Slacker

by Gordon Korman

  “Membership?” I was mystified. “Membership in what?”

  “The P.A.G., of course! I’ve got a ton of great ideas. There are so many people—and animals—who need help around here.”

  Maybe I was being extra clueless. But in my defense, it had never occurred to me that anyone would want to join the P.A.G. I wasn’t even really a member, and I was the president. I would have bet a million dollars that nobody ever looked at the school site. And I would have lost, because one person did.

  She was going on and on about some guy named Elvis. She talked really fast—or maybe it just seemed that way because I stopped listening after the first few sentences. I didn’t even want Daphne in the P.A.G. If Elvis wanted to join, too, that would definitely put the membership way over the limit of zero, according to the club rules, which I was making up as fast as I could.

  I had a flash of inspiration, and interrupted Daphne to say, “You know, the Positive Action Group is really new, and we’re kind of worried about getting too big too fast. So right now there’s a membership freeze. Sorry. But we’ll let you know the minute that gets lifted.”

  Her tiny features flamed red and her ponytail seemed to defy gravity. “Sycamore school clubs have to be open to anybody. There can’t be a membership freeze because that would go against every policy the district has. If you try to keep me out, I’ll tell Mr. Fanshaw, Mrs. Amis, Dr. LaPierre, Ms. Katsakis, Mr. Del Zotto … ”

  She went on to list every adult with any authority over our lives, starting with the teachers, the principal, the superintendent, and Mayor Dolinka himself. I heard a couple of town council members in there, too, and maybe the chief of police. And all the while, I was thinking: She’ll do it, too. If I don’t let her in, she’ll rat me out to half of Sycamore, and before you know it, the P.A.G. will be exposed as a fraud. And when Mom and Dad find out, I can kiss Rule the World good-bye.

  What was I going to do?

  “Okay,” I said finally. “Join.”

  She brightened. “You mean I’m in?”

  I nodded. “But I’m just making an exception for you. That Elvis guy is going to have to wait until the membership freeze is over.”

  She stared at me. “Elvis is a beaver!”

  That made even less sense than the rest of it.

  “Why would a beaver want to join the P.A.G.?” I asked.

  “He’s not a member; he’s our first project. His colony got displaced when they built the new mall, but he was too old to keep up. We have to build him a new home.”

  “Don’t beavers build their own homes?”

  “Yeah … when they’re in a colony. Poor Elvis is alone, and he’s too old and feeble to build a whole lodge by himself. All he can do is chew on fences and decks and cable wires, getting yelled at by people who don’t understand.”

  “Cable wires?” I repeated in horror. There had been a number of random cable outages around Sycamore lately, knocking out TV and Internet service, including my gaming connection. The cable company called the problems “unexplained,” but those big beaver teeth were all the explanation I needed. Anybody who interfered with gaming networks didn’t deserve a new home. He deserved a speedy exile.

  “I’ve found the perfect spot for it,” she raved on. “It’s in the wooded part of Ravine Park, just north of the highway. There’s a stream and plenty of sunlight coming through the treetops. Plus there are squirrels and chipmunks and all kinds of fellow rodents for him to make friends with so he won’t feel so abandoned by his family.”

  It went without saying that the Positive Action Group would never perform any good deeds, because I invented it purely to get my folks off my back. But even if the P.A.G. was 100 percent legit, the last thing it would waste its valuable time on was a beaver lodge. I had no idea what it would do, but beaver lodges would be last on the list.

  But I couldn’t very well tell her that, could I? So I said, “Okay, we’ll bring it up at the next meeting.”

  “When?”

  Daphne had a real knack for asking unanswerable questions. How could there be a next meeting when there had never been any meeting at all?

  “I’ll text you,” I promised.

  She made me write down her number. That paper was in the garbage before the sliding door had closed behind her.

