The Wizzle War

by Gordon Korman

  “It’s awful,” agreed Boots in a strained voice. He craned his neck gingerly and peered over Bruno’s shoulder into the mirror. “Look at us. We look like accountants! How can we be expected to eat breakfast in these outfits?”

  “How can we be expected to eat breakfast, period?” howled Bruno. It had always been his custom to sleep until quarter to nine, missing breakfast altogether, and then to make a frantic effort to get to his first class more or less on time. Now the necessity of being nattily dressed was forcing him to get up earlier. “I can’t stand it!”

  The scene was similar in every room in Macdonald Hall.

  “This tie doesn’t look nice and neat like yours,” complained Wilbur Hackenschleimer to his roommate, Larry Wilson. “And I can’t get it to hang right.”

  “Well, that’s because you haven’t done up the top button of your shirt,” said Larry.

  Wilbur staggered backward. “You mean you have to do up the top button?”

  “Of course.”

  “You mean the top button? The one at the very top? Right where your neck is?” gasped Wilbur.

  “Yes.”

  Wilbur turned and looked at his sad, forlorn face in the mirror. “Here goes …”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Chris Talbot shouted at his roommate, Pete Anderson. “You can’t wear a yellow-and-black striped shirt with a purple tie!”

  “All right,” said Pete. “I’ll take the tie off. What goes with a yellow-and-black striped shirt?”

  “Pollen,” said Chris in disgust. “You look like a bee.”

  “How do you tie this thing?” asked Sidney Rampulsky, standing in confusion in the middle of the room.

  “Leave me alone!” growled Mark Davies. “I’m miserable enough!”

  “Now, let’s see …” said Sidney. “I guess you loop these together and pull the end through here. Does that look all right?”

  “Gorgeous!” muttered Mark without looking up. “Let’s go.”

  They started for the door, but Sidney stopped abruptly. “Hey, my tie’s caught on something.” He grabbed the tie and pulled. With an odd crunching noise, the hanging light fixture was ripped from the ceiling and came crashing down on Sidney’s head. Sidney went sprawling onto the desk, dazed.

  “Oh, you klutz!”

  In the dining hall the atmosphere was positively pained. Most of the boys sat in silent, stiff-necked misery.

  “This looks like the International Zombie Convention,” remarked Bruno savagely. “It just isn’t Macdonald Hall anymore.”

  “Hey, Bruno,” called Larry, adding insult to injury. “White shirt, red tie — you look like your throat’s been cut.”

  “At least my tie doesn’t have a big green palm tree on it,” retorted Bruno. “Yours would go best with a grass skirt.”

  “Get out of here with those polka dots! I’m trying to eat!”

  “You know, the thick end is supposed to hang lower than the thin end. But I suppose that doesn’t apply to silver ties.”

  “I can’t breathe!”

  “Hey, stupid, your jacket’s inside out!”

  “A silver tie? Where?”

  “Everything tastes the same.”

  “Perry’s tie has a sunburst on it.”

  “Perry’s tie has scrambled egg on it!”

  “Help!”

  Mark Davies appeared, leading Sidney by the arm. “Get Sidney some food,” he ordered briskly. “He had a little accident this morning.”

  “What happened?” asked Bruno.

  “His tie got caught in the light fixture and he pulled half the ceiling down on his head,” explained Mark. He grabbed one of the rolls from Wilbur’s plate. “Here, Sidney, eat.”

  Sidney ate.

  “He’s the first casualty of the dress code,” declared Bruno decisively.

  Elmer Drimsdale rushed over with a glass of chocolate milk. “Here, Sidney, drink.”

  Sidney drank.

  “It will be good for him,” Elmer explained as Sidney mindlessly drained the glass. “There is a mild stimulant in chocolate.”

  “Do you think he’s okay?” asked Boots anxiously.

  “Hey,” exclaimed Larry, “five minutes to assembly! We’d better get going!”

  * * *

  “Good morning, boys,” said Mr. Sturgeon, standing up at the podium to address the assembled student body. “Welcome to Macdonald Hall and, in most cases, welcome back. For those of you who are new here, I am Mr. Sturgeon, your headmaster.” He paused to clear his throat carefully. “This is going to be a — special year at Macdonald Hall. There will be some changes made. Doubtless you have noticed a few already, for instance, the dress code which we have not had before.

