The War With Mr. Wizzle

by Gordon Korman

  Bruno stood up at the end of the table, smiling hugely. “This is fantastic! The whole organization’s here!”

  “What about Boots?” called someone.

  Bruno flushed momentarily. “Boots has a few personal problems to work out.” The triumphant expression returned to his face. “But we’re a committee again. We can fight again!” Dramatically, he ripped off his tie and threw it to the floor.

  “Bruno Walton, what was the purpose of that outburst?”

  Everyone wheeled to see Mr. Wizzle standing in the doorway, writing in his notebook.

  “Five demerits. And put your tie back on. Now, Anderson, I have some good news for you. Come to my office for a moment.”

  “See you around, editor,” said Bruno, knotting his tie.

  Pete tossed him a worried glance and followed Mr. Wizzle.

  * * *

  It was two o’clock in the morning, but there was still vigorous activity in Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard. The Blue Squadron, led by Cathy Burton and Diane Grant, marched in formation up and down between the rows of trees. They had been drilling every night, in addition to normal practice time, and were easily the most expert squadron of the four.

  Cathy marched at the head of the troops, carrying the flagpole that held the bright blue banner. She turned around. “Company, halt!” she whispered loudly. “Okay, we’re definitely going to win the big parade tomorrow. That twenty-four-hour pass is as good as ours.”

  There was restrained cheering.

  “Everyone get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow morning wake up bright and chipper and ready to march your little guts out. Anybody who fouls up dies.”

  The girls all trooped back to their rooms.

  “You know,” whispered Diane as she and Cathy crept into the residence, “your little pep talk back there sounded a lot like Peabody.”

  Cathy cast her a withering glare. “If you want to be my friend, don’t say things like that.”

  * * *

  About the same time, the door of the Macdonald Hall guest cottage burst open and Mr. Wizzle raced out into the night. Barefoot, he ran about twenty metres and hurled himself face first onto the ground, where he lay panting.

  Cautiously he looked up. The campus was dark. No one else had noticed the earthquake. He touched the ground. It seemed to be over.

  He got to his feet and began to walk slowly back to his house. The upstairs light went on in the Headmaster’s cottage and Mr. Sturgeon’s head appeared at the window.

  “I say, Wizzle,” he called down. “Any problem?”

  “Oh, no. No,” replied Mr. Wizzle with a heartiness he was far from feeling. “I was just — taking a little walk. You know — to get some air.”

  “I would not presume to lecture,” said the Headmaster, “but might I point out that you are in your underwear?”

  “Oh, well — uh — ha, ha — we’re all boys here.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Sturgeon, “except perhaps my wife and the three hundred or so young girls across the road. In your future walks, Wizzle, kindly be more circumspect in your choice of costume. Good night.”

  Mr. Wizzle fled back home.

  The Headmaster shut the window. “Mildred, I think Wizzle’s cracking up. He was running around out there in his underwear.”

  “You must be mistaken, dear. Mr. Wizzle would never do such a thing.”

  “Mildred, would I lie to you?”

  “Oh, go to sleep, William.”

  * * *

  The boys sat at their usual table at lunch on Saturday discussing strategy.

  “Okay,” said Bruno, “today’s the big membership drive. Today we’re going to go out there and recruit all the guys to help us on the committee. Get them to join up, and tell them to come to our mammoth rally tonight.”

  “What mammoth rally?” asked Wilbur suspiciously.

  “Our big anti-Wizzle meeting. We’re all going to get together and get organized — you know, set up subcommittees and departments. We’re going to be more efficient than WizzleWare.”

  “Actually,” began Elmer, “a cutting-edge software program —”

  “Stow it, Elm,” said Bruno. “We’ll all have to work really hard recruiting people. I want ten choice guys from each of you. Including us, that’ll make around ninety.”

  “Around ninety?”

  “We can get more if we need them,” said Bruno.

  “Where can we meet that’ll accommodate ninety people?” asked Chris, who was of a practical turn of mind.

  “In the woods out back,” replied Bruno.

  “Count me out,” said everybody.

  “You guys all tried to quit once before,” Bruno reminded them, “and look where you are now.”

