The School Story

by Andrew Clements

  Like most city kids, Natalie had developed a kind of radar. Scanning the sidewalk ahead of her, if she saw a person who looked shady or someone asking for money or acting pushy or weird, she’d find a way to avoid a face-to-face meeting. If she had to, she could always cross the street, but usually it was just a matter of watching for the right moment to pass by. At age twelve, and after years of walking in New York, avoiding trouble had become almost automatic for Natalie.

  Still, it’s impossible to plan for everything. There was the time a woman on the bus started yelling at Natalie’s backpack like it was a dog that was trying to bite her. Natalie was scared, but she stayed calm. When the driver shouted, “Hey, lady—shut up or get off!” the lady got off and started screaming at a trash can on the corner. And then there was the time Natalie thought this tall boy wearing sunglasses was following her. He walked behind her all the way from Seventy-ninth Street to the bus stop at Seventy-second Street and Broadway. When he took the same bus she did, Natalie got really scared. She thought he was looking at her from behind his dark glasses. Just when she was about to ask the bus driver for help, the boy stood up and got off at the next stop, and Natalie saw him walk into a big bookstore on Fifty-seventh Street. False alarm.

  Today’s trip was uneventful, and when Natalie got to the lobby of her mom’s building, she signed in at the desk, got in the elevator, and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor. The elevator hummed up to the third floor, and three more people got on. They pushed the buttons for floors five, seven, and eight. People got on and off the elevator at almost every floor, and soon Natalie was squeezed against the back wall.

  The first time she had come to visit her mom at work was about four years earlier. Back then Natalie was sure that making children’s books had to be the most exciting job in the world. Natalie had expected to see mountains of books and a huge, noisy workshop. Some people would be painting book covers, others would be printing and folding the pages, and over in a corner someone would be gluing everything together.

  What she actually saw on that first visit was a large, quiet room filled with a maze of little offices. Here and there small groups talked quietly at large tables, and everywhere people sat at computer screens, tapping away. True, there were plenty of books around—stacks and boxes and bookcases of them—but they were all finished. Natalie was disappointed. A publishing company was a pretty boring place.

  The elevator door opened on fourteen, and Natalie stepped out onto the thick green carpet of the reception area. The receptionist was talking into his headset, but he gave her a smile and a wave, and then pushed the security button. The door to the right began to buzz. Natalie pushed it open and walked into the editorial department of Shipley Junior Books.

  The sign beside the opening of her mom’s small, windowless office said HANNAH NELSON, EDITOR. The room had a door and a ceiling, but in all other respects it was a basic cubicle. The office contained a desktop that made a U, and bookcases lined the walls. Every inch of space was loaded with piles of paper and books. There was a computer, two small filing cabinets, one swivel chair, a plastic trash basket, and one straight-backed chair just inside the doorway. All the furniture was gray or green.

  Balanced above the computer screen was a single photograph in a clear plastic holder—Dad and Mom and Natalie in a sailboat. Every time she came to the office, that picture was the first thing Natalie saw. All three of them looked like they were having such a good time, but Natalie couldn’t remember being there. She always wished she could.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Hannah Nelson spun around in her chair and pulled Natalie into a hug. She held both of her daughter’s hands a moment and then reached up to push a wisp of brownish blond hair out of Natalie’s eyes. “Have you had a good day, sweetheart?”

  Natalie nodded. “Except everyone gave a ton of homework. Can I go get a snack?”

  “Uh-huh . . . here.” Her mom swung her chair around, pulled open a drawer, and swiveled back. She handed Natalie a small stack of quarters. “Could you get me a Sprite, or maybe some apple juice? You can start your homework in Ella’s office. She’s away all week.”

  It was fifteen minutes later—soda drained and cookies gone—before Natalie remembered Zoe’s assignment. She jumped up out of Ella’s chair, grabbed a dictionary from the shelf near the doorway, and flipped to the Gs. Game, gargoyle, geisha—no Geisel.

