Adam Canfield of the Slash (3 page)

“Adam?” Mrs. Marris said now, circling out from behind her desk and heading his way. “Adam. Are you with us? I have a wonderful story for the next
Slash
about a kindly woman who has passed on and left a gift to our school.” She paused, but when Jennifer and Adam just stared, Mrs. Marris said, “You may want to pull out some paper and take notes.” Adam immediately searched his backpack, sifting through textbooks, back issues of
Mad
magazine, his three favorite Calvin and Hobbes books, a bunch of CDs, a couple dozen empty iced-tea cartons, all coated in a thin layer of pistachio nutshells. Privately he gave thanks that this was a rare day when he was able to find a sharpened pencil in there.

The principal explained that not much was known about Miss Minnie Bloch, who had “gone to her reward” a few years back at age ninety-two. She had lived alone, Mrs. Marris said, never married, had no surviving relatives, and was a sweet, warm woman with a fondness for children and animals. She loved Tremble, Mrs. Marris said, and was a lifelong resident. The principal explained that Miss Bloch had left money to several groups, including the Tremble animal shelter and Harris Elementary/ Middle.

“And then I’d like you to write,” Mrs. Marris said, and here she started talking very slowly, “‘School officials . . . have decided . . . to spend the money for general improvements . . . according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’ All righty? ‘General improvements, according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’ All righty?” The principal peered over their shoulders at their notes. “All righty, ‘general improvements, according to Miss Bloch’s wishes.’

“Good,” said Mrs. Marris. “Sound like everything?”

It sounded like nothing to Adam — he had a zillion questions — but something about Marris made him feel it would be impolite to ask even one.

“Mrs. Marris,” said Jennifer. “Should we say how much money Minnie Bloch left the school?” Adam’s eyes popped open and he looked at Jennifer with fresh respect.

“Oh, Jennifer, I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?” said Mrs. Marris. “Everything these days is money, money, money. Who has the most expensive car, the biggest house. Don’t you think it’s the thought that counts?”

The three smiled and nodded, and then Mrs. Marris said, “I really do feel you have enough for a lovely story,” and from her tone it was clear that the interview was over.

“One more thing,” said the principal, looking at Jennifer. “You’re doing a story on Multicultural Month?”

Adam studied his feet. “That’s January,” he said. “We thought it could wait awhile.” Adam hated Multicultural Month. They never talked about the
real
stuff that went on between different kids at school. Jennifer had told him to ease up, that it was just a harmless way for suburban people to pretend they loved everybody the same, but Adam was not convinced. During Multicultural Month, they spent their time making annoying recipes from other countries, dressing up in native costumes from around the world, and learning to say hello in sixty languages. Last year Adam’s teacher made him wear a sheet — he couldn’t remember why, something to do with Italian people.

“I suppose it can wait a month,” said Mrs. Marris. “It’s just all those wonderful foods and costumes. It’s the high point of the year for our students. You looked so cute in your Roman toga last year,
Adamo Canfieldio.
”

“He did, didn’t he?” said Jennifer, and Adam took back every nice thought he ever had about Jennifer Brownnose Kissbutt.

“Go now,” Mrs. Marris said. “And remember, Adam, what is your job?”

“Coeditor?” he said.

“Propel the Good Ship
Harris
forward,” said Mrs. Marris. “Poke no holes in the bow, so to speak.”

Adam’s mind was made up. He was turning over a new leaf. From now on, he was going to make daily lists of Things To Do, so he would always know precisely where to be, when. Never again would he get a tardy dot from Mr. Brooks. People were about to witness a new Adam Canfield. Before going to bed now, he wrote down all the important things on his schedule for the next day. It took half an hour; the list came to a little over two feet long. No more rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off.

The New Adam remembered his baritone without Jennifer reminding him. The New Adam remembered this was the second other Thursday of the month, and — miracle of miracles — he was not late for Quiz Bowl Gladiator practice. Jennifer pretended to faint when he walked in on time, but Adam ignored it, not wanting to encourage that kind of humor.

