the energy surging back into his limbs. He was ready to play for the NBA titl
e.

  “Mrs. Marris,” he said, “could we sit with you for a few minutes? We just have a couple of questions about the terms of Miss Bloch’s gift.”

  She looked shocked, took a step toward them, seemed ready to attack, then pivoted and hurried off toward her office. There was a pause. No one knew what to do until Mrs. Rose’s head motioned for them to sit.

  In the next several minutes, the Head rushed back and forth so many times, it wore Adam out watching. At one point Eddie hurried in, eyes straight ahead like he’d never met them, and disappeared down the Bunker stairs. He was gone a good fifteen or twenty minutes.

  After he reemerged and left, the Head rushed off, rushed back, and said, “She’s ready.”

  Given all the activity, they had expected the Bunker would look different. Adam was thinking maybe Marris would have a torture rack set up. The reporters eyeballed the bathroom area in the rear for signs of a commotion, but the door was shut. Nothing seemed out of place.

  They took seats, waiting for her to say something. Marris glared. The longer her silence lasted, the more frightening it grew. Adam was determined not to be cowed. He felt like they’d gained an advantage and he was not about to give it up. They had planned that Jennifer would ask the first questions while they slowly worked their way up to the most sensitive stuff, but now the dragon’s underbelly was exposed. It was time to thrust the sword. Adam pounced.

  “When you described the Miss Bloch gift to us in September, you said it could go to quote-unquote ‘general improvements,’” Adam began. “But according to interviews we’ve done and a copy of Miss Bloch’s will we’ve obtained, isn’t it true that the money was supposed to be used for deserving —”

  “Ohhhhhh,” interrupted Mrs. Marris. “‘According to interviews . . .’ is it? Documents you’ve ‘obtained . . .’ is it? My busy little bees. You have been buzzing around, haven’t you? BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! YOU IDIOTS! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! YOU FOOLS! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! YOU NAIVE, SPOILED BRATS! You think you’re so smart. A four-pluser and a True Gladiator. You think you were born with magic powers to protect you from all harm. Real children of privilege, aren’t you? Suburban superheroes! You don’t have a clue what life is about.

  “Let me just fill you in, you seekers of truth. ‘Isn’t it true . . ?’ you say. Truth. Ha! There’s the Little Truth and there’s the Big Truth. The Little Truth — that’s the world where reporters dwell. This little true fact and this little true fact and this little true fact, and you pile them all together and you think you have a story. Well, I’m sorry to say, all those nice little true facts don’t add up to the truth. You wouldn’t be interested in the Big Truth, would you? There’s no room for the Big Truth in newspapers is there?

  “The Big Truth is that principals work a million hours in the most primitive conditions and don’t get paid a fraction of what they’re worth. You weren’t planning to put that in your article, were you? Who cares about principals — they’re just public employees. Who cares about principals — they’re mostly women; we can pay them less. Who cares —they’re not doing anything important like manufacturing electric toothbrushes or managing stock portfolios for zillionaires. All they’re doing is educating our youth. No big deal. Just the nation’s entire future. No one thinks about all the extra hours the principal puts in with no extra pay, all those night meetings, all that paperwork that gets done at home. All the time spent teaching yet another idiot PTA president how to run a bake sale or breaking in a newly elected school board star so the fool knows where to stand at the Say No assembly. You’re so worried about Miss Bloch’s will. You’re so worried about how the money was spent. You think a principal ever gets enough money for what she does? Truth! It’s truth you’re after? You don’t have a clue what truth is, you . . . you . . . you . . . reporters!”

  She took a key from her pocket, unlocked her middle drawer, pulled out two sheets of paper, and circled around her enormous desk to Adam and Jennifer. She stood over them now, glaring down. “You are not to print a word of that ‘according to interviews’ stuff or documents ‘obtained’ nonsense in that newspaper. You know darned well what I want that Miss Bloch story to say. Do you understand me? Do you know what these are?” She thrust the two sheets of paper in their faces. “Read them!” she screamed.

  They were expulsion notices. Adam’s and Jennifer’s names had already been filled out at the top.

  “Read the boxes I’ve checked,” she said. “I’m not making this stuff up. It’s there in black and white.”

  She had checked the box marked: Insubordination — repeated refusal to follow orders from school district officials.

  She had checked the box marked: Destruction or misuse of school property. Beside this she had written: Used school property — the Slash — for personal gain, to save their own basketball hoops from being torn down by county officials.

