The War With Mr. Wizzle

by Gordon Korman

“William, be serious. Poor Mr. Wizzle is all by himself in the guest cottage. I’m planning to invite him over regularly.”

  “How regularly?” asked the Headmaster warily.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” his wife replied, “but he’s coming tonight. Oh, yes, and I forgot to mention — I’ve also invited Miss Scrimmage and her administrative assistant, Miss Peabody.”

  Mr. Sturgeon’s face lit up. “Mildred, you’re a genius! That’s a move that’s certain to drive Wizzle into the next county! When that woman from across the road starts talking at him, even WizzleWare won’t be able to save him! And her Miss Peabody is probably even worse than she is.”

  “William, that’s a terrible attitude! I want you to be cordial to our guests. It’ll be a nice little dinner party.”

  “I’m not guaranteeing anything. By the way, what’s for dinner?”

  “We’re having a nice fruit salad,” said Mrs. Sturgeon cautiously.

  “And …?” prompted her husband.

  “And cake and coffee.”

  “But, Mildred, what’s the main course?” he persisted.

  “The salad, dear. We’re not having meat. Mr. Wizzle is a vegetarian.”

  “But I’m not!”

  “It’s a simple courtesy. We want Mr. Wizzle to feel welcome, don’t we?”

  “No, we don’t,” said Mr. Sturgeon coldly.

  “Oh, William, go wash up! And when the guests arrive, be polite!”

  * * *

  “That was a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Sturgeon,” said Mr. Wizzle, leaning back in his chair. “Thank you very much for inviting me.”

  Mr. Sturgeon was already beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of heartburn that fresh fruit always caused him. “Yes, a wonderful dinner,” he agreed sourly.

  “So, Miss Peabody,” said Mrs. Sturgeon conversationally, “how are you finding Miss Scrimmage’s school?”

  Miss Peabody snorted into her coffee. “Those girls are so soft it makes me sick!”

  Mr. Sturgeon suppressed a smile behind his cup.

  “But, Miss Peabody,” protested Miss Scrimmage, “of course they’re soft! They’re young ladies.”

  “They’re pampered, overindulged and overprotected,” snapped Miss Peabody, “and it’s got to stop. Tomorrow morning at six-thirty the whole school is going to fall in on the front lawn for calisthenics.”

  Miss Scrimmage was aghast. “But I’ve always stressed the importance of beauty sleep.”

  “Balloonjuice!” exclaimed Miss Peabody in disgust.

  “My psychological studies,” announced Mr. Wizzle, “show clearly that too much emphasis on physical activity takes away from strong study habits. The student becomes exhausted and —”

  “Balloonjuice!” repeated Miss Peabody. Mr. Sturgeon chuckled softly.

  His wife glared at him. “Would anyone like some more cake?” she offered.

  “I’d like another piece, please,” said Mr. Wizzle.

  “Overindulgence,” muttered Miss Peabody.

  Mr. Wizzle was determined to be polite. “Miss Peabody, perhaps you’d like to come over and have a look at our new software system. I wrote the code myself —”

  “I don’t believe in computers,” she said flatly. “When was the last time you saw a computer deliver a good swift kick where it was most needed?”

  Miss Scrimmage’s cup rattled in its saucer.

  “Have some more coffee, Miss Scrimmage,” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “Perhaps it will restore you. You look a little pale.”

  * * *

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” raved Bruno, holding up the first copy of The Macdonald Hall Free Press.

  “Yeah, beautiful,” agreed Boots, glancing nervously about the print shop. “Let’s get out of here. It’s one AM!”

  “With only one copy?” asked Bruno. “Now, let’s see. How many should we run off?”

  “Maybe twenty?” suggested Boots.

  “Twenty? There are seven hundred guys at Macdonald Hall! We’ll print up a thousand just to be on the safe side.”

  “Bruno, we’ll be here all night!” protested Boots.

  “That’s true,” said Bruno. “We’ll cut it to five hundred.”

  “Mark says we can’t use more than two hundred and fifty sheets of paper,” said Boots. “That’ll be plenty. The guys can share them.”

  “We’ll make it three-fifty,” decided Bruno. “No one’ll know the difference, and there’ll be a paper for every two guys. Okay, let’s start printing them.”