  Turning around, Natalie sat down at the desk and moved the mouse next to the keyboard, and the darkened computer screen jumped to life. She’d used Ella’s computer before, so she knew what to look for. She clicked on a folder labeled REFERENCE and then clicked again on ENCARTA.

  The encyclopedia opened up, and a few clicks later she had it in search mode. Natalie typed Geisel, and then hit the return key.

  And there he was: Geisel, Theodor. End of mystery.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Plot Thickens

  “Dr. Seuss.”

  Those were Natalie’s first words to Zoe on Friday, whispered during the morning meeting.

  When Natalie had discovered that Theodor Geisel was the real name of Dr. Seuss, at first she didn’t see Zoe’s point. She thought about it on the bus ride home Thursday, and then off and on all night. By Friday morning Natalie had a pretty good idea why Zoe had made her learn about Ted Geisel.

  But as the morning meeting ended and they headed toward the science rooms, Natalie pretended she didn’t have a clue. That way, Zoe could explain everything. Natalie knew that was what Zoe always preferred.

  “So, do you get it?” asked Zoe.

  Natalie looked at her blankly. “Get what?”

  “The idea—you know—Ted Geisel, Dr. Seuss?” prompted Zoe. “You can get your book published by using a different name. That way your mom won’t know it’s you! She reads, she likes, she publishes! Great idea, right? You get to pick a pseudonym, a phony name!”

  Natalie paused a few seconds, then said, “You mean I get to lie to my mom, right?”

  Zoe made a face. “Oh, come on.”

  Zoe and Natalie had different ideas about what was and was not a lie. Natalie always got the best results with the whole truth. Zoe wasn’t a liar, but as long as the truth was not entirely absent, Zoe felt just fine. They’d had this discussion before, and Natalie usually held out for complete honesty.

  But today Zoe was prepared. She said, “Okay, tell me this: Was Dr. Seuss lying to forty gazillion kids just because they didn’t know his real name? Was that a lie?”

  Natalie started to reply, but Zoe kept on building her case. “Was Samuel Clemens lying when everybody thought some guy named Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn? It’s not lying, Natalie. Authors use made-up names all the time. And you’re an author, so it’s okay.”

  Natalie said, “Well . . . but do you think Ted Geisel lied to his mother? Don’t you think she knew he was also Dr. Seuss?”

  Zoe had to think about that, but only for a few seconds. She said, “Yeah, but . . . but I bet his mother wasn’t an editor. If she was, and if he sent her a bunch of his wacky pictures and stories, she’d probably have said, ‘Oh, Ted—this is cute, but it’s not really a book. Now, you run along outside and play baseball.’ And then millions of kids would never have gotten to read The Cat in the Hat or Green Eggs and Ham or anything. All because he forgot to use a pseudonym. I bet if his mom had been an editor, he’d have kept his real name a secret—at least for a while. Remember, Natalie, she’s not just your mom. She’s your editor.”

  Zoe reached behind her chair and pulled the blue folder out of her backpack. She handed it to Natalie and said, “Here. I stayed up until eleven last night to read it. It’s great, even better than I thought it would be. And I can’t wait until it’s finished. It’s going to make a great book.”

  Natalie was quiet as she sat down at their worktable in science class. Zoe could feel victory, but she didn’t want to rush things. Zoe knew better. Natalie always had to think things through for herself. So Zoe pretended to be busy w
ith her lab notebook and then started assembling the string and weights they would need for their experiment about simple machines.

  Natalie put the manuscript away. As she slowly pulled her science book from her backpack she said, “Cassandra . . . Cassandra Day. I’ve always wished my name could be Cassandra. Do you think Cassandra Day is a good name?”

  Zoe grinned. “It’s a great name!” She stuck out her hand, and when Natalie took it, Zoe pumped it up and down and said, “Cassandra Day, I’m so glad to get to meet such a wonderful author!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Reality Attack

  Zoe’s excitement was like a river. All day Friday it swept Natalie along. But after school, alone, riding the bus to her mom’s office, Natalie started to face facts.

