The Wizzle War

by Gordon Korman

  On the stroke of eight o’clock, Miss Peabody appeared at the front entrance.

  “This is it!” exclaimed Bruno. He turned to the employee in charge of piping background music into the restaurant. “Remember — when she walks into the room, play that song.”

  Manfred Hackenschleimer escorted Miss Peabody to the private dining room and bowed her inside.

  “Miss Peabody!” said Mr. Wizzle, leaping to his feet as violin music swelled through the room.

  She stared at him. “Wizzle. It’s you.”

  “Yes, well, here we are.”

  Miss Peabody took an involuntary step into the room, knowing full well that she should have been taking a voluntary step out of it. Well, she wasn’t staying, that was all. She would just stay long enough not to hurt his feelings, and then she would put an end to this once and for all.

  Cautiously she sat down. “Wizzle, I —”

  A waiter walked discreetly into the room. “Ah, Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody. Good evening. I am Maurice.” He placed a large silver ice bucket on a stand beside the table. “Champagne, compliments of the house.”

  “Er — that’s very nice,” said Mr. Wizzle.

  Glad of the interruption, Miss Peabody nodded in agreement.

  Skillfully Maurice opened the champagne and poured a small amount into Mr. Wizzle’s glass for his approval.

  Mr. Wizzle tasted the champagne and pronounced it worthy, secretly hoping that it was. As a non-drinker, he had no conception of what differentiated good champagne from bad. Maurice withdrew silently.

  “A toast to you, Miss Peabody,” said Mr. Wizzle, beaming.

  Geez, thought Miss Peabody, and drained her glass.

  He refilled it. She drank deeply again. This was not working out. How could she tell Wizzle she was leaving?

  “You look beautiful!” he blurted, and gulped some champagne.

  Miss Peabody was at a loss for words. Wizzle was a wimp, but the dark suit he was wearing tonight gave him an almost military appearance. And all that furious jogging she had prescribed was beginning to pay off … She picked up her glass and drained it again, conscious that she was blushing. This was ridiculous — U.S. Marines did not blush. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. After all, this was the man who had taken her to a cello recital.

  “Look, Wizzle —”

  Maurice peered in again. “Ah, enjoying your champagne, I see. Would you care to order?”

  “Certainly.” Mr. Wizzle looked questioningly at Miss Peabody.

  But she was just leaving … “Uh — I’ll have the Boeuf Charlemagne, please.”

  It looked as if she would have to eat dinner with him.

  Bruno was staring at the screen. “I can’t tell what’s going on! Are they having a good time?”

  Boots shrugged. “How should I know? I wish they’d hurry it up.”

  “Fine dining is never hurried,” explained Wilbur, who was watching some of the other tables with great interest. “Now, the man in the blue suit at table fourteen really knows his food. He’s having the duck à l’orange with white wine.”

  Maurice came into the waiters’ room.

  “What did they order?” asked Wilbur excitedly. “Boeuf Charlemagne for the lady, and for the gentleman, Caesar salad.”

  “Hey, don’t put too much garlic in Wizzle’s salad,” cautioned Bruno. “If he’s got bad breath, Peabody won’t marry him.”

  Maurice drew himself up in a huff. “Our chef always uses exactly the right amount of everything!”

  Mr. Wizzle eyed his paté de foie gras suspiciously. He was a vegetarian, and this looked a lot like meat. But Miss Peabody was having hers, so he would have to eat it to make a good impression.

  Miss Peabody looked at him sharply. “I thought you didn’t eat meat, Wizzle.”

  “Uh — I don’t, but — I mean, this is a special occasion.”

  Miss Peabody thought back to the note that had summoned her here. This may seriously concern your future, it had said. Oh, no! She grabbed her glass, drained it, filled it up again and drank a bit more until all thoughts of the note were gone from her mind.

  In the waiters’ room Bruno beckoned to Maurice. “They’ve almost finished the champagne. Could you bring them another bottle?”

  “Certainly,” said Maurice. “Is this also to be compliments of the house?”

  Bruno checked The Coalition treasury, presently residing in his wallet. “No,” he sighed. “I think Wizzle will have to pay for this one.”