  “Okay,” muttered Wilbur between bites. “But just in case, I’m going to enjoy my last two meals. If we’re caught —”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned Bruno. “I never get caught.”

  * * *

  The girls of the Blue Squadron were due to parade last. They lined up, clad in dress tunics with blue arm bands, waiting for the White team to finish marching.

  “We’re a cinch!” crowed Cathy to Diane. “Did you see how lousy the other squads were? We’re going to win this parade by a landslide, and then it’s bye-bye Peabody for a whole day!”

  “Okay!” bellowed Miss Peabody’s voice from the reviewing platform. “Blue Squadron!”

  Cathy picked up her flag and took her place at the front of her troops. “Company, march!”

  They started off marching in perfect formation, moving as one person. All those practice hours were worth it, thought Cathy in jubilation. They were picture-perfect. Even Miss Peabody had to be impressed. She felt like singing, but one didn’t sing while one marched.

  “Eyes right!” commanded Cathy. She dipped the flag in front of the reviewing stand, but she dipped it too low and the tip of the pole stubbed into the ground and stuck there. Cathy marched forward into the flag and bounced back, knocking over Diane, who fell backward into the rank behind her. Rank by rank, the entire Blue Squadron marching team keeled over backward like a row of bowling pins.

  Overcome by guilt, humiliation and the pain of losing, Cathy scrambled to her feet, ripped the flagpole from the ground and screamed something decidedly unladylike.

  “Catherine!” Miss Scrimmage covered her ears and closed her eyes.

  Cathy hefted the pole like a javelin, reared back in rage and hurled it into the apple orchard.

  “Blue Squadron,” barked Miss Peabody, “get off the field! Red Squadron, you’re the winners. Congratulations.”

  The girls on the red team went into raptures of celebration.

  “Burton, front and centre!”

  * * *

  Miss Peabody leaned back in her office chair. “Cooled off yet, Burton?”

  “Yes, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy, still shaking with rage.

  “That was a pretty nice parade you had there. I can see you put a lot of work into it.”

  Cathy looked up in surprise.

  “As for what happened — well, things like that are always going to happen, even in the Marines.”

  Cathy looked at her strangely. Could this be Peabody’s version of kindness?

  “Yes, it was pretty good there for a while,” said Miss Peabody. “Too bad you had to open up your big mouth and ruin it. That was stupid. Miss Scrimmage wants you punished for foul language.” She grinned. “Run a couple of laps this afternoon — if you have time.”

  “Yes, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy, mystified.

  “Right!” barked Miss Peabody, the smile gone. “Now, push off. I have work to do.”

  Cathy left, frowning in perplexity. Had she been punished or what?

  * * *

  Boots O’Neal walked into the outer office of the Faculty Building bearing a message for Mr. Wizzle from Coach Flynn. Mrs. Davis was not at her desk and Mr. Wizzle’s office was empty, so he stepped towards Mr. Sturgeon’s oak door, which was ajar. Inside he could
hear the Headmaster talking with Mr. Wizzle. Although the conversation was muffled, he could distinctly make out Mr. Wizzle mentioning something that was uppermost in Boots’s mind: Bruno Walton.

  He did not mean to eavesdrop, but nevertheless he stood rooted to the spot.

  “Bruno Walton is at the root of every problem we’ve ever had,” Mr. Wizzle was saying. “His behaviour is atrocious; he’s disrespectful and rebellious. Why, I’m sure he was responsible for that Macdonald Hall Free Press. The minute I mentioned it at the assembly, every eye went to him. And the boy obviously does not take his education seriously. Just look at the results of his tests. In question nine on this one he says he prefers possessions to friends; in question fourteen, he holds friendship more valuable than worldly goods. Or this one — he answered (a) for every question. And in the third test, he simply filled in everything. My software suffered a small breakdown trying to analyze his scan sheet.”

  Mr. Sturgeon stifled a smile. “I’ll have a word with the boy.”

  “And yesterday,” Mr. Wizzle went on, undeterred, “he handed in the last of his lines — three hundred and fifty of them. Three hundred and forty-nine were in order, but one of them, buried in the middle, read — and I quote — ‘I will not rest until I kick this turkey out of Macdonald Hall’! Can you imagine that?”

