“Well, how else were we going to get to the nurse’s office? I mean, come on! Five fingers!” she scoffed. Then she realized that she sounded like her father, criticizing others for not being as quick as he was.
“Lyle did fine,” said Lena. “Not to mention eating the evidence.”
“Okay. That was supercool.”
The bell rang and students poured into the hall. Maggie, Lena, Colt, and Lyle pushed their way into Room 217, swimming against the tide. “Hey, Mr. Platt!” said Lyle. “Can I take a look at the lion? The big one on top of your filing cabinet?”
Mr. Platt smiled, delighted to see them. “I thought you might be here to ask about the Robotics Club meeting next week! Any interest? Any interest at all?”
“No, sir. Just want to look at the big kitty cat!” Lyle reached for the stuffed toy and flipped it over. On the underside was a neatly sewn zipper that ran the length of the lion’s belly.
“Why, I don’t remember there being a zipper,” said Mr. Platt, perplexed.
Lyle unzipped the lion and found the original banners inside. They had been washed and ironed. A separate note for Mr. Fetterholf explained that the pulley system was in top condition—cleaned, oiled, and realigned—so that it would now work without squeaking. (The Eighth Commandment of the Hacker’s Bible: Leave detailed instructions for how to disassemble a hack safely, and leave a site in better shape than you found it.)
As Maggie headed for the door in Mr. Platt’s room, she noticed the upper left corner of his blackboard. Every day, Mr. Platt wrote something—a famous quotation or a piece of advice or just a weird fact—in that spot. He called it his Daily Platt-itude.
Today’s Daily Platt-itude was one of Maggie’s father’s favorite quotations. It was by a British computer scientist named Tony Hoare:
INSIDE EVERY LARGE PROBLEM IS A SMALL PROBLEM STRUGGLING TO GET OUT.
Maggie smiled. It made her feel that her father was there, in the room with her, and proud of her hack.
Mr. Fetterholf quietly replaced the banners after the students had gone home for the day. But it had not gone unnoticed by the sixth-grade class that even though Principal Shute had given a direct order to return to their classrooms, five of their classmates had set out on a quest to regain the missing banners. And those five students had prevailed.
Of course, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Principal Shute, either.
SEVENTEEN
THAT NIGHT’S GAME IN LEWISBURG WAS a huge victory. The Wildcats beat the Panthers 31–14, with the leading score changing sides several times during the game. The fans rolled into the town square on the victory buses, waving noisemakers, reliving the highlights of the game, and celebrating their no-name team and the unstoppable force of their players, who had won the first five games of the season.
But they never expected to see what awaited them when the buses parked in front of the Opera House. The H in House had been mysteriously transformed into an M, and there was a six-foot papier-mâché mouse on the roof of the three-story building, singing Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. Ringing the streets in front of the Opera House were paper lanterns in every color, glowing with a soft light that made the town look magical.
“It’s the Opera Mouse!” shouted Max and Tyler, jumping off the bus and immediately running up to the old building and peering through the darkened windows. When they realized that the front door of the abandoned building was open and the entryway was filled with cases and cases of bottled Moxie—with a sign that said, Enjoy a Moxie, on the Mouse!—the gathering became a block party and victory celebration all in one.
The thrill of winning the first five games of the season, along with pride at hearing opera pouring out of the broken-down Opera House, seemed to awaken something in the townspeople. Neighbors stayed and talked, chatting about the game, catching up on news, enjoying the music, and even breaking into spontaneous dance. From time to time, the chant of “The Mouse is in the house! The Mouse is in the house!” would rise up from the crowd, and it was no longer just the sixth graders who were calling out the words. No one could recall the last time the town had gathered to celebrate like this.
“It was worth it,” said Lena, throwing an arm over Maggie’s shoulder and lifting her bottle of Moxie in salute. By “it,” she meant the hours spent building the mouse and the near-death experience of hoisting all the equipment onto the roof of the Opera House.
Maggie shook her head. “You’re the one who climbed hand over hand up the fire escape,” she said, looking at the treacherous, hundred-year-old metal staircase that crawled up the side of the Opera House. “I just about died when you slipped at the third floor!” Without Lena, the hack would have been impossible. She had even hung a row of football-shaped piñatas underneath the mouse on a long wire that stretched from one end of the Opera House to the other.