Their coach, the Supreme High Gladiator Chieftain (really just Mrs. Finch, the guidance counselor), began practice by quizzing the young warriors on long lists of facts. The warriors next used the Supreme High Gladiator Chieftain’s desk computer to visit the nationally sanctioned Quiz Bowl Gladiator website and sharpen their response times to trivia questions. Each question was assigned a point total, according to degree of difficulty. Jennifer had the highest total among Harris warriors for a five-minute session: 114,712 points. She was the only one at Harris to reach a True Gladiator rating; the best Adam had scored was Gladiator-in-Training.

Afterward, Adam went to soccer practice and Jennifer to tennis, and then the two rode the late bus to Adam’s house. Jennifer liked going over to Adam’s. Both his parents worked and he was an only child, so there was no one to pester them — like Jennifer’s twin third-grade sisters.

The coeditors needed to figure out which stories would actually be getting done for the October issue.

Adam’s mom had left them a bowl of tuna, baby carrots, and celery sticks in the kitchen refrigerator along with a bag of Cheez Doodles on the kitchen table. Her note said they could each take a soda from the garage refrigerator.

They had lots to do and had planned to work at the computer while they ate. But it was a perfect, balmy fall afternoon, and they couldn’t help themselves. For a half-hour, they shot baskets out front on Adam’s hoop, a big portable one on the edge of the curb that they shot at from the street. Having someone to play with was a treat, but the thing Adam loved about basketball was that he didn’t need anybody. For football he had to have at least one other person for a catch. With baseball, it took a dozen for a decent pickup game. But basketball — he spent hours practicing alone, dribbling without looking at the ball, strengthening his opposite-hand lay-up, making himself better for the day when it counted.

He and Jennifer played one-on-one, horse, knockout, and 5-3-1 before going inside, where they grabbed sodas and the Cheez Doodles, then headed for the family room in the back of the house. Jennifer watched Adam entering each room and jumping as high as he could, trying to touch the top of the door frame or ceiling.

“You know why boys do that?” she asked.

“What?” said Adam.

“Jump when they enter a room.”

“No,” said Adam. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh,” said Adam. “I thought you were giving me a Quiz Bowl Gladiator question. I figured the correct answer was something like ‘male frontal lobe hyper-synaptic jumping reflex.’”

“That’s good,” said Jennifer. “Someday you’ll be a True Gladiator, too. But I’m serious. Why do boys jump from room to room like that?”

“Never thought of it,” said Adam. “I guess it makes me feel taller, reaching things so high up.”

“Mom says she can always tell a house with boys from the fingerprints on the ceiling,” said Jennifer.

Adam pretended to be offended and rolled his eyes.

“DON’T MAKE EYEBALLS AT ME, YOUNG MAN!” Jennifer shouted, and they collapsed on the couch, laughing hysterically.

“Is that Marris a lizard or what?” said Adam when he’d finally regained his composure. “It will be a miracle if we can get one interesting fact into this newspaper.”

A half-dozen stories had been turned in so far. The kid who did the Halloween safety tips simply rehashed the press release, and Jennifer suggested displaying it in a box, with a check mark for each tip.

The article on the Say No to Drugs Community Players was also dull, a set of dates for tryouts and a list of times when the group would be rehearsing. Jennifer and Adam agreed that was all they needed for now. As the school year cranked up, they’d have to write bigger stories about the Say No’s. For reasons that baffled the coeditors, the Say No spring pageant was a huge deal. It got more press than every other activity at Harris combined. Every politician within one hundred miles would squeeze onto the Harris stage to have his picture taken saying no to drugs.

Whatever attracted them, Adam knew it had nothing to do with the quality of the theatrical production, which was numbingly boring.