  First of all, her book wasn’t finished. And even when it was, would it be something a real editor would want to look at? Just because Zoe liked it, that didn’t mean her mom would. And what if other people thought the book was really bad?

  By the time Natalie arrived at Shipley Junior Books, she had talked herself out of the whole crazy idea. Standing in the opening of Ella’s cubicle, Natalie sipped on a strawberry-kiwi drink and looked at the mounds of mail from writers all over the country. Brown envelopes, white envelopes, red-and-gold envelopes with fancy lettering. Manuscripts from writers in California and Illinois and Texas and Florida. Hundreds of them. Some of them had been mailed more than six months ago. Some of the envelopes hadn’t even been opened. It was like a morgue for dead books.

  Natalie finished her drink and slumped down into Ella’s chair. She picked up the phone, punched “9,” then dialed Zoe’s number, the one for her private line in her bedroom. Zoe actually had two private phone numbers, because she also had her own cell phone. Zoe picked up during the first ring.

  “Zoe Reisman’s room at the Reisman residence, Zoe Reisman speaking.”

  “Zoe? It’s me. It’s a stupid idea.”

  “What?”

  “Trying to get my story published—it’s a stupid idea, Zoe. Even if I get the book done, and even if it’s halfway decent, no one will ever read it, and even if they read it, there are probably a million books that are better. So what’s the point?”

  It was silent on the other end of the line.

  Natalie said, “Zoe? Are you there?”

  Zoe’s voice was hard. “Let me talk to Cassandra Day.”

  “Give it up, Zoe. Cassandra Day is dead.”

  Zoe was fierce now. “If you don’t put Cassandra Day on the phone this instant, then I’m going to call the police and tell them that a girl who looks just like you is hiding there in that building on the fourteenth floor and has kidnapped an amazingly talented person named Cassandra Day. Now you just put Cassandra on the line, or the next thing you’ll hear is sirens.”

  Natalie smiled. She knew Zoe wasn’t going to let up, so she paused a moment. Then in a quiet voice a little deeper than her own she said, “Yes? This is Cassandra Day.”

  Zoe said, “Thank God you’re all right! Now listen, Cassie—”

  Natalie broke in, enjoying her new voice. “Oh, my . . . no, no, no, dear. No one ever calls me Cassie. It’s Cassandra, always Cassandra.”

  Zoe never liked being interrupted, but she held on to her focus. “Fine. Okay, Cassandra. Listen, Cassandra. Don’t you believe one thing that that deadbeat Natalie tells you. You are a great writer. One day your grandchildren are going to read all the books you’ve written. And we are going to get this first one published, okay? You’ve got to trust me on this. Are you with me?”

  Natalie sighed, but still speaking as Cassandra she said, “Yes, I am with you. . . . But I must say that you are an extremely annoying and cantankerous person.”

  “Miss Day, let me worry about me. You just make sure you keep your head clear. Now, you go home and do some writing this weekend, okay?”

  Natalie didn’t answer. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

  Zoe said, “Cassandra? . . . You are going to go home and finish another chapter this weekend—right?”

  “I guess so. Sure. I’ll keep writing.”

  “And Cassandra?”

  “What?” said Natalie.

  “I’m proud to know you, Cassandra. Good-bye.”

  “Thanks, Zoe. Bye.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Business Lesson

  Cassandra Day was still alive, but she wasn’t exactly in tip-top shape. After saying good-bye to Zoe, Natalie sat in Ella’s chair, staring at the stacks of unread manuscripts, imagining what it would be like to have her own story there among them. It was too depressing, so she went to her mom’s office and sat on the chair just inside the doorway. Her mom was absorbed in a manuscript, leaning over the stack of paper, red pencil in one hand, gum eraser in the other. Natalie didn’t want to interrupt her, but she had to. She cleared her throat and said, “Mom, what’s with that big stack of envelopes? Are they all manuscripts?”

  Hannah looked up from her work and said, “The ones in Ella’s office, or the ones over in Tim’s space?”

