The School Story

by Andrew Clements

  Like all talkers, first she was a listener. She listened to her mom. She listened to her two sisters. She listened to her nanny. She listened to her dad. And even before she knew any real words, she joined every conversation, waving her hands and gurgling.

  Zoe’s first word was “da”—and everyone assumed it meant “Dad.” But really it was an all-purpose word. For a while everything was “da.” Or “Da-da?” Or “Da! Da-da-da!” As Zoe’s vocabulary grew she learned that talking had a purpose. It was how to give orders, how to let people know what she wanted. Zoe’s first sentence was “Have dat!” And by the time Zoe was three, her two older sisters knew better than to get in an argument with her. Zoe always won. Always.

  Like Natalie, Zoe loved books too. Her mom and her nanny read to her all the time when she was little. But Zoe never tried to imagine herself as an author. She had no interest in that. Instead she imagined what it would be like to talk to the authors. She wished she could pick up the phone and ask Roald Dahl how come James didn’t find a giant pickle instead of a giant peach. James and the Giant Pickle. Now that would have been a really funny book.

  When Zoe’s parents went to their first conference with her preschool teacher, there wasn’t much good news. Zoe was not very good at sharing. Zoe had trouble listening to others. Zoe would not put her hand up and wait to be called on. She just talked. When the teacher began to read a book to the class, if Zoe had already heard it, she would say, “I know this story,” and then blurt out how it ended.

  And Zoe always argued. She argued about the snacks. She argued about nap time. She argued about which puppet was the best puppet. Endlessly arguing. The teacher said, “For example, she’s learned the names of the primary colors all right, but she argues with us about the names of the secondary colors. Zoe insists that purple should be called grapy, and orange should be called juicy. We’re just trying to get her ready for school, you know, and I have to say that the staff and I have some concerns.”

  In the cab going home Zoe’s mom was concerned too. Amy Reisman shook her head. “I knew it. We’ve been spoiling her. I should have spent more time with Zoe. I should have taught her how to get along better.”

  But Zoe’s dad said, “Relax. There’s nothing wrong with Zoe. She’s plenty smart, and once she figures out that she needs to work with other people in this world, she’ll do fine.”

  It turned out that both her parents were right. Zoe was a little spoiled and a little headstrong, but when she met Natalie Nelson in kindergarten, she learned very quickly that if she wanted to have a friend, she couldn’t have her own way all of the time—just most of the time.

  • • • • •

  On Saturday morning Zoe woke up at seven. First she remembered it was Saturday. She turned over and started to go back to sleep. Then she remembered about Natalie’s book. Zoe sat straight up, instantly awake. Cassandra Day was still in danger, so it would have to be Zoe to the rescue.

  Zoe got up, got dressed, and then did a quick cleanup of about half the mess in her room, just in case her mom decided to make an inspection tour. She was pretty sure her dad would be going to his office, and she wanted to go with him. Her dad worked late almost every night, and Sunday was usually spent with the whole family. Zoe adored her dad, and if she wanted to get some time alone with him, it had to be on Saturday. And besides, today she really needed to go to his office.

  Zoe’s bedroom was the smallest one on the third floor of her family’s brownstone. She closed her door silently, tiptoed past her sisters’ rooms, and headed down the stairs. At the second-floor landing she smelled coffee.

  When Zoe opened the first-floor door to the kitchen, her dad looked up from his newspaper, mug in one hand, and smiled at her. “Hello there, Miss Early Bird. Are you my assistant this morning?”

  Zoe beamed at him and said, “I thought I was your partner, not just your assistant.”

  “Oops—my mistake.” He gave Zoe a one-armed hug and a coffee-flavored kiss on the cheek. “You hurry up and grab some breakfast, partner. Then we’ll leave a note for your mom and hit the street.”

  It was about eight o’clock when Zoe and her dad left the house, so the city was still pretty quiet. They walked west to Lexington Avenue, hailed a cab, and rode down to Forty-sixth and Third. Zoe didn’t talk much on the cab ride or on the elevator ride up to the forty-seventh floor. She was too busy thinking, and her dad seemed to know it. Most of the time Zoe thought her dad was easy to be with. If she felt like talking, so did he. If she was quiet, he was too. That’s what made it easy.