  Maurice walked into the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” asked Boots nervously.

  “Well, they’re waiting for their dinner and having some more champagne,” said Bruno. “I can’t tell if they like each other, though. Wizzle looks as if he likes her, but she looks kind of strange.”

  “Wait till she tastes the Boeuf Charlemagne,” said Wilbur confidently. “What a sauce!”

  Mr. Wizzle took another drink of champagne. He found it gave him courage. “I’m very glad that we could be here together tonight, Miss Peabody,” he ventured boldly.

  Immediately she reached for her glass. Well, this was a fine state of affairs. The more charming Wizzle tried to be, the more she drank. Why didn’t she just tell him and go home?

  Maurice slithered into the room. “More champagne, sir?”

  “Good idea!” she said before he could answer.

  Bruno kept on monitoring the room, Boots had a nervous eye on the clock, and Wilbur watched a waiter skillfully flame desserts at various tables. The minutes ticked away as Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody were served.

  At last Maurice spirited away the dishes and the two diners sat at the table finishing the champagne. Miss Peabody’s thoughts were in turmoil. She was reasonably certain that she was disgusted with herself, but she could not seem to remember why. She looked across the table into Mr. Wizzle’s big, earnest and slightly glazed eyes. A low giggling sound began in her throat.

  He looked at her. “Miss Peabody, is something the matter?”

  She focused on his face. “Wizzle, you’re a perfect gentleman,” she said and then broke into hysterical laughter.

  He looked at her uncertainly. “Miss Peabody, you’re a perfect lady.”

  This struck her as even funnier, and she put her head down on the table for support as her laughter swelled again.

  A smile cracked Mr. Wizzle’s confused face. He was not sure what was happening, but whatever it was it must be — laughable. That was enough for him. He cracked up, too.

  In the waiters’ room Bruno’s eyes bulged. “Hey! They’re smiling! They’re laughing! They must be in love! Wilbur, you’re a genius!”

  The three boys crowded around the screen.

  “I wouldn’t call that love,” said Boots dryly. “I’d call that crazy.”

  “We did it!” cheered Bruno.

  Maurice came into the room.

  “Did they order dessert?” asked Wilbur in suspense.

  The waiter nodded. “They’re having La Montagne.”

  Wilbur’s jaw dropped. “Ooh! La Montagne!”

  Boots looked at him. “What’s that?”

  “It’s chocolate and cream and nuts and cherries and brandy — and it’s the best-tasting thing in the whole world! I want some!”

  Maurice smiled and went into the kitchen.

  “I think we should go home,” said Boots. “They’re in love, so now we can split.”

  “Everything has to be perfect,” said Bruno. “We’re staying here every minute to make sure they have the best time of their lives. Look! They’re smiling and chatting just like people! You know, when Miss Peabody smiles, she’s not half-ugly!”

  “I’m going to ask Uncle Manfred if there’s any leftover La Montagne!” Wilbur rushed out.

  “We can’t stay very late,” Boots insisted.

  Bruno could smell victory within his grasp. “Patience, Melvin.”

  By midnight Miss Peabody and Mr. Wizzle had finished their dessert as well as numerous l
iqueurs with their coffee.

  “Wizzle,” said Miss Peabody, her words considerably slurred, “do you realize that I didn’t want to stay here with you?”

  “No,” he said, laughing foolishly.

  “I wonder why I wanted to go home,” she said thoughtfully. “Scrimmage doesn’t serve La Montagne.”

  “Maybe there was a fight on TV,” he suggested.

  “I hate TV.”

  “Me too.”

  “I like fighting, though.”

  “I noticed.”

  By this time Boots was frantic. “Bruno, Wilbur, let’s go! They could sit here for hours!”

  Even Bruno was concerned. “You know, they look kind of strange. I mean, it’s okay to laugh and have a good time, but they’re all red and leaning all over the place and they look — weird. I wonder what’s the matter.”

  Maurice supplied the answer. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Monsieur and Mademoiselle are very, very drunk. I trust that you have arranged to escort them home, as they are on the verge of — shall we say — passing out.”

  “But they’re our teachers!” protested Boots in horror. “They’ll recognize us!”