“But I made it,” said Lena. “Freaky strong arms!” And she raised both arms over her head in a sign of victory. “Besides, you’re the one who squeezed into the tiny space under the floorboards for the wiring. And who rigged up the speakers and the spotlights and the beautiful fairy lanterns.” Lena twirled around, spilling her Moxie on Maggie in the process.
“Yuck!” said Maggie, rubbing at the dampened sleeves of her coat. “This stuff is sticky.”
“That’s the thing about Moxie,” said Lena, taking a big swig. “You either love it or you hate it. And I love it! All of it!” And she twirled again, because the night was magical, and who knew what could happen next.
Maggie did. Without telling Lena, she had wired the piñatas with micro-detonators. The football-shaped decorations hung in a row along the top edge of the Opera House, just below where the giant mouse sang in Italian. As the opera reached its crescendo, Maggie pushed the small remote control in her hand.
One by one, the piñatas burst open, their contents cascading to the delighted crowd below: confetti and candy and whistles and noisemakers and tiny pennant flags that read, Go, Wildcats! on one side and ROAR! on the other.
The crowd cheered, and even Lena stopped her twirling, stunned into silence. “Maggie Gallagher!” she squealed. “You’re the best!”
Maggie’s eyes shined with delight. “Oh, I love a good explosion.”
So do I, answered her father in approval. So do I.
Children of all ages descended on the prizes, snatching up candy and noisemakers and throwing handfuls of confetti into the air. Even Mrs. Barrett from the post office scooped up a few banners. On Monday morning, they would be proudly displayed beside her cash register. Odawahaka was a town that had always loved its football. But now it seemed pretty fond of a six-foot mouse as well.
On Monday, Mr. Platt’s daily Platt-itude had Maggie thinking.
Today he had written, You don’t have to learn. Ignorance is an option. Think about it.
Maggie looked around. Were the other students “thinking about it,” too? They didn’t seem to be. Math was their last period of the day; most of the students seemed to be “thinking about” escape.
“Don’t forget!” said Mr. Platt just as the final bell rang. “Tomorrow after school—another meeting of the Robotics Club. It’s going to be awesome.” Poor Mr. Platt, thought Maggie. Not one person had joined his club. When was he going to learn that he wasn’t teaching at a school where kids signed up for anything except football?
“Your house or mine?” asked Lena as they walked out of the school.
“Depends,” said Maggie. “What did your dad make for dinner last night?”
“Bouillabaisse,” said Lena, “a classic French dish. In honor of my mom.”
“Boo-ya-what?” asked Maggie.
“Fish stew,” explained Lena. “Yummy.”
“I’ve got powdered doughnuts at my house,” said Maggie. “A whole box, unless Grandpop found them.” Not likely, since Maggie had hidden them on top of the fridge behind a three-pack of paper towels.
“Decided!” said Lena. “Besides, we need to work out the details of the next
hack, don’t we? What’s your final decision: timer or remote control?”
“It will have to be a timer,” said Maggie, clearly dissatisfied. “We can’t risk getting caught red-handed in school with an unidentified remote control.”
For the remainder of the uphill walk home, Lena filled Maggie in on the latest news from her mother in Paris. It was all so elegant and foreign. Maggie couldn’t help thinking how Lena’s family was utterly unlike her own, especially when the girls reached the top of 3rd Street and found Grandpop sitting in his wheelchair on the porch, despite the cool mid-October air.
“Did you finish off the Cool Whip yesterday?” he barked at Lena before they were even inside the front gate.
“I sure did!” replied Lena. “Sorry, Maggie’s Grandpop! Do you want me to walk down to Weis Market and buy you another can?”
“I don’t want another one now!” complained Grandpop bitterly. “I wanted it yesterday. You eat more than any child I’ve ever met. Come sit down here and earn your keep by reading the sports page to me. I can’t find my glasses.”
Maggie knew that her grandfather had hidden his reading glasses to get Lena to sit with him, and Lena knew it, too. It was impossible to comprehend, but the two of them actually enjoyed each other’s company—though Grandpop took every opportunity to point out that Lena was going to eat his house right out from under him.
“Get us a couple of Moxies, eh, Maggie?” ordered her grandfather. “And see if you can find that box of doughnuts your mother smuggled in and hid from me.”
Maggie didn’t even bother to argue. She dropped her backpack at the foot of the stairs, listening to Lena laugh at something her grandfather said. Suddenly, she spied a package on the living room table wrapped in plain brown paper with a familiar label on it: Vinnie’s Vintage Auto Parts. The package was open.