  Robert Reisman was the senior managing partner at his law firm. The offices of Crouch, Pruitt, and Reisman were modest but well appointed. To Zoe, the place seemed huge. There was a comfortable reception area with a leather couch and a pair of deep armchairs. There was a library with tall bookcases and a ladder that rolled along on a track. There was a big conference room with a long wooden table. There were smaller conference rooms and lots of offices for the associates and junior members, and there was even a spiral staircase that went from the forty-seventh floor down to the rest of the offices and the filing area on the forty-sixth.

  Zoe thought her dad’s office was the best. From his windows she could look down the East River all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge. Sometimes Zoe would sit on the broad windowsill for an hour watching the boats and the helicopters and listening to her dad talk on the phone. He was a talker too, and like Zoe, he was good at winning arguments.

  Today her dad had a lot of E-mail to answer, so Zoe made herself scarce. She went to the reception area and poked through the magazines until she found what she was looking for: a recent issue of Publishers Weekly. She hadn’t been lying when she told Natalie that she’d read the magazine at her dad’s office. But she hadn’t ever looked at it carefully. She took the issue into the main conference room, closed both doors, and sat in the big armchair at the head of the table. Spreading the magazine out before her, she turned past sixteen pages of ads before she found the table of contents.

  Flipping from section to section, Zoe read part of an article about horror books. Then she read about a deal to make a movie out of a children’s book. There were pages and pages of ads everywhere and a whole lot of reviews of new books—fiction books, nonfiction books, travel books, mystery books, children’s books, history books, and on and on and on.

  After almost an hour of reading, Zoe felt like her head was spinning. Looking in the magazine reminded her of when she had looked under a big, flat rock at their farm in Connecticut last summer. She had seen thousands of little ants and bugs running every which way. There were paths and tunnels, tiny rooms and bigger rooms, with workers scurrying all over the place carrying twigs and leaves and eggs—a whole little world. And now she was peeking into the world of books and the people who make them. Zoe had to admit it. Publishing wasn’t so simple after all.

  Zoe had won the argument with Natalie about trying to get her book published, and then she had won the argument about not giving up. Shaking her head, Zoe thought, But what now? Natalie’s book is really good, and I want to help her, but how?

  Zoe walked out of the conference room, put the magazine back, and went into her dad’s office. He was looking at the notebook computer on his desk, tapping away, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Zoe flopped down on the sofa beside the tall windows.

  When her father paused and looked up at her, Zoe said, “Dad, if you wrote a book, how would you get it published?”

  He looked at her. “Me? A book? Why would I want to write a book? I’m never going to write a book.”

  “Okay, okay, but let’s say that you did write a book. How would you get it published?”

  Her dad pushed back from his desk and slowly swiveled his chair back and forth. He narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. Zoe loved watching her dad think. He pursed his lips and said, “What kind of a book?”

  Zoe shrugged. “How should I know—any kind of a book.”

  Her dad
smiled. “All right, then. First of all, what do I always tell you? I tell you that up to a certain point, it’s not what you know, but who you know. So first I’d get a great agent, a real bulldog. The kind of agent who won’t take no for an answer. Then we’d map out a strategy, we’d target the best people at the best publishers. Then I just point my bulldog at the red meat, and I say, ‘Go get ’em!’ That’s the ‘who you know’ part. That’s why you hire an agent. It’s the agent’s job to get the book to the right person so the book gets a fair shot. After that the book has to stand on its own, right?”

  Zoe nodded and said, “Right.”

  “So if the book’s any good, and it gets into the right hands, then Boom!—it gets published. Any questions?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  Then her dad said, “So what got you going on this?”

  “Oh . . . just curious. I found a copy of Publishers Weekly out in the reception room, and it got me thinking.” Zoe knew this wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough for now.

  Her dad scooched his chair back toward his desk. “Well, I’ll be done here in another five minutes or so. You ready to go?”