  I hadn’t been sleeping very well lately. The Fall Charity Raffle was on my mind. We’d only sold twenty-seven tickets, and I’d bought twelve of them. The drawing was less than two months away, and we didn’t have anywhere near enough money to buy the prize—a 77-inch TV.

  It was for charity. How could anybody not support charity? But these were middle school kids. Finding out what made them tick was like analyzing soil samples from the surface of Mars—a complete mystery. What they could do on their phones during the few minutes between classes would surpass any technology that existed when I was their age, but sometimes they had the maturity and attention span of newborn bats, sending out their first echo signals and then darting around following them in a pointless, directionless frenzy.

  “They’re kids,” Dara Wemberley, our assistant principal, told me. “What do you expect from them? They’re doing exactly what’s appropriate at this age.”

  “Maybe,” I replied sulkily. “But that’s not selling any raffle tickets. I can’t afford to buy them all on a guidance counselor’s salary. And it’s not going to look too kosher when I win the grand prize.”

  She just laughed and promised to buy another book of tickets. Maybe she was trying to help me out. Or, more likely, she figured the odds were in her favor because sales were slow. Who didn’t want a 77-inch TV?

  I sighed. It was all pretty understandable. These were tough times in Sycamore, with the new mall sucking the economic life out of the town. Families were regularly being asked to pony up for some campaign or other. We were running a book fair to support the library, the clubs and sports teams constantly had their hands out, and the PTA always had some fund-raiser going on. To ask these kids to spend what little spare time they had knocking on doors selling raffle tickets was probably going too far. I understood—I really did. But it wasn’t going to look too good if the Salvation Army got stiffed and our school was still out the cost of one 77-inch TV.

  I had to relax. Lack of sleep was making everything seem worse than it really was. A power nap would make all the difference in the world. Ten minutes was all I needed. I’d just lay my head down on the desk …

  “Mr. Fanshaw?”

  I snapped up again, the muscles in my neck protesting the sudden motion. Daphne Leibowitz leaned into my office. It would be unkind to say I wasn’t glad to see her, but I’d almost been asleep, so I wasn’t at my best. And Daphne was one of our regular customers in the guidance department. I wouldn’t call her a fussbudget, exactly. She was a nice girl with a big heart. Seeing the world as it could have been was a wonderful quality in a young person. Expecting me to fix it for her—well, that wasn’t in my job description.

  “Hi, Daphne. What can I do for you?”

  “I joined this new club,” she began. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s really great and all that … ”

  “But?” I prompted. With Daphne, there was always a but.

  “They’re not doing anything!” she exclaimed. “The big planning meeting was supposed to be a week ago.”

  “Maybe you just had the wrong date and time,” I suggested.

  “There was no date and time. They were going to text me.”

  “Could they have forgotten?” I offered. It was a silly question. Nobody ever forgot Daphne. She had a knack for reminding people.

  She shook her head. “I asked. There was no meeting. And there’s no meeting scheduled yet. Honestly, Mr. Fanshaw, this club is the best thing, but they can’t get it off the ground.”

  “I’ll have a word with them,” I promised. “Which club is it?”

  “It’s the P.A.G.”

  I drew a complete blank.

  “The Positive Action Group,” Daphne said. �
�I just know I can get them to help Elvis. Helping is the whole point of the group.”

  “Elvis?” I echoed. “Elvis died back in the seventies.”

  “Not the singer. The beaver!”

  “Right. The beaver.”

  Let’s just say that this was not the first time the beaver had come up in conversation with Daphne. I didn’t realize the critter had a name. Elvis had eaten all the beautiful white bark off the base of the birch tree in my front yard. It hadn’t brought the tree down, but it had weakened it enough to drop a big branch through the windshield of my car.

  I swiveled toward my computer monitor. I knew every student club, team, group, and organization at Sycamore Middle. Why hadn’t I heard of this Positive Action Group?

  I browsed through the school’s website. Sure enough, there it was.