  * * *

  Cathy Burton lay on her bed, aching in every bone. “I can’t believe it!” she gasped. “Six laps! I can’t move!”

  “Try to relax,” suggested Diane solicitously. “We’ve got to get some sleep. We’re going to be up early tomorrow morning for calisthenics.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Cathy. “I’ve passed the word. No one’s going.”

  “But Miss Peabody’ll be mad!” Diane protested.

  Cathy’s stiff body tightened a little more. “We don’t have to worry about that either. We’re getting rid of Miss Peabody. I don’t care if it takes us all week — Peabody goes!”

  Chapter 4

  Freedom of the Press

  Miss Peabody stood, hands on hips, on the lawn in front of Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. The girls lay about on the grass in various poses, gasping, choking and sweating.

  Cathy’s method of passive resistance had not worked. By 6:15, when no students had appeared on the exercise field, Miss Peabody had marched into the residence and, starting with room 1, had physically hauled each girl out of bed.

  “You are the most nauseating bunch of cream puffs I’ve ever seen!” her strident voice rang out. “Look at you! I haven’t even worked up a sweat yet! All right, that’s enough for now. This afternoon right after classes I want to see every one of you out on the track! Three laps for not showing up on time for calisthenics!”

  There were moans of protest.

  “Okay, everybody hit the showers before breakfast. Come on! Double time!”

  She turned to look across the road where a small group of pyjama-clad boys, roused from their sleep, had gathered to investigate the disturbance.

  “Hey, you!” she bellowed. “Doesn’t Macdonald Hall teach you to mind your own business?”

  Pete Anderson nudged Boots. “Who’s that?”

  Boots shrugged. “Sure isn’t Miss Scrimmage in shorts.”

  * * *

  “Instead of beginning our math course today,” said Mr. Stratton painfully in Bruno and Boots’s first class on Wednesday morning, “I will be passing out some psychological tests which you are to complete. They are not for me, of course. Mr. — uh — Wizzle requires that these be completed in all first classes this morning.” He cleared his throat. “These tests have nothing to do with math, and therefore do not have any place here, but —”

  “But Mr. Wizzle needs the feedback,” piped Bruno.

  There were general groans and laughter.

  “That will do, Walton,” said Mr. Stratton with restrained severity. “Now, this is a multiple-choice test. When you decide on your answer, you colour in the appropriate box on the scan sheet. The scan sheets will be evaluated by” — he reddened slightly — “WizzleWare.”

  Pete Anderson raised his hand. “Sir, how come we’re having a test and we haven’t even started school yet? What if I don’t know the answers?”

  “You’ll be all right, Anderson,” said Mr. Stratton. “These are opinion questions. There are no wrong answers.”

  The papers were passed out and the testing began. Boots read question one: In a discussion, your friend takes a stand that is absolutely incorrect. Do you: (a) vehemently contradict him? (b) gently suggest that he reconsider his viewpoint? or (c) let it pass?

  In his mind Boots pictured Bruno pounding tables and ruthlessly pursuing his goals. Contradict? Never. Suggest? What good did it ever do? He filled in (c).

  Wilbur Hackenschleimer re
ad over question four. Your friend needs money to buy a birthday gift for his mother, but all you have is your lunch money. Do you (a) lend him your lunch money? (b) lend him some of your money and have a light lunch? or (c) turn him down outright? Without hesitation, Wilbur filled in (c). For his part, the question need not have been asked.

  Bruno was colouring in squares at random, not even bothering to read the questions. If it were at all possible, he decided, WizzleWare was going to crash over his answers. He paused to admire the nice zigzag pattern his answers formed. Bruno was not in the least worried that his test result might be of any consequence. This was, after all, a Wizzle test.

  * * *

  Elmer Drimsdale put up his hand. “Sir, how can you make a multiple-choice question out of Who is the man in history you admire most? My choice isn’t on the list.”

  Mr. Hubert, Elmer’s period one teacher, shook his head impatiently. “Just pick one, Drimsdale. Please.”

  * * *

  Mark Davies, whose first class was phys. ed., lay stretched out on the gym floor, wondering why he had changed into his track shorts in order to fill out papers. You are invited to a party, he read, and you don’t know what to wear. Do you: (a) dress formally just in case? (b) risk offending your host by phoning and asking what to wear? or (c) say you have a cold and not go at all? Mark filled in (c). He didn’t like parties.

