The War With Mr. Wizzle

by Gordon Korman

  As he laboured with Mark over the dismantled bike, he failed to see Bruno, Boots and a Committee Task Force removing ten cartons from the back of the truck and replacing them with ten of their own. By the time Flynn’s wheel was back on, the switch was complete and everyone was hidden away.

  Mr. Wizzle eagerly opened up one of the cartons that had just arrived.

  “Toilet paper! They did it again!” In a rage, he rushed to the telephone. “Hello, this is Wizzle … No, not Wuzzle, Wizzle! … I just received my order and you gave me toilet paper again! … Yes, I know you don’t sell it, but that’s what you sent me! Have you people gone crazy? … Well, I want some of the right paper now. I will personally drive over there and pick it up … What do you mean you’re all out of ink-jet paper? … Yes, I know some guy ordered twenty boxes just today! But I never got a single sheet of it! … All right, all right, all right! I’ll call back tomorrow. Do what you can for me, will you? Good-bye.” He hung up emphatically. Now that was just peachy! No paper!

  * * *

  “The parade was just the beginning,” announced Miss Peabody at the assembly. “You girls still need some excitement and exertion. You need to experience the thrill of dropping into bed at night feeling completely fatigued. You need the exhilaration of competition!”

  An uneasy murmur ran through the gym. Miss Scrimmage shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  In the seventh row, Cathy and Diane looked at each other in desperation. Now what was Peabody up to?

  “I’ve ordered three hundred water pistols and a whole load of food colouring,” Miss Peabody went on with growing enthusiasm. “We’re going to have war games.”

  Miss Scrimmage gave an audible gasp and reached in her purse for her smelling salts.

  The girls stared at the Assistant Headmistress, mute with shock. Of all the things they had been sent to finishing school for, war games were the last on the list.

  “My goodness!” blurted Miss Scrimmage in a high state of nerves. “Water pistols! Food colouring! War games! It all seems so — unladylike!”

  “That’s right!” exclaimed Miss Peabody. “It isn’t ladylike — it’s war! And it develops vital skills like speed, agility and strategic planning — skills these girls will need someday — all in a spirit of healthy competition. Blue and White Squadrons against Red and Green Squadrons, fighting with harmless weapons to occupy the orchard. We’ll put some backbone into these jellyfish! And by the way, the winning army gets a weekend trip with Miss Scrimmage.”

  “A whole weekend!” whispered Cathy. “Forty-eight hours without Peabody! This we win!”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Diane whispered back.

  “Shhh. I’m planning strategy.”

  * * *

  Coming from the Faculty Building, Bruno Walton walked directly to Dormitory 1. Now he had fifty-six demerits and four hundred lines. This was a job for The Committee’s Lines Department. He approached the door of room 114 and gave the secret knock.

  “Lines Department,” came Mark Davies’ voice. “How may we help you?”

  The door swung open and Bruno was treated to the sight of efficiency at its best. The room was full of boys seated at desks and tables, industriously writing lines.

  Bruno whistled in admiration. He filled out:

  NAME: Bruno Walton

  POSITION IN THE COMMITTEE: President

  NUMBER OF LINES: 400

  SAMPLE OF HANDWRITING: Wizzle must go! (Bruno scrawled this in his usual unintelligible hand.)

  PICK-UP DATE: Friday Morning

  “Gee,” said Mark, “that’s pretty soon for all those lines. But we’ll see what we can do.” He placed Bruno’s application on a stack of many others. “We’re really busy here.”

  “You’re doing a great job,” said Bruno. “See you.”

  * * *

  Mr. Sturgeon walked into his kitchen and looked around hopefully. “Where’s dinner, Mildred? Haven’t you started it yet?”

  “It’s all ready, dear. It’s in the refrigerator.”

  “Well, hadn’t you better heat it up?”

  “No, it’s a cold dinner. We’re having a big salad and some other vegetable dishes.”

  The Headmaster’s face fell. “Oh, no. You’ve invited Wizzle. How many times do I have to tell you how much I dislike that young man?”

  “Oh, William! You’re Headmaster and you have social responsibilities. I’ve also invited Miss Scrimmage and Miss Peabody.”