  “I see,” said the Headmaster, his expression inscrutable.

  “I’m giving Walton five demerits for not taking the testing seriously, and five more for writing that insulting line. That gives him fifty-six. I recommend that he be expelled at once.”

  Outside the door, Boots felt his heart skip a beat. “Recommendation considered and rejected,” said Mr. Sturgeon immediately.

  “Perhaps you didn’t quite understand me,” said Mr. Wizzle. “Bruno Walton is a troublemaker.”

  “I understood you perfectly,” said the Headmaster. “The subject is closed.”

  “But Mr. Sturgeon, according to the Wizzle System —”

  “The Wizzle System is mistaken,” said Mr. Sturgeon coldly.

  “Well, I don’t like to say this, sir, but the Board has given me considerable authority here.”

  “Not over my boys,” said Mr. Sturgeon firmly.

  Mr. Wizzle sighed. “Very well, sir. We’ll try it your way. But I firmly believe that Bruno Walton is a bad influence at Macdonald Hall.”

  “Your opinion has been noted.”

  * * *

  Bruno lay on his bed contemplating his committee and mentally planning tonight’s meeting. There was a tremendous crash and the door flew open, the lock broken. In hopped Boots, cradling his left foot tenderly.

  “Bruno, I’ve got to talk to you!”

  Bruno looked at him questioningly. “What is it?”

  “Yeah, uh —” Boots paused. Should Bruno be told how close he’d come to being expelled? No. The Fish had stuck up for him this time. But how long would that last? “Uh — what’s new?”

  “Nothing that would interest you,” said Bruno, “so if you’re finished, I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Oh, no! thought Boots. If he didn’t keep an eye on Bruno, his roommate could be expelled! Despite everything he had to keep his friend out of trouble.

  “I — I want to join your committee.” Boots regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. This would only encourage Bruno to make more trouble!

  Without saying a word Bruno got up off his bed and began to remove the masking tape that divided the room. An enormous grin split his face. “About ninety of us are meeting tonight.”

  Boots smiled grudgingly. As a committee member, maybe he could maintain some control over his roommate.

  * * *

  Illuminated by moonlight, Bruno Walton stood up before the crowd of boys in the woods behind Macdonald Hall. Most of them had come against their better judgement. They were looking around nervously, asking each other if they knew the reason behind this secret meeting.

  “The meeting will come to order,” said Bruno. Then, less formally, “Hi, guys. Glad you could make it.”

  “What is this?” piped someone.

  “This,” announced Bruno grandly, “is The Committee.”

  “What committee?”

  Bruno looked at them solemnly. “The Committee.”

  “The Committee?”

  “The Committee?”

  “We’ll all be expelled. I’m leaving.”

  There was general agreement, and some of the boys began to walk away.

  “Wait!” pleaded Elmer.

  “Hear us out, at least,” said Bruno. “If you don’t hear us out, we’ll all get mad. Have any of you ever seen Wilbur when he’s mad?”

  “Okay, Bruno,” called someone impatiently, “let’s hear it.”

  “The purpose of The Committee is to get rid of Wizzle,” began Bruno, “and —”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Instantly, the crowd was on Bruno’s side.

  “I can’t stand that guy Wizzle!”

  “He gave me so many demerits that I had to write lines!”

  “He gave me so many lines I got demerits for not writing them!”

  “I can never remember how to tie my tie. Should the little end be longer than the big end?”

  “Wizzle confiscated my rock collection because it wasn’t making efficient use of space.”

  “When no one was looking, I kicked his computer.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Okay,” said Bruno. “To signify that you’re with The Committee, I want you all to come up here and press this remote control button. It makes an earthquake at Wizzle’s house, so it’s kind of your initiation into the organization.”

  One by one, the boys went up to Elmer’s remote control button and pressed it.

  “Now,” said Bruno, “let me tell you about Operation Shut-Up.”

  Boots looked at him. “Operation Shut-Up?”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if Wizzle couldn’t say anything?”