  Zoe nodded. “Whenever you are.”

  Zoe was quiet on the cab ride home. She was busy thinking, and for Zoe, that meant she was arguing with herself: First of all, Natalie’s book is good. How come you’re so sure about that? Because I am. Can you think of any books you’ve read that are better? No? So, like I said, the book is good. So that means if the book gets to the right editor, the editor will like it, right? Right. So all we have to do is find an agent to make sure that Cassandra Day’s first novel gets looked at, right? Right.

  The rest of the weekend Zoe was busy. She spent some time searching for information on the Internet, and she spent some time using the computer and the printer in her mom and dad’s little office in the study on the second floor of her house. And she spent a lot of time thinking.

  Zoe wanted to get this book published. Sure, she loved the challenge of it. But there was more. She didn’t want to do it just to prove she could get it done. It was something she wanted to do for Natalie, something for Natalie and her mom.

  Because Zoe saw things. When you stay friends for a long time, you see things. Zoe remembered Natalie’s dad. He was not someone you could forget. Bill Nelson hadn’t really been a handsome man, but he was so kind, so funny, that you thought he was handsome, too. He owned an ad agency called Nelson Creative that he had started with his brother, Fred. Fred was the businessman, and Bill supplied the imagination.

  Natalie’s dad had loved writing ads, especially funny ones. His first big campaign was some TV ads for the Brennan Furniture Company. The first ad showed a couch lying in a huge bed, and the couch was having a dream. And the couch dreamed it had wings. And the couch flew up into the sky with a dozen other couches, flying in a V like geese. And then a jet flew by. And the camera followed the jet, and inside the jet, instead of airplane seats, there were rows of Brennan couches with people looking very comfortable. And the punch line was “Stop dreaming. Fly Brennan.” The ads were a big hit, and Brennan couches flew out of furniture stores all around the country. And from then on, companies lined up to have Bill Nelson at Nelson Creative make people feel good about their products.

  Of course, Zoe hadn’t known all that. All she knew was how much Natalie loved her dad, and how hard it was for her to lose him. That was when they were in second grade. About four months after the accident Natalie came for a sleepover at her house. And at bedtime, Zoe’s dad came into her room to tuck them in. He bent over and gave Zoe a kiss good night, and at that moment Zoe looked over at Natalie. Zoe never forgot the look on Natalie’s face—angry and soft and hurt and strong all at the same time. Zoe had been careful ever since not to talk about the good times she had with her dad. She didn’t want to hurt her friend.

  And now, four years later, when she read Natalie’s book, Zoe saw things. Not about the girl in the book, because Angela wasn’t much like Natalie at all. It wasn’t that part. It was when the girl’s father got involved in the story. Because it was the girl’s father who stood by Angela all the way through. Even when the girl got caught cheating, her dad didn’t give up on her. He saw she was alone, and he stepped in. The father knew the cheating had to be about something else. And when the school came down hard on Angela in the story, it was the dad who took on the headmaster and the administration. And the way he did it—by showing how the school had been cheating everyone, all the kids and the teachers, too—made Angela’s dad the hero.

  When Natalie talked about her book, she said the story was about Angela and her friends. But Zoe knew there was more to it. It was about a girl and her dad. The book was like a good-bye poem from Natalie to her father.

  That’s why Zoe spent the weekend thinking and planning. Getting the book published would be good for Natalie, and good for her mom, too.

  And by Monday morning Zoe had her ducks all in a row.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Agent

  Zoe was waiting at the curb in front of the school when Natalie got out of her taxi on Monday morning. Her first look into Natalie’s face told Zoe everything: Cassandra Day was dead again.

  With a little too much forced cheerfulness in her voice Zoe said, “Hi, Nat. Get some good writing done over the weekend?”

  Natalie pressed her lips together, shook her head, and frowned. She stepped around Zoe and went up the front steps.

  Zoe was right behind her. “Come on, Natalie. Don’t give up. I’ve got a whole new idea, a really good one.”