  I was so bowled over that I just sat there, staring at the screen. How could an organization like this spring up right under my very nose? And such a wonderful organization, dedicated to helping people. Almost like the Friends of Fuzzy over at the high school, only not as aggressive. Some of those older teenage girls could be very pushy. To be honest, they scared me a little.

  In my amazement, I completely forgot about Daphne, who was standing right across from me.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Fanshaw? You just went all pale.”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” And I was—really fine. Just the thought that someone had formed the Positive Action Group restored my faith in the youth of Sycamore.

  I read the mission statement. Well, okay, it was a little short on specifics. No wonder they were having trouble getting it started. No problem. They needed guidance. That was where I came in.

  “Thanks for bringing this to my attention,” I told Daphne briskly. “Leave it with me. We’ll have the P.A.G. shipshape in no time.”

  “And you’ll tell them about Elvis?” she persisted.

  I forced a smile. “You’ll bring up the subject at the first meeting.”

  Satisfied with that, she left my office, and I returned to the website. After thirteen years as a guidance counselor, I knew enough not to get overly excited by the big plans of a bunch of middle school kids. Their hearts were in the right place, but their ambitions usually exceeded their capabilities. Still, I had a good feeling about the Positive Action Group. I was certain they were the kind of organization that would make a difference.

  I read on:

  Cameron Boxer … Cameron Boxer … Why didn’t I know that name? According to this, he was an eighth grader, which meant he’d been here more than two years. How could a community-minded student leader like this boy escape my notice for so long?

  I called up his school record. The student card photo that appeared on my screen barely rang a bell. Light brown hair, blue eyes, pleasant-looking, but not memorable. I’d definitely seen him around, but never as anything more than a face in the crowd. In all the time he’d been here, I don’t think he’d ever crossed my threshold. It seemed crazy that anyone could get so far along in his middle school career without ever once meeting the guidance counselor.

  His grades were unremarkable—mostly low B’s and the occasional C. And his extracurriculars …

  I stared. There was nothing. I don’t mean nothing special. I mean nothing at all. No clubs, no sports, no drama. If a student volunteered to hand out programs on Parents’ Night, it would appear on this list. He didn’t do that, either. The page was completely blank.

  I examined the picture of the ambitious eighth grader who had created a group dedicated to community action. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn that Cameron Boxer was a slacker.

  It was just more proof that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  I was anxious to meet with this fine young man and help him bring his blueprint for the Positive Action Group to fruition.

  I could see it now. The P.A.G. was going to do a tremendous amount of good for the people of Sycamore.

  And it seemed like the kind of organization that could sell a lot of raffle tickets.

  “Can I take a bathroom break?”

  I could always get out of Mrs. Herzlich’s class that way. As I headed down the corridor, I was already scrolling through the apps on my phone. Bathroom break? Don’t make me laugh. No self-respecting gamer ever needed a bathroom break. I was a camel. I once battled zombies for seven hours straight after drinking an entire half gallon of Gatorade. My back teeth were floating, but my mental discipline was 100 percent. I could have gone longer, too, if Evil McKillPeople hadn’t ended my run early.

  No, this was something different—a much-needed stress reliever in the middle of a long school day. There was no console here, obviously. But a little clan warfare could be waged right on your phone. It wouldn’t count as practice for Rule the World. On the plus side, though, Evil McKillPeople wouldn’t be able to muscle in. To be honest, I was starting to treasure the moments when I didn’t have to worry about him crashing the party.

  The upstairs boys’ room seemed empty, but on second look, all the stalls were occupied. I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I hadn’t come for the atmosphere. I leaned up against a sink and tapped the app on my screen.

  The game opened with the usual fanfare of horns. But as my well-fortified base appeared on my phone, I heard a second trumpeting—slightly muffled—from one of the stalls.

  “Chuck?” I asked.

  “No, it’s me,” came Pavel’s voice from the center stall.

  “I’m over here,” Chuck added from the far end.

  Another fanfare rang out—the final stall. The school could have saved a fortune on plumbing fixtures if they’d just put in a clan warfare room, but fat chance of that.