  “Sure,” said Boots. “But how are we going to shut him up?”

  “We’re not,” grinned Bruno. “We’re going to do the next best thing. We’re going to shut up his WizzleWare. Okay, listen carefully, guys …”

  Chapter 9

  The Paper Chase

  On Monday morning Mr. Wizzle had dark circles under his eyes. The earthquakes were getting worse. On Saturday night he could have sworn there had been a hundred little tremors, followed on Sunday night by a quake even bigger than before. On both nights he had been forced to abandon his cottage. After all, who knew just when the entire fault line might cave in completely? He winced. Every time he left the house in a big hurry, there was Mr. Sturgeon at his window. The man was getting to be a regular peeping Tom!

  Mr. Wizzle suppressed a yawn. He’d been planning to analyze the teacher efficiency reports he’d been putting together. It was just a matter of printing them.

  A flashing red light on the print console drew his eye. “Out of paper,” said Wizzle aloud. How strange! He was certain he had loaded the tray only Friday. He glanced at the spare box on the floor. Empty. This was impossible. It had been full on Friday afternoon! He went down the hall, took out his master key and unlocked the supply room door. He walked in and opened up a new box of ink-jet paper. There inside the carton sat twelve rolls of toilet paper. He opened another box: more toilet paper. And another. All the boxes were filled with toilet paper. Furious, he opened a carton marked Toilet Paper. Well, that at least was correct.

  Mr. Wizzle stormed to his office telephone and dialled the number of Systems Supply Ltd., the office outlet he dealt with.

  “This is Walter C. Wizzle at Macdonald Hall … Not Wuzzle, Wizzle … Listen, where is my ink-jet paper? … Yes, I know the order has been completed. You sent me toilet paper … What do you mean, you don’t handle toilet paper? You handled ten boxes in my direction … Yes, while you’re looking into it, get me a rush order for another ten boxes. And make sure it’s ink-jet paper this time, will you? I have a gr
eat deal of reports to print … Yes, I guess noon will be soon enough. Thank you.”

  Standing outside the door, Larry Wilson, office messenger and committee member, smiled to himself. Operation Shut-Up had sidelined Mr. Wizzle at least until noon. And now that they knew a truck was coming …

  At 12:05 the truck from Systems Supply Ltd. pulled up in front of the Faculty Building. Chris Talbot rushed out to meet it.

  “Hi,” he said. “Ink-jet paper? Great. Just drop it off at that building there — yeah, the sign says Dormitory 3. They’re waiting for you.”

  The truck moved along to Dormitory 3 and delivered Mr. Wizzle’s printer paper into the eager hands of Bruno, Boots and Wilbur. With a flourish Bruno signed the delivery ticket and the driver left.

  “You didn’t sign Mr. Wizzle’s name, did you?” asked Boots nervously as the three boys began to stack the paper up against the wall of room 306, along with the paper they had taken earlier from the stock room.

  “Of course not,” said Bruno. “I signed G. Gavin Gunhold. He’s the shipper-receiver around here.”

  “That’s the last of them,” said Wilbur. “Let’s go eat lunch.”

  At two o’clock Walter C. Wizzle was on the phone again. “Hello, This is Wizzle again … No, not Wuzzle, Wizzle! … I’m calling about those ten boxes of computer paper you promised would be here by noon. Where are they? … You can’t have a signed delivery slip, because I never got the delivery … G. Gavin Gunhold? There is no G. Gavin Gunhold here! You delivered my paper to the wrong place! … All right, look into it. But in the meantime ship me ten more boxes as soon as possible … All right, four o’clock is fine.”

  Okay, thought Larry Wilson outside the door, four o’clock is fine.

  The Systems Supply Ltd. truck came driving up the highway just after 4 PM. It was about a kilometre from the school when Mark Davies stepped out into its path, waving frantically. The truck pulled over onto the soft shoulder and the driver got out.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Mark, “but have you got a monkey wrench I can borrow? There’s something wrong with my bicycle.” Actually, it was Coach Flynn’s bicycle, and Bruno and Boots had taken off the front wheel.

  “Sure thing. I’ve got a whole tool box. Maybe I can give you a hand.”