  “My dear fellow,” said Maurice, “I can assure you that, in their present state, those two young people would not recognize their own mothers.”

  Bruno took out his wallet and checked The Coalition treasury. “We’ve got just enough for a taxi. I hope Wizzle’s got enough for the bill. Come on — let’s go collect them.”

  As the loaded taxi made its way north along Highway 48 to Macdonald Hall and Miss Scrimmage’s, out the open window wafted the singing voices of Miss Peabody and Mr. Wizzle: “It’s a long way to Tipperary …”

  Chapter 16

  The Odd Couple

  Mr. Wizzle was walking across the campus the next morning wondering why his head ached so abominably. He squinted into the sunlight. A large group of boys, led by Bruno Walton, was bearing down on him.

  “Hey, Mr. Wizzle!” shouted Bruno. “Congratulations!”

  The boys swarmed around him, shaking his hand and patting him on the back and arms.

  “Gee, Mr. Wizzle, that’s great!”

  “Congratulations!”

  “You must be a very happy man!”

  “What are you boys talking about?” Mr. Wizzle asked when the uproar had finally died down a little.

  “We heard the good news!” exclaimed Bruno. “It’s just been announced across the road that you proposed to Miss Peabody last night — and she accepted!”

  A large chorus of cheers went up from the crowd.

  Mr. Wizzle gasped. He did? She did? Most of last night was just a blur to him, but how could he have forgotten something so important?

  “Uh, thank you very much, boys,” he stammered, and took off on the run for his house.

  Desperately he tried to recall what had occurred last night, but he drew a blank. All he could remember was waking up at home in the morning, fully dressed, with all the money in his wallet gone. Had he been robbed?

  Darting into the guest cottage, he began to pace the living room. He should remember doing something that would affect his life so drastically! Everything was so unclear!

  Suddenly his head snapped up. Why was he standing here thinking cold, calculating thoughts? He was engaged to be married to the most wonderful woman in the world! He jumped up and danced a little jig, setting off a jack-hammer in his head. Well, nothing could spoil his day today. The whole world was bright and beautiful, and even going for an aspirin would be a wonderful experience.

  * * *

  Miss Peabody was walking through the hall of the dormitory on her way to the infirmary for something to settle her stomach when she came face to face with Cathy Burton and a delegation of girls.

  “Here she is,” announced Cathy. “Here’s the bride!”

  The Assistant Headmistress looked at her menacingly. “Burton, I’m in no mood for your nonsense. You wouldn’t believe how many laps I can assign when I’m feeling like this.”

  “But we just heard the news!” insisted Cathy.

  “What news?”

  “That Mr. Wizzle popped the question last night and you accepted! Oh, we’re all so happy for you!” The girls began to sing “Here Comes the Bride.”

  “Cut the noise!” barked Miss Peabody. Nonchalantly she strolled back to her room, let herself in and shut the door. Once inside, she collapsed onto her bed.

  Oh, no! What had she done? Sometime in the midst of all that fantastic food and great champagne she had agreed to marry Wizzle! Now what was she going to do?

  Outside the door stood Cathy and Diane, leaning and listening.

  “Do you think she’s going to buy it?” whispered Diane.

  “I don’t know,” said Cathy nervously. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “Well, she didn’t exactly jump for joy when we told her,” said Diane. “I think she’ll call it off.”

  “If she does,” promised Cathy, “I’ll kill myself!”

  The girls waited outside for the better part of an hour and then went for breakfast.

  Inside, Miss Peabody’s thoughts were still in a turmoil. If only she’d had the strength to hang up on him when he’d called, to kick him back across the highway when he’d come visiting, to refuse his presents, to say no when he’d offered to take her out — it was all her own weakness.

  But that was impossible. She was a U.S. Marine. There was no such thing as weakness. If she hadn’t said no to Wizzle, it was because she hadn’t wanted to!

  Right! She was in love with the man!

  Granted, he did have a few faults. Granted, he was still a little soft and pudgy. But that only added to the challenge. She could whip Wizzle into shape in six months — a year at the outside. When she got through with him, he’d be the perfect man.

  And the girls were right. He did look kind of cute behind those glasses.