  For Adam, she had also checked: Truancy — repeatedly skipped class for state competency test preparation.

  “Mark my words,” Mrs. Marris said. “If you try, just try, to put one word of your big-shot Miss Bloch investigation in that paper, you will be expelled. These forms will immediately be whisked over to the superintendent’s office. It will all go on your permanent record. And I want to remind you, they don’t call it ‘permanent’ for nothing. We’re talking totally permanent — we’re talking about something that’s going to follow you to the far corners of the earth. A thousand years from now when archaeologists dig up your pathetic remains, it will still be there, telling your ancestors what vermin you were.

  “You can’t imagine how impressed some fancy Ivy League college admissions office will be to see that you were expelled, Mr. Four-Plus and you, too, faithful sidekick Wonder Woman. Don’t go thinking it will make a difference if your families hire some fancy-pants lawyer to get you off. That would take years of hearings and appeals; even if you beat it eventually, people will assume you’re just rich kids who got off on a technicality.

  “And the worst part of it for you — all this will be for nothing. Even if you do try to print it, you think I’d ever allow that paper to be handed out in home base? Fools!” Mrs. Marris grabbed the expulsion forms out of their hands, walked back around her desk, and made a big thing of sticking them in her middle drawer, locking it, and putting away the key. “It’s your future, your choice,” she said.

  She came back around, stood behind them, then grabbed their collars, yanked them up, and pushed them toward the stairs. “Get out,” she yelled as they stumbled forward. “I want you in here first thing tomorrow morning with the Slash proof. And it better not be full of those vicious lies.”

  Even if Adam and Jennifer had wanted to back down, they realized they couldn’t. All day long, they ran into kids from the Slash wanting to know if the two of them had done the interview with Marris yet and how it had gone. Usually, when Adam was trying to track down some Slash reporter for an overdue story, he could go days without seeing the kid at school. Today it seemed like he bumped into every last staff member. “We on for tonight, sir?” Phoebe had whispered as she rushed past on her way to a class. And the big wink she’d given him along with the military salute had pierced his heart.

  They couldn’t let these people down now.

  Adam realized that this must be how history got made. In a moment of bold dementia, you made a speech about how you were going to undertake this amazing plan if such-and-such happened. And then, when it happened, you had to go through with it, even though you realized too late that there were going to be lots of battlefield casualties.

  The odd thing was, neither Adam nor Jennifer was as scared by the Marris meeting as they probably should have been. For Adam, the turning point had come when Marris started foaming about their permanent records. In his experience, teachers who threatened you with your permanent record were one step away from a nervous breakdown.

  Maybe they had Marris on the run.

  Maybe they didn’t. As Jennifer once said, who knew with Marris?


  At this point Adam just wanted it to be over. If he was expelled, he planned to sleep for a week.

  Jennifer arranged with the print shop to have proofs made first thing Tuesday morning.

  It was past midnight by the time the coeditors had e-mailed the final version of the lead story back and forth and felt they had it right.

  By then the Slash members were snugly asleep in their beds. But before turning out the lights, they all had used the heralded Adam Canfield middle-of-the-night wake-up system. When it was time to brush their teeth for bed, they’d gone into the bathroom with a large drinking cup and closed the door.

  They drank six tall glasses of water.

  Then they went to sleep.

  The littlest among them woke first. They had the smallest bladders and were up by 2 A.M., racing to the bathroom to take the most urgent, most enormous pee they could ever remember. The bigger ones with bigger bladders made it until 3 A.M. Then, per Adam’s instructions, without flushing the toilet or turning on lights, they crept to their computers.

  Computer screens glowing in the dark give off a pale blue light, but they were prepared for that, too. They took a sheet from their beds and draped it over their terminals and their heads, creating a tent to hide the screen’s glow.

  Safe from view, they signed on. The story was there. Most didn’t bother reading it right then; they wanted to be done with this treachery as quickly as possible. Still, they couldn’t help noticing that Adam and Jennifer had included a little box with the article that said, “The following staff members also contributed to this story,” and then named every Slash member.

  They were contributing. They had already typed all the addresses for forwarding the story beside the carbon copy function in the header marked cc. They positioned the mouse at send, pressed enter, and in an instant the story was on the way, forwarded all over Tremble to hundreds and hundreds of important adults who would find it when they next opened their e-mail.