Except two years ago. That year Franky Cutty, a very with-it older kid now at the high school, had dressed up as a giant marijuana cigarette. He had totally wrapped himself in white packing paper, spiked his black hair so that it was the only thing that could be seen coming out of the top of the paper, and used dry ice for smoke. All the kindergarten Say No’s formed a circle around him onstage and wagged their fingers at Franky the Joint, chanting, “Get Out of Our Town! Get Out of Our Town!” As the curtain fell, the little Say No’s chased Franky offstage, wagging their fingers to thunderous applause from the student body. For five minutes, kids in the audience refused to go back to class despite all Mrs. Marris’s efforts; they were stamping their feet, wagging their fingers, shouting, “GET OUT OF OUR TOWN! GET OUT OF OUR TOWN!” The scene was such a hit — it cinched Franky Cutty’s reputation for life. So last year, as an eighth grader, Franky had offered to dress up as a line of cocaine. He said he would make a gigantic dollar bill out of green poster board, roll it around his body, and pour baby powder over his hair so he looked ready to be snorted. Then Franky said that the kindergarten Say No’s would toss a net over him and haul him off to jail, chanting, “THROW AWAY THE KEY! THROW AWAY THE KEY!”

For some reason, Mrs. Marris had nixed that idea.

Those kindergarten Say No’s were Adam’s idea of great theater, and Franky Cutty was Adam’s idea of an impressive human being: daring, funny, living on the edge, and not as overprogrammed as Adam.

Adam suggested they run a short sidebar of Franky recalling his most famous role, to go along with the Say No article, but Jennifer disagreed. “That definitely will NOT propel the Good Ship
Harris
forward,” Jennifer said. She said she had no problem with poking holes in the bow so to speak, but felt they needed to pick their battles with Marris carefully.

Jennifer did offer to write up the article on Miss Minnie Bloch, the rich old woman who left the school money.

“No,” said Adam. “I don’t think we’re ready to write that yet. I don’t think we know enough.”

“Come on,” said Jennifer. “This is another one — we just have to cut our losses. Marris gave us enough for an article.”

“That’s not it,” said Adam. “I felt like — like Marris was covering something up. Didn’t you think it was strange the way she kept dictating that sentence about how the money was supposed to be used for
general improvements?
She said
general improvements
a thousand times.”

Jennifer nodded. “The thing is,” Jennifer said, “everything is so strange about Marris, I don’t have a clue what’s some big scheme and what’s Marris just being her bizarre self.”

“This will surprise you,” said Adam. “But I have an idea. I have a friend working at the Tremble animal shelter who might have information. An adult. Remember Marris said that the rich lady left money to the school
and
the animal shelter? And the lady loved animals? Well, my friend Danny — he’s actually my dad’s friend, they went to college together, but he’s my friend, too — he knows everybody who loves animals in Tremble. He’s a placement specialist. His job is getting families to adopt hard-to-place dogs and cats — nippers, biters, three-legged dogs, cats with glaucoma.”

“Neat job,” said Jennifer.

“It is,” said Adam. “Plus Danny’s like a kid. He’ll come over for dinner, then sit with me at the computer playing Quiz Bowl Gladiator. Or he’ll hang out while I do homework. He says he likes seeing what kids are doing — he doesn’t have any of his own.”

Jennifer didn’t answer right away. “I really think it’s a mistake wasting too much time on this story,” she finally said. “But I’m willing to try this one thing. I would like to meet your friend Danny and see the shelter.”

She stood up and began pacing the room. “You know,” she continued, “maybe the shelter is the story. . . . Yes! It could make a nice feature article.” She could already see the headline: “Has This Man Got a Mutt for You!” Jennifer explained to Adam that she’d been doing a lot of research and had learned it was very important for editors to think in headlines. “I read on the Internet about this very famous editor of a women’s magazine who dreams up snappy headlines and then finds reporters to write stories to go under them. Isn’t that a neat trick? Adam? . . . Adam? . . . Did you hear what I just said?”

“Some of it,” mumbled Adam, who considered headlines indoor work. For a second he feared Jennifer might throw something large at him, but all she said was that she could go to the shelter on Sunday after church.