  * * *

  Wedding fever hit Macdonald Hall and Miss Scrimmage’s. The big date was set and Miss Scrimmage’s sewing classes thrust themselves heart and soul into the task of making Miss Peabody’s wedding dress. Miss Scrimmage and the girls held a bridal tea, and Bruno and Boots got together with Coach Flynn and Mr. Fudge and threw a bachelor dinner. The Coalition set itself the task of raising money for a spectacular wedding gift, and students from both schools were giving from the heart.

  The happiest person of all was definitely Miss Scrimmage. She had not had very much say in the running of her school during Miss Peabody’s regime, and the wedding offered her a fantastic opportunity to take charge of the situation. She had always felt that her young ladies were being groomed for just such social undertakings, and the planning and execution of a wedding seemed heaven sent.

  The engaged couple went along much as before, having afternoon tea with Miss Scrimmage, the occasional dinner with the Sturgeons and long walks together in the evenings. Mr. Wizzle sang a lot, and Miss Peabody smiled a little more when she assigned laps. The two had asked to be released from their contracts so that they could start work on a blueprint for their own school, which they planned to open the next fall. This pleased Miss Scrimmage, Mr. Sturgeon and, definitely, The Coalition.

  Mr. Sturgeon viewed the whole thing with a feeling of unreality. He voiced it to his wife one morning after breakfast.

  “Can you believe, Mildred, that in less than one week’s time Wizzle and Peabody will be married on the south lawn of our campus, weather permitting?”

  “I’m so happy for those two young people,” she smiled. “Young love is so sweet.”

  The Headmaster chuckled over his toast. “I wish I knew how that unlikely union came to pass. There is certainly no accounting for the taste of some people.”

  “Now, William, that’s unkind. Oh, I’m so looking forward to the wedding.”

  “I’m not,” said the Headmaster. “Miss Scrimmage wouldn’t let me hire a caterer. Her girls are doing the whole affair. Do you know what that means? We’re havin
g Scrim-food, Mildred — Scrim-cakes, Scrim-punch and Scrim-wiches. My stomach may never be the same.”

  “I’m sure it will be very nice,” Mrs. Sturgeon said stoutly.

  “We’ll see,” he replied skeptically. “Anyway, I don’t think anyone will be as happy as our students. They’ve been trying to get rid of Wizzle since day one.”

  “William, I expect you to be perfectly charming at the wedding. After all, you’re the host. And you are giving the bride away.”

  “What?” Mr. Sturgeon tipped over the jar of grape jelly. “Under no circumstances —”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention that, dear? Miss Scrimmage and I thought it would be a nice idea.”

  “But, Mildred, Miss Peabody and I are not on good terms!”

  “Oh, that’s all forgotten, William. This is a wedding.”

  “Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “I wonder who’s going to give Wizzle away. Walton, probably.” He chuckled.

  “Now, dear —”

  * * *

  The big day dawned warm and sunny. The ceremony was scheduled for 3:30, so the girls spent the morning busily arranging flowers and decorations at the site, right in front of Mr. Wizzle’s cottage. Some of the boys had already started setting up long rows of folding chairs on either side of the red carpet that was to be the bridal aisle.

  Mr. Wizzle, however, was not in his cottage to witness the flurry of activity for his wedding. At seven o’clock that morning he had appeared on the Sturgeons’ doorstep, a foolish grin on his face, eyes red from lack of sleep, completely dressed in his striped trousers, cutaway coat and boutonniere. Mrs. Sturgeon had fed him breakfast and listened to his nervous, ecstatic babbling with compassion. When he showed no signs of leaving, Mr. Sturgeon had summoned Coach Flynn, the best man, and entrusted Wizzle to his care.

  “What am I going to do with him?” Flynn had asked in bewilderment.

  “That’s entirely up to you. Perhaps a movie or two. Just see to it that he’s away from here until it’s time for the wedding.”

  Even Bruno Walton was up early on the momentous day.

  “This afternoon’s the one time I’m not going to complain about wearing a tie,” he announced, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Just think — in less than twelve hours Wizzle and Peabody will be on their honeymoon and we’ll never have to worry again!”