  Mr. Sturgeon groaned. “Your timing is off, Mildred. You should invite Miss Peabody when you’re serving raw meat.”

  “Now that’s enough, William,” said his wife sternly. “This time I want you to be genuinely sociable. Your attitude toward others leaves a great deal to be desired.”

  “I’m sure Wizzle’s going crazy,” said Mr. Sturgeon, helping himself to a piece of leftover cold chicken. “He spent all day today on the phone raving about toilet paper. And I’ve told you about how he’s taken to running out of his house in his underwear in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re exaggerating, William. Mr. Wizzle is really a very nice young man.” She glared. “I wish you wouldn’t lean on the counter and munch like that. You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “My dinner is already spoiled,” replied her husband grimly. “Wizzle is going to be here.”

  The doorbell rang. Mr. and Mrs. Sturgeon went together to answer it and found all three guests there. The company settled themselves in the living room and engaged in polite conversation. Mrs. Sturgeon was definitely on her guard, skillfully leading the chitchat away from controversial topics and coaxing her husband into taking part.

  Dinner was a pleasant affair, with Mrs. Sturgeon continuing in her role as the perfect hostess, and topics like the weather being discussed at great length. Finally coffee was served.

  Mr. Wizzle leaned back in his chair. “So, Miss Peabody, you still haven’t taken me up on my invitation to come over and have a look at my WizzleWare.”

  “That’s right,” said Miss Peabody. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my time looking at a bunch of computers.”

  Mr. Wizzle chuckled gently. “WizzleWare isn’t computers, Miss Peabody. It’s a way that computers can work. A state-of-the-art software system provides invaluable assistance to a school and, of course, is a major investment.”

  “All right, I’ll rephrase that,” said Miss Peabody. “It’s an expensive computer. Anyway, it’s no match for good, solid administration. At our school I’m really starting to see some results in the toughening up of those girls. Here, with that fancy system of yours, you’re breeding a bunch of paunchy flabs just like yourself.”

  Mr. Wizzle stiffened. “Are you insinuating that my philosophy of education does not build physical strength and character?”

  “I didn’t insinuate anything,” said Miss Peabody. “I said it right out.”

  “More coffee, anyone?” asked Mrs. Sturgeon anxiously.

  “I’m sure there are wonderful merits to both systems,” put in Miss Scrimmage weakly.

  “The girls are up at six-thirty every morning doing calisthenics,” boasted Miss Peabody.

  “Even in bad weather,” added Miss Scrimmage woefully.

  “Yes, well, I’d like to see the Macdonald Hall boys do that,” said Miss Peabody. “And I’d like to see a software program do a jumping jack!”

  “I’ll give the matter serious consideration,” said Mr. Wizzle thoughtfully. “Heavy exercise might channel some of their — uh — mischievous tendencies.”

  Miss Peabody grinned. “You’ve got a discipline problem, huh, Wizzle? I’ll bet your biggest problem is the greatest kid in the school.”

  Mr. Sturgeon smiled and thought of Bruno Walton.

  “At Scrimmage’s we’ve got this girl named Burton. What a girl! What spirit! What character! She spends half her time running punishment laps, of course, but that just brings out more of the spirit.”

  “It also brings out more offensive
words,” said Miss Scrimmage primly.

  “Wait till the war games,” promised Miss Peabody. “You’ll see what strong stuff Burton is made of.”

  Mr. Sturgeon sat bolt upright. “Uh — I beg your pardon, Miss Peabody? You did say war games?”

  “Right! Our girls are having war games. The exhilaration and exertion will be good for them. And the strategy planning will sharpen their wits.”

  There was dead silence, and then: “Would anyone like a little dessert?”

  * * *

  Bruno stretched out on his bed. “What a great day! The Committee is working out perfectly! In no time at all Wizzle will be packed and gone.”

  Boots looked worried. “I don’t know, Bruno.” He frowned at the twenty-nine boxes of computer paper stacked in the room. “What if something goes wrong?”

  Bruno shrugged. “What could possibly go wrong? The Committee is set up tight as a drum.”

  There was a tapping at the window. Bruno and Boots raised the blind to reveal Larry Wilson skulking in the bushes.

  “Oh, hi, Larry. What’s up?”