  * * *

  Pete Anderson chewed on his pencil nervously. What is your critical opinion of Keats? Without bothering to read the multiple choice answers, Pete raised his hand. “Mr. Stratton, sir, what’s a Keat?”

  “I beg your pardon, Anderson?”

  “Question three,” said Pete. “What is your critical opinion of Keats? How can I have a critical opinion? I don’t even know what they are!”

  Mr. Stratton laughed. “Keats, Anderson! The poet!”

  “Oh,” said Pete, no better off. “These sure are hard. I think they should have given us a chance to study.”

  “Just leave it blank and go on to the next one, Anderson. You’re far behind and time’s almost up.”

  * * *

  Dear Miss Peabody, wrote Cathy Burton, we at Siberia High School have heard about the marvellous education methods you are using at Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. We will pay you 250,000 rubles a year plus your own polar bear. An immediate reply is requested to Siberia High School, 23 Glacier Avenue, Siberia, Russia. Come at once. You are desperately needed here. Yours truly, Boris Pavlov. P.S. We love doing morning calisthenics.

  “There,” she said aloud. “Siberia should be far enough.”

  “Do you really think she’ll buy that?” asked Diane dubiously.

  Cathy shrugged. “Come on. Let’s go slip it in her mailbox.”

  * * *

  “Bruno,” said Pete Anderson at the lunch table, “do you think we could get rid of Mr. Wizzle before he has a chance to mark those tests?”

  “Actually,” said Elmer, “it shouldn’t take very long to evaluate the tests. They’re probably being scanned right now.”

  “Oh, no!” moaned Pete. “I wonder what happens if you flunk!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bruno confidently. “Wizzle’s as good as gone. Wait till you see the Free Press!”

  “How did it turn out?” asked Chris. “Were my graphics okay?”

  “Fantastic!” Bruno assured him. “The whole paper’s a work of art!”

  “I’ve been worried about that all morning,” said Boots nervously. “The papers are all sitting in our room. Bruno, you know Wizzle has a passkey. What if he goes snooping around and finds them?”

  “No problem,” said Bruno. “They won’t be there long. Tonight, just after lights-out, we’re each going to take a batch and slip them under doors.”

  Wilbur dropped a cookie. “Hold everything! I’m not risking getting demerits. I got three this morning because Mr. Wizzle saw me eating between classes. Did you know we’re not allowed to eat between classes?”

  “If you don’t help deliver the Free Press,” warned Bruno, “Wizzle’s going to stay, and then you’ll never be allowed to eat between classes.”

  “That’s blackmail,” accused Wilbur.

  “That reminds me,” said Mark irritably. “I got three demerits this morning for leaving the print shop in a mess. Thanks a lot, Bruno!”

  “I got five demerits last night,” said Elmer, shamefaced.

  “You?” chorused all the boys at the table.

  “Yes,” Elmer admitted. “Last night the constellation of Orion was so well positioned in the sky that I couldn’t resist getting out my telescope, even though it was after lights-out. I was sketching the positions of the stars when, suddenly, they were gone and this huge eye was looking at me.”

  “I didn’t get any demerits,” said Larry. “Mr. Wizzle complimented me on my efficiency.”

  “Your kind causes unrest!” snarled Wilbur.

  Elmer sighed nervously. “If I get five more demerits, I’ll have to write lines!”

  “Oh, no!” Bruno held his head. “My lines! I forgot to hand in my lines! I haven’t even got them from Sidney yet!” He ran out of the dining hall.

  “That Bruno!” exclaimed Wilbur. “How come he makes everybody do what they don’t want to do?”

  “It’s for our own good,” explained Pete. “We have to stop Wizzle before he gives another test!”

  Bruno stomped determinedly out of the Faculty Building. Outside he met Boots and Wilbur on their way to afternoon classes.

  “I brought your books,” said Boots.

  “That Wizzle!” stormed Bruno. “Do you know what he did with those lines? He just scrunched them up and threw them in the garbage! After all Sidney’s hard work!”

  “What did you expect him to do?” asked Wilbur. “Frame them?”