  “I would now like to introduce to you the gentleman who is in charge of these changes. It is his responsibility to examine and evaluate our systems and to alter them where he deems necessary. Mr. Walter C. Wizzle.”

  There was a bit of dutiful applause, but it was thinly scattered throughout the auditorium. Most of the boys had already put two and two together and blamed Mr. Wizzle for the dress code and their present discomfort.

  Mr. Wizzle made his bouncing way up to the microphone. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted the boys. “I must say that you’re a very smart-looking lot. I’m sure this is an improvement on previous opening assemblies.”

  There was a murmur from the crowd which Mr. Wizzle didn’t seem to notice and which the Headmaster quelled with one cold look. Mr. Wizzle cleared his throat and launched into the speech he had prepared.

  “We live in a rapidly changing world,” he began, “a world where advanced technology creates limitless possibilities …”

  “Uh-oh,” whispered Bruno to Boots in the fifth row. “It’s going to be one of those Let’s-meet-the-challenge-of-the-future speeches.”

  Mr. Wizzle was warming to his subject. “As an outstanding academic institution, Macdonald Hall must keep pace with these changes. And as the citizens of tomorrow, its students must be prepared to meet the challenges of the future.”

  Bruno nudged Boots. “What did I tell you?”

  “Shhh!” whispered Boots nervously.

  “I will be spending a lot of time with all of you,” Mr. Wizzle continued briskly, “helping you meet these challenges. I will be attending your classes, making changes in some of them and organizing others; I will be planning new extracurricular activities; I will be making reports and recommendations at staff and administration meetings, and I will oversee their implementation. In short, I will be working with all of you to make Macdonald Hall a better place.”

  “I like it just the way it is!” fumed Bruno.

  “Shhh!” whispered Boots. “The Fish is looking at us!”

  “In this new millennium, any school that doesn’t keep pace — including Macdonald Hall — is in danger of becoming a dinosaur. And you all know,” said Mr. Wizzle, smiling at his own joke, “what happened to the dinosaurs.”

  Bruno’s face was turning a deep beet-red.

  “We must ensure that Macdonald Hall doesn’t suffer the same fate, or you young men will ultimately be the losers.”

  Bruno squirmed in his chair.

  “Right now this school is simply out of date.”

  Flaming with fury, Bruno leapt to his feet and opened his mouth to yell, but two hands clamped over his mouth just in time. Boots and Wilbur, flanking Bruno, gently but firmly eased him back into his seat.

  “Now,” Mr. Wizzle said, “here are the changes that I have already implemented. There is the dress code, to which there will be no exceptions. There is a system of demerit points for all breaking of rules: Anyone accumulating ten demerit points will see me in my office, and I will assign the appropriate punishment. Demerits can be assigned by any member of the teaching staff. There will be frequent dormitory inspections, so we expect a lot of spit and polish in the rooms, hmmm?”

  Mr. Wizzle paused and beamed at them. “You are probably asking yourselves how I can do all this work
. Well, I have a special assistant. It’s called WizzleWare — the most advanced educational and administrative software program in the world today. Join with us as we bring Macdonald Hall into the vanguard of Canadian private schools.” He stopped for applause. There was none.

  “That is, of course, not without some feedback from you students,” Wizzle continued. “There will be a suggestion box in the front hall of each dormitory. I welcome your suggestions on how we can all make Macdonald Hall a better place.”

  “I know how we can make Macdonald Hall a better place!” growled Bruno under his breath. “Kick him out!”

  Mr. Wizzle pointed to Bruno. “You in the fifth row — yes, you with the red tie. What’s your name?”

  Bruno stood up. “Walton, sir. Bruno Walton.”

  From his jacket pocket Mr. Wizzle produced a note pad and pencil. “Bruno Walton,” he said scribbling on the pad. “Five demerits for unseemly conduct during assembly.” He gazed out over the crowd. “That will be all. You are dismissed.”

  No one moved.

  Mr. Sturgeon stood up. “You may go,” he said quietly.