  “Surprise dorm inspection,” Larry hissed. “You guys better hide that paper!”

  Boots went white to the ears. “We can’t hide it! How can we hide it? There’s no place to hide it! Where can we hide it?”

  Bruno closed the window. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Don’t just stand there!” babbled Boots. “Do something! We’ve got to do something! We’re going to be expelled!”

  “This is a job for Committee Security,” said Bruno determinedly. “They’ll be here. We haven’t got a thing to worry about. See? There’s Wilbur now with the signal.”

  Boots watched as Wilbur walked to a central point visible to all three dormitories, took out a huge white handkerchief and blew his nose mightily.

  In seconds shadowy figures began to appear from all directions as the Security Department’s Emergency Task Force swung into action. After a short briefing they formed a human chain, starting outside the window of room 306. As Bruno and Boots handed out the boxes of printer paper, they were passed down the chain and into a room in Dormitory 2. Just as Boots handed the last box out the window, there was a sharp knock at the door.

  “Dormitory inspection!” The pass key was in the lock.

  Bruno slammed the window shut. “Coming, Mr. Wizzle, sir.”

  Mr. Wizzle and Mr. Sturgeon entered the room.

  “Ah — not ready for bed yet — two demerits. Room very messy — another two demerits. Kind of dusty. Do clean it up.” He took out his notebook and began to scribble. “All, Bruno Walton. That gives you sixty demerits. Four hundred and fifty lines.”

  “But sir,” protested Bruno, “you just assigned me four hundred.”

  “Yes, and you deserved every one of them. Okay, that’s all.”

  Bruno and Boots cast a beseeching look at their Headmaster.

  Mr. Sturgeon nodded at them. “Carry on, Walton — O’ Neal.”

  The door closed behind them. The inspection was over.

  “The nerve of that Wizzle!” ranted Bruno. “The Lines Department’s going to kill me!”

  “The Lines Department!” exclaimed Boots in horror. “They’ve got five rooms in Dormitory 1 full of tables and chairs! What if Wizzle and The Fish walk in on that?”

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Bruno. “Security has Task Force B over there. They’ll look after things.” He pounded a fist on the desk. “I just can’t stand these sneak inspections! Tonight Wizzle gets another earthquake — at four o’clock in the morning!”

  There was a knock on the window. It was Task Force A bringing back the ink-jet paper.

  Chapter 10

  War!

  On Tuesday afternoon Mr. Wizzle drove his old white Toyota, packed full to the roof with cartons of printer paper, into the driveway of Macdonald Hall. He stopped right in front of the Faculty Building, got out and opened the trunk.

  Bruno Walton watched through the glass doors from the outer office. “Okay, Larry, start!”

  Larry dialled Miss Scrimmage’s number. “Hello, may I please speak with Miss Peabody? Yes, thank you. Tell her Mr. Wizzle is waiting on the line.” Larry switched on the outdoor intercom. “Mr. Wizzle, telephone, please. Mr. Wizzle.”

  Bruno dashed out the side exit. In through the front door marched Mr. Wizzle.

  “Miss Peabody on line one, sir,” said Larry.

  “Thanks. I’ll take it in my office.”

  As soon as Mr. Wizzle’s office door closed, a Committee Task Force led by Bruno Walton fell on the car.

  “Hello, Miss Peabody. Walter Wizzle speaking. What can I do for you? … Pardon me? … Well, no, I don’t want anything. You called me … What do you mean you didn’t? … Now please don’t be abusive. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation, Miss Peabody … Miss Peabody? …” He hung up. There was definitely something peculiar about that woman.

  He went back out to his car and, with the assistance of some passing students, carried in the paper. With great relish he opened the first box with his pocket knife.

  “Found your paper at last, eh, Wizzle?” said Mr. Sturgeon, passing by.

  Mr. Wizzle smiled. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.” He lifted the carton flap. Inside were carefully stacked rows of white serviettes. “Napkins!” he howled in anguish. “Table napkins! Why would they give me table napkins?”

  Mr. Sturgeon peered politely into the box. “Perhaps they ran out of toilet paper.”

  * * *

  “Why would you give him napkins?” asked Chris Talbot at dinner.

  Bruno shrugged. “We ran out of toilet paper.”