  “And I got five more demerits for being late!” added Bruno. “If demerits were money, I’d be rich!”

  “If demerits were brains,” said Boots, “you’d behave yourself.”

  “Look who’s talking! You’ve got five!”

  “So what?” Boots defended himself. “Elmer’s got five, too. I’m in distinguished company.”

  “Come on,” said Wilbur. “We’ll be late for class.”

  * * *

  “Well, Mildred,” said Mr. Sturgeon, enjoying a roast beef dinner, “of all the people I might have guessed Miss Scrimmage would hire, that Miss Peabody would be the last.”

  “What a horrible person,” agreed Mrs. Sturgeon. “I feel so sorry for those poor girls.”

  The Headmaster grimaced. “Those hooligans deserve anything they get. Besides, it could be worse for them. They could have Wizzle. Save your sympathy for our boys. Wizzle gave Drimsdale five demerits last night for having his telescope out after ten PM.”

  “Well,” said his wife, “he was violating curfew. That could interfere with a boy’s school work, you know.”

  “Drimsdale has been a one-man observatory for three years,” said the Headmaster, “and never once has his average dropped below ninety-five. Mildred, to give that boy demerits is a crime against science!”

  “Mr. Wizzle is new here,” Mrs. Sturgeon explained, “and all he saw was a boy breaking the rules.”

  “I suppose being smarter than Wizzle is against the rules. It would appear that harbouring the smartest boy in the world is one of the things that makes Macdonald Hall a dinosaur.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “You think poor Mr. Wizzle is handing out demerits too freely?”

  “He is as free with his demerits as he is with his advice,” said the Headmaster sourly. “He’s called a surprise dormitory inspection for tonight so he can give away even more. Anyway, thank heaven he isn’t here for dinner again. Pass the meat, please.”

  “William, your attitude is deplorable,” scolded Mrs. Sturgeon. “In no time at all I’m sure Mr. Wizzle will fit nicely into Macdonald Hall.”

  “Mr. Wizzle will fit nicely into the furnace,” replied her husband
evenly.

  “I didn’t hear that, William!”

  * * *

  Bruno patted the stack of newspapers lovingly. “Ten minutes to ten. At five after, we start distributing.”

  Boots was having second thoughts. “You know, some of these articles are pretty rough on Mr. Wizzle. Like this one, where it says his ideas serve no useful purpose here. Or this pros and cons chart where it says ‘Nil’ under the pros. He’s going to be really mad!”

  “Well,” said Bruno hopefully, “maybe he’ll just go away without being too insulted.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  “Who is it?” called Bruno.

  “Dormitory inspection,” called the voice of Walter C. Wizzle.

  Boots grabbed the stack of papers and began to run around the room in panic.

  “Out the window!” whispered Bruno. Aloud he called, “Coming, Mr. Wizzle, sir.”

  Boots threw open the window and dumped The Macdonald Hall Free Press into the bushes. He slammed the window shut just as Bruno opened the door to admit Mr. Wizzle, followed by a grim-looking Mr. Sturgeon.

  Notebook poised, Mr. Wizzle looked around the room with a critical eye. “Oh, yes, Walton and O’Neal, isn’t it?”

  “Y–yessir,” stammered Boots.

  “Well … not yet ready for bed — two demerits. Hmmm … very untidy room, disgracefully so — three demerits. Beds not properly made — one more demerit. There is no food in here, is there?”

  “No, sir,” said Bruno, “no food.”

  “Good.” Mr. Wizzle nodded. “There’s one student in this dormitory who had his entire desk filled to the brim with groceries. I had to confiscate three cartons.”

  “You took away Wilbur’s food?” blurted Boots.

  The Headmaster turned away to cough.

  Mr. Wizzle consulted his notebook. “Six demerits each. Well, O’Neal, that gives you eleven. Two hundred lines — I will obey fully all the rules of Macdonald Hall. Walton, two hundred and fifty from you. On my desk. Friday morning.” He gave the room a last glance. “And clean this room up. That’s all.” He turned and left. The Headmaster followed, tossing over his shoulder a glance that neither Bruno nor Boots could decipher.

  “Walter C. Wizzle!” muttered Bruno as the door shut behind Mr. Sturgeon. “Four hundred and fifty lines between the two of us!”