  The boys began to file out of the auditorium. Sidney Rampulsky got to his feet. An odd look came over his face and he announced loudly, “I don’t feel very well.” He tottered a few steps and then keeled over, out cold. An entire row of chairs went down with him.

  “It’s his tie!” bellowed Bruno, pushing his way toward the fallen Sidney. “Loosen his tie! Stand back! Give him air!” He shoved at someone in a grey pinstripe suit.

  “Kindly stop pushing, Walton,” said the cold voice of Mr. Sturgeon, who had rushed from the platform to Sidney’s aid.

  Sidney’s eyelids fluttered open, and he looked up, smiling sweetly. “Oh, Mr. Sturgeon, I had a little accident this morning.”

  The Headmaster sighed. “I’ve told you to be more careful with yourself, Rampulsky. What happened to you this time?”

  “It was all because of the dress code, sir,” piped Bruno. “He was —”

  “Thank you, Walton. Rampulsky is capable of speech.”

  “I was tying my tie,” explained Sidney weakly, “when suddenly the fixture came down on my head.”

  “See?” said Bruno triumphantly. “The dress code!”

  “Bruno Walton,” called the voice of Mr. Wizzle. “Your remarks and interruptions are uncalled-for. That will be another two demerits.”

  Mr. Sturgeon suppressed a strange smile. “Come along, Rampulsky,” he said, helping Sidney to his feet. “I think perhaps you’d better spend some time in the infirmary.”

  * * *

  “Bruno, will you calm down!” exclaimed Boots in exasperation.

  “Walter C. Wizzle!” steamed Bruno in disgust. “The demerit system!”

  “You’re only upset about that because you got slapped with the first ones,” argued Boots.

  “Your turn will come,” Bruno snarled. “He’s out to get all of us!” He ripped off his tie and threw himself backward onto his bed. “He called Macdonald Hall out of date — ‘in danger of becoming a dinosaur!’ Well, let me tell you right now that this dinosaur is going to stomp all over his face!”

  Boots sat down heavily at his desk. “What can we do about it? He was hired by the school, probably by the Board of Directors.”

  “Well, we sure can’t let him ruin the Hall like this!” exclaimed Bruno. “Where’s that suggestion box? I have a suggestion!”

  “You’ll only get more demerits for that kind of suggestion,” warned Boots.

  “I don’t intend to sign it,” said Bruno. “Anyway, it’s all decided. Wizzle must go!”

  “How?”

  Bruno shrugged. “The Anti-Dress-Code Committee changes its name to the Anti-Wizzle Committee.” He squared his jaw. “That’s the way things are done. You identify the enemy, and then you fight!”

  “Let’s go visit Sidney in the infirmary,” suggested Boots, trying to change the subject.

  “Good idea,” said Bruno. “We can tell him all about the new committee.”

  “Bruno, he has a concussion. He doesn’t need to hear about the new committee.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The two boys walked out into the hall of Dormitory 3 to find Walter C. Wizzle himself, equipped with hammer and nails, affixing a large box to the wall just inside the front door.

  Mr. Wizzle glared. “Bruno Walton again. Aren’t you forgetting something, young man?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your tie,” said Mr. Wizzle sternly. “Violation of the dress code is quite a serious offence. However, since it is the first day, and you haven’t actually left the building, I will assign you only one demerit.” He made a note on his pad.

  Bruno rushed back and put on his tie. When he returned, Mr. Wizzle had gone and Boots was staring at the box. It was the size of a breadbox, with a padlock holding down the lid and a slit near the top. On it was stencilled: FEEDBACK BOX.

  Bruno reached for the pad and pencil which sat on a shelf below the box. He stared. At the top of each page of the pad was printed the word FEEDBACK.

  “Feedback!” said Bruno in disgust. “That must be a Wizzle word!” On the paper he wrote MACDONALD HALL LIVES in block letters. “How’s that for feedback?”

  “Fine,” sighed Boots.

  * * *

  Mr. Sturgeon was on the telephone with Mr. James Snow, Chairman of the Macdonald Hall Board of Directors.