  “Hey, Bruno,” said Mark, “I don’t like to seem ungrateful for all your work as President of The Committee, but we in the Lines Department have enough to do without you racking up lines like they’re going out of style. We’re not wizards, you know. They all had tears in their eyes when I handed out your four hundred and fifty.”

  Bruno grinned. “Sorry. Hey, I really want to congratulate the Security Department. That was great work last night getting us through inspection.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Wilbur, his mouth full of meat loaf.

  “Now, Chris, Elmer — listen. The Committee needs an emergency backup weapon in case Wizzle holds out to the end. We’re going to prepare for the ultimate protest demonstration. Guys, can you design me a giant helium balloon that looks like Wizzle?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Boots interrupted.

  “Nope,” said Bruno cheerfully.

  “How giant?” asked Chris suspiciously.

  “Oh — maybe ten metres high.”

  Chris looked at Elmer. “Can you do it?”

  Elmer chewed thoughtfully on a celery stalk. “With the proper materials it shouldn’t be too difficult. It would be just like an inflatable boat, except in the shape of a man.”

  “If you can build it,” said Chris, “I can make it look like Wizzle. It may take time, though — I mean, a balloon that big.”

  “No hurry,” said Bruno. “It’s just something we should be working on.”

  Boots sat silently contemplating what he had just heard. Mr. Wizzle thought Bruno was a troublemaker. Mr. Wizzle didn’t know the half of it!

  * * *

  “Well,” said Ruth Sidwell, captain of White Squadron, “don’t you think we can win the war games without cheating?”

  “Sure we can,” said Cathy, “but why take the chance? Besides, there’s no such thing as cheating. This is war. Peabody even said so.”

  “I hear the Red and Green teams have some pretty strong stuff planned,” put in Diane.

  “Yeah, well, we’re going to make them wish they’d never enlisted,” said Cathy. “We’re being given little water pistols to fire our blue dye at the enemy. Tonight Diane and I are going to sneak down to the storeroom and get some plastic bags. Then we’ll have bombs. We can post people in trees, dig trenches and build earthworks for defence. By the time t
hese war games are over, the world will be blue and the orchard will be ours!”

  “Aren’t you getting a little carried away with all this?” asked Ruth uneasily.

  “Of course not,” said Cathy. “And after we’ve won, it’s bye-bye Peabody for forty-eight hours. How’s that for strategic logic?”

  * * *

  Bruno and Boots were sitting at their desks doing their homework on Thursday afternoon when the door opened and Larry Wilson rushed in.

  “Hey, guys, look what I’ve got!” He handed Bruno a typed letter with that day’s date of arrival stamped on it. “Mrs. Davis was opening the mail and I just happened to see this. It’s for Wizzle from some geologists: Ignatz, Sediman and Mortimer.”

  Bruno read the letter out loud:

  Dear Mr. Wizzle,

  It was with a good deal of amusement that we read of your fears. The Great Lakes–St. Lawrence Lowlands fault line is the most ridiculous thing we have ever heard of: It does not even exist, and could not possibly present a threat to your house. Therefore, the consensus here is that your chances of survival are good.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harlan Ignatz

  “What are you going to do?” asked Boots. “You can’t keep Mr. Wizzle’s letter. That’s interfering with the mail.”

  “Oh, we’ll give him back his letter,” said Bruno, “but first we’ll have to make a few minor changes. Somebody get Mark. We’ll need the print shop to make it look real …”

  * * *

  Mr. Wizzle sat back in his office chair and read the letter:

  Dear Mr. Wizzle,

  It was with a good deal of concern that we read of your fears. The Great Lakes–St. Lawrence Lowlands fault line is the most dangerous thing we have ever heard of. It does surely exist and could very likely present a threat to your house. Therefore, the consensus here is that your chances of survival are 50-50.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harlan Ignatz

  Mr. Wizzle jumped up and began to pace nervously. This was certainly disconcerting news, although he should have known it anyway. After all, he’d been having tremors every night lately. He sat down on the corner of his desk and wiped the sweat off his brow. He had nothing to worry about. He had perfected his escape and could be out his bedroom window to safety in four seconds flat. With practice, he could easily cut that down to three. Still, the whole thing was an unnecessary emotional strain on him.