  Natalie’s mouth dropped open. “You mean there are more?”

  Her mom smiled. “Lots more. You put them all together and it’s called the slush pile. When someone sends us something without asking us first if we want to see it, it goes into the slush pile. Those are called unsolicited submissions. Someone writes a story, thinks it should be published, sticks it in an envelope, finds our address in a reference book or somewhere, and sends it off to New York City. The people in the mail room bring us nine or ten new ones every single day, and twice as many on Mondays.”

  Natalie asked, “Does anyone ever read them?”

  Her mom nodded. “Eventually. Everyone will at least get a letter that says thanks, but no thanks. Digging through the slush pile is one of the jobs you get when you’re brand-new in the editorial department. Whenever Ella and Tim have some time, they chip away at it. When it gets too huge, we get a couple of interns from NYU or Brooklyn College and have them power through the whole stack. Most of those people get sent a rejection letter.”

  Natalie frowned. “It doesn’t seem fair. How can someone just take a quick look and right away say no?”

  Her mom was about to answer, when Letha appeared in the doorway. Ignoring Natalie, she said, “Hannah, I need that Trevor manuscript on my desk before you leave today. Are you nearly done?” Letha Springfield was Hannah’s boss, the editor in chief at Shipley Junior Books. She stood there, one eyebrow arched, arms folded. Natalie’s eyes were drawn to Letha’s long fingernails, bloodred against the pale yellow silk of her blouse.

  Hannah said, “I’ll be done with it in about an hour . . . will that be all right?”

  Letha smiled, but there was no warmth. She said, “I really needed it yesterday. . . .” Then glancing at Natalie, she continued, “But I know you’re very busy. Just be sure I have it today, all right?” And then she was gone. Natalie stared at the dents that the woman’s high heels had left in the carpet.

  Hannah said, “Gotta get back to work, sweetheart. Try to stay out of sight, okay?”

  • • • • •

  Settled next to her mom on the bus an hour and a half later, Natalie said, “I still want to know how a person in your office can take one quick look at someone’s story and decide it’s a reject. That’s not fair.”

  “I used to think that too,” said her mom, “but then I spent a week or so working on the slush pile myself. With ninety-nine percent of them you can tell it’s not good enough after reading one page, or even less. Bad writing, weak characters, old idea, dull plot. It’s pretty discouraging. Then once in a great while you open up an envelope and you find a story that has some originality, some real style. The good ones stand out like roses in a snowbank. And if you find only one like that, then you know why we keep reading the slush pile.”

  Natalie shook her head. “But if so few of them are any good, where do you get all the books you publish every year?”

  “Well, first of all, there are w
riters we know, good ones we’ve worked with. Or authors who have written for other publishers. When an established writer sends us something, it doesn’t go into the slush pile. We look at it right away. We don’t always publish it, because it still has to be right for us. But it always gets looked at seriously. And then there are new stories that agents send us.”

  “Agents?” asked Natalie. “Like FBI agents?”

  Her mom laughed. “No, like literary agents. Agents work for writers—illustrators, too. An agent brings us something he or she thinks is good, and if we buy it, then the writer or the artist pays the agent part of the money. Most of the new books we publish come from agents.”

  Natalie nodded and turned to look out the window of the bus. There wasn’t much to see. They were crawling along in heavy traffic, midway through the Lincoln Tunnel. The orange glow of the tunnel lights bounced off the tiles on the ceiling and walls. Natalie always imagined the boats and barges steaming along on the Hudson River above them, and she thought about the enormous weight of all that water pressing down on the tunnel. It made her feel trapped.

  So did the business lesson from her mom. It was more fun back when she didn’t know anything, back when a bookstore was like a wonderland and new books just kept showing up like magic.

  At home that night, when dinner and dishes were done, Natalie went to the video store with her mom and they rented two movies. Natalie Nelson didn’t feel like writing at all, and by Saturday morning Cassandra Day was nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Portrait of the Bulldog as a Young Girl

  Some people are talkers, and some people are writers. Zoe had always been a talker.