  “Jim, about this man Wizzle. His methods seem so — unusual. Have you checked into his background? … Oh, I’m sure you and the Board have good reason to think that he’s a genius, but sometimes theory doesn’t apply well in practice … Well, classes haven’t even started yet, and already I can feel the tension on this campus … Quite frankly, I thought my boys were going to lynch him after he spoke at the assembly this morning … Yes, perhaps it does prove that the boys need more discipline, but … Very well, Jim. I don’t want it said of me that I don’t give a man a chance. Good day.”

  The Headmaster hung up and turned to his wife. “Mildred, I’ve come to the conclusion that Jim Snow knows as much about education as Wizzle does.”

  “William, I think Mr. Snow is right,” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “You really have condemned poor Mr. Wizzle before allowing him to get started.”

  “Oh, he got started,” said the Headmaster, grim humour tempering his anger. “He started today. He introduced the demerit system and Walton got seven at the assembly alone. At this rate, the boy will have hundreds by Christmas.”

  “I don’t find that very funny,” said his wife severely.

  “You weren’t there, Mildred. O’Neal and Hackenschleimer had to hold Walton down to keep him from rushing the podium. I believe that was when Wizzle called Macdonald Hall ‘simply out of date.’”

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Mr. Sturgeon laughed mirthlessly. “Neither did Walton. You know, we’ll have to watch this situation very carefully, Mildred, or we could have a full-scale revolution on our hands.”

  * * *

  “Come on,” prompted Bruno. “It’s past midnight. Just over the sill and across the road like always.”

  “I don’t want to go to Scrimmage’s tonight,” said Boots nervously. “If we get caught, we’ll both get demerits.”

  “I never get caught,” scoffed Bruno. “And I don’t intend to start now.”

  “For a guy who already has eight demerits,” Boots pointed out, “you have a lot of confidence.”

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  With Bruno in the lead, the two boys eased themselves out the window of room 306, scampered silently over the campus and across the highway, and scaled the wrought-iron fence surrounding Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Bruno tossed a handful of pebbles at a second-storey window.

  A face appeared at the window and an arm beckoned. Bruno and Boots shinnied up the drainpipe and were helped over the sill and into the room.

  “Hi,” said
dark-haired Cathy Burton with a broad smile. “Welcome once again to our humble abode.”

  “How are you guys?” asked blonde Diane Grant, Cathy’s roommate. “Did you have a good summer?”

  “It was an okay summer,” said Bruno. “It’s the fall, winter and spring that worry me.”

  “Bruno’s on the campaign trail again,” explained Boots.

  “I don’t even want to hear about it!” exclaimed Cathy. “We’ve got troubles of our own over here!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Bruno, mystified. Cathy was always the first one to jump at the chance to become involved in other people’s problems. What kind of trouble could have dampened her enthusiasm?

  “We’re worried about Miss Scrimmage,” said Cathy. “She’s been acting old and decrepit.”

  “But she is old and decrepit,” put in Boots.

  “Of course she is,” said Cathy impatiently. “But this year suddenly she’s talking about some big changes at the school here. I’ve tried to pump her for information but all she says is, ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Today she said, ‘There’ll be a big surprise for you tomorrow,’ and not another word. You know how it drives me crazy when I’m not on top of the situation. What could Miss Scrimmage be up to?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Bruno, making himself comfortable on a scatter rug. “You’ll find out tomorrow. We found out today. It’s big trouble — Macdonald Hall has hired this guy to change the school. Walter C. Wizzle. The ‘C’ is for computer — he wrote a software program to mess up our lives. You won’t believe this, but they’ve stuck us with a dress code! And we’re on a demerit system! He’s giving everybody demerits!”

  “Not everybody,” corrected Boots. “Just you.”

  “Your turn will come,” promised Bruno. “Anyway, that’s the situation. We need your advice on how to get rid of this guy.”

  “Surely The Fish won’t let him ruin Macdonald Hall,” said Cathy. “It means too much to his cold, fishy heart.”

  “The Fish is going along with Wizzle,” said Bruno. “I don’t understand it. It’s as though he wants all this.”

  “It doesn’t sound so bad to me,” said Diane timidly. “There’s nothing wrong with new technology.”

  “Not while I’m strangling in a tie,” said Bruno shortly, “and piling up a stack of demerits that you can’t see over. And sitting in a Wizzle class. Who knows what a guy like that will decide we should learn?”