  We hadn’t been playing very long when there was a sharp rap at the door. Who knocked to get into the boys’ room? How polite could a guy be?

  “Sorry!” called Chuck. “All full up in here!”

  And then a man’s voice asked, “Is Cameron Boxer in there?”

  I slid on my belly under a stall door, joining this kid Eric, who I didn’t really know. He backed against the toilet tank and glared at me. I could relate. Gamers didn’t like to have their space invaded—you know, unless they were playing Space Invaders.

  “Why’d you have to come in here?” he rasped in complaint.

  “You’ve got the handicapped stall,” I hissed. “It has the most room.”

  There were footsteps in the bathroom. “Cameron Boxer?” the voice repeated.

  I froze like a scared rabbit, intent on waiting this teacher out. Unfortunately, one of the other guys panicked and exited the game. This brought on another fanfare. The trumpets echoed off the tile walls as if heralding the arrival of some royal prince.

  “Is that a cell phone?” the man asked suspiciously.

  In answer, all three toilets flushed at the same time.

  The voice was a little impatient now. “Cameron, is that you? Mrs. Herzlich told me I could find you here. I waited in the hall, but … Well, now I suppose I know why you were taking so long. Don’t worry. Just this once, we’ll forget about the cell phone.”

  Totally caught—curse you, Mrs. Herzlich—I slipped through the door, careful not to reveal Eric, cowering behind me, his feet on the toilet seat. To my surprise, the teacher wasn’t a teacher at all. It was the guidance counselor, Mr. Fan-something. Fansteen, Fanboy—something like that.

  Just to make it look good, I washed my hands. It was none of Mr. Fanbloom’s business what I was doing in that stall.

  He didn’t seem mad that I was cutting class. As a matter of fact, he was smiling at me. That was almost scarier than the possibility of having my phone confiscated. It was bad enough that the guy knew my name, considering I hadn’t done a single thing in more than two years to bring myself to his attention. The fact that he was happy to see me was weird.

  “Well, Cameron, I have to tell you I’m impressed.”

  Correction: weirder.

  “Our paths haven’t crossed very
often since you’ve been a student here,” Mr. Fantasia went on, “so I suppose you can be excused for not knowing the rule.”

  “Rule?” Another word I wasn’t super fond of.

  “All new school clubs have to be approved by the guidance department.”

  So? What did that have to do with me? It was like he’d tracked me down to a bathroom stall to tell me the price of coconuts in Antarctica.

  I had to come right out and ask, “Mr. Fan—uh, sir? What are we talking about?”

  He gave me a conspiratorial look. “Daphne Leibowitz was in my office this morning. She’s very excited about the Positive Action Group.”

  If he’d said I was about to be hung from the flagpole, I couldn’t have been more shocked. The Positive Action Group? Nobody was supposed to know about that!

  The minute Daphne showed up on the step in front of what used to be my door, I should have known. There was no way that bigmouth could keep quiet about the P.A.G.—not while that beaver was still on the loose.

  But I couldn’t mention any of that to Mr. Fandango.

  “Uh—what exactly did Daphne say?” I ventured.

  “Just how excited she is,” the counselor replied. “She was anxiously awaiting your next meeting, and when it didn’t happen, she became … frustrated.”

  Now the truth came out. It wasn’t enough for Daphne to stalk me at my house and pull me away from my Rule the World training. She had to bring the guidance department down on my head. I’d kind of hoped to make it all the way through middle school without having to deal with guidance, because those guys could be murder on your lifestyle. But I guess my luck had just run out.

  “And what did you tell her?” I managed, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “I told her there’s nothing to worry about.” He smiled even wider. “Every school club has to have a faculty adviser. I’m yours. So whatever questions you may have, I’m at your disposal.”

  He regarded me expectantly. That might have been the worst part. I didn’t have any questions, and I definitely didn’t want any answers.