  Just inside the glass doors Natalie turned around. “Listen, can we just stop talking about this? I’m sorry I ever showed you my stupid story. So let’s just forget about it, okay?” But Natalie knew better, even as she was saying the words. Asking Zoe to stop something halfway was like asking a chimp to lay off the bananas.

  Zoe was all business. “Are you done pouting now? Because I’ve got something important to say. I talked with my dad, and I did some thinking, and all Cassandra Day needs is a good agent. You know what an agent is?”

  Natalie heaved a sigh and shrugged off her backpack, letting it thump onto the floor behind her. “Yes, I know what an agent is. And I talked with my mom, so I also know that it’s almost as hard to get an agent for a book as it is to get a book published.”

  “Well, what would you say if I told you that I’ve already got you an agent?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Natalie.

  “Not kidding,” said Zoe.

  “So . . . who is it?” Natalie was cautious but interested, even a little flattered.

  Zoe smiled. “Okay, her name is Sherry Clutch, and she’s known my dad for more than ten years, and thanks to me, she knows all about your story, and she’s really interested . . . even if the book’s not completely finished yet.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes and looked sideways at Zoe. “So, what’s the catch? There’s got to be a catch.”

  “No, really. There’s no catch . . . except—”

  “Aha!” Natalie cut in. “Except what? Sounds like a catch to me. C’mon, out with it.”

  Zoe went on, “Well . . . you know how you’re Cassandra Day? Well, Sherry Clutch . . . she’s me! Get it? I’m your agent!”

  Natalie’s face was a dictionary of emotions. Horror. Disbelief. Disappointment. Then anger. She grabbed her backpack, wheeled around, and started up the stairs. “That’s not funny, Zoe. It’s not funny at all.”

  Again Zoe was at her heels. “But listen, Nat. I can do this, I really can. An agent is just someone who works for a writer. It’s just a person who really believes a writer is great. I know your book is good. I know I can get your mom to take it seriously. It’s gonna get a fair shot, I know it!”

  Natalie didn’t stop and she didn’t turn around. She turned left at the first corridor and headed for her locker, taking long purposeful strides. Zoe sprinted ahead, turned, and planted herself in Natalie’s path. Natalie was a whole
head taller, and Zoe half expected to be knocked over.

  But Natalie stopped. Jaw clenched and eyes hard, she looked down into Zoe’s face.

  Zoe said, “Please, Natalie. Just let me give it a try. It’ll be fun, and I know I can do this . . . I know I can. And don’t you think Sherry Clutch is just the most perfect name for an agent?”

  Part of Natalie just wanted to push right past this girl and never talk to her again. But her training as a writer stopped her. In a fraction of a second, in that way that writers do, she took a mental step back and considered the scene before her. There was Zoe. Ridiculous? Yes, but also completely loyal, completely enthusiastic, completely confident. Here they stood in the hall, face-to-face. Dozens of kids streamed by in both directions, lockers slammed, laughter and shouts and noise rose all around them. And in that instant Natalie saw what mattered. It wasn’t whether the book got published or not. It wasn’t whether Zoe was absolutely crazy—which she was. The important thing was Zoe herself, her friend.

  So Natalie had to roll her eyes and smile. She had to. And then she put out her hand and shook Zoe’s. Then in her author’s voice Natalie said, “Ms. Clutch, I’m Cassandra Day. My friend Zoe says you’re a terrific agent. Can you tell me a little about yourself?”

  • • • • •

  In bits and pieces during their morning classes Zoe told Natalie about her plans. Natalie had to admit they were impressive—crazy, but still impressive. Except that, as usual, Zoe wanted to do everything herself.

  But during lunch Natalie said, “It all sounds good, Zoe, but I want to have Ms. Clayton read my book too. She might have some ideas about how to get it published.”

  Zoe looked hurt. “Ms. Clayton? What does she know?”

  Natalie shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.”

  “But I’ve already thought of everything.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Everything? I don’t think so. I mean, like, look at this.” Natalie pointed at the piece of stationery that Zoe had designed and printed up on her computer at home over the weekend. “Zoe, I hate to tell you, but this stationery doesn’t look real.”