“Grandpop, what is this?” asked Maggie, carrying it outside. She could see that it contained the exact radio faceplate from a 1967 El Camino that she’d mailed out a week ago to someone in Stroudsburg. How had it found its way back here? She never included a return address on her labeling.
“Oh, Danny sent me that. A belated birthday present. Nice of him, huh? He says there’s a website that sells old auto parts.”
Maggie startled, nearly dropping the package to the floor.
“Be careful!” said Grandpop. “That’s worth something! The website has everything, Danny says. Parts for Camaros, GTOs, Trans Ams, Cougars. All the stuff I used to collect.” He leaned over to Lena. “Back when I was a young troublemaker.” Lena smiled, but glanced nervously at Maggie. Grandpop turned back to her. “I want to take a look at it.” She handed him the package. “No, not the faceplate. The website. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”
Maggie looked at Lena. Lena looked at Maggie. Vinnie’s Vintage Auto Parts paid for everything—the wiring, the electronic components, the confetti, the candy, the speakers, the paper lanterns—everything they needed to go on making trouble. Including the two thousand Ping-Pong balls that were currently netted and rigged above the podium on the auditorium stage at Oda M. Without Vinnie, there would be no more hacking.
“Grandpop,” said Maggie, “we don’t have internet.”
“I know, but you jump on that other girl’s internet. You know, the rich one you used to play with when you were little.”
Maggie shook her head. It was true she’d figured out Kayla’s family’s password (goodasgold251) years ago, but she wasn’t going to let her grandfather know that. “They changed their password. I don’t know it anymore.”
“Well, then I’ll go to the library in Bloomsburg. I’ll use that Google thing.”
“Sure, Grandpop,” said Maggie. There was no need to worry. He hadn’t been out of Odawahaka since he lost his leg. And if he did make it to the library in Bloomsburg, he wouldn’t know what to ask for.
“That’s what I’ll do,” asserted Grandpop, slapping his good leg. “I will get myself to Bloomsburg.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, until Lena broke it by saying, “And here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to Weis and get us all some Cool Whip. I bet it’s incredible on top of powdered doughnuts!”
EIGHTEEN
THE NEXT DAY WAS THE SECOND Tuesday in October, and that meant one thing at Odawahaka Middle School: time for the annual assembly to kick off class elections. Usually, a class president was elected for each grade: fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth. But since the sixth grade was the only class that was still at Oda M, theirs would be the only election this year.
And everyone knew who would win: Kayla.
Kayla was a shoo-in for three reasons. First, she had a magnetic quality that bordered on magic; people fell under her spell and couldn’t get out. Second, because Kayla had won last year, she was the incumbent—which is a huge advantage in any election. And third, no one else was interested in running. Running for class office was a lot of work, and this year’s sixth graders weren’t particularly fired up, especially since they were the last class at Oda M. What was the point in leading a school that was doomed in a town that was dying? It was like being elected captain of the Titanic five minutes before the ship sank. No wonder Mr. Platt still didn’t have a single member in his new Robotics Club. Why try?
Besides, everyone knew that class president was an empty honor. There was no real power. Nothing ever changed at the school, no matter who was elected.
Principal Shute stood at the podium speed-reading the election rules from the Official Odawahaka Middle School Handbook for Student Elections. He was clearly bored, and the students mirrored his attitude by slumping in their seats and staring at the ceiling. The five classroom teachers sat onstage, as they did at every assembly, and Kayla sat beside them, since she was the outgoing class president.
There were only two students in the audience who were paying attention: Maggie, who kept checking her watch, and Lena, who kept checking the light meter on her camera.
“Anyone who would like to be a candidate,” said Principal Shute, reading as quickly as possible from the manual, “should submit his or her name by placing it in the official nomination envelope kept in each homeroom. You have until Friday at noon to submit your name for candidacy. On that afternoon, the official Election Board will gather the nomination envelopes from each homeroom and announce the official candidates on Monday morning. At that point, the campaign season, which will last precisely two weeks, will be under way. Candidates will be permitted to hang posters in the halls and cafeteria. Candidate speeches will be given the last Monday in October here in the auditorium.”
“Why is he reading so fast?” asked Lena. “It’s like his pants are on fire!”
Maggie checked her watch again. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s got somewhere important to go.”
“Appropriate presentation attire is required for all candidates,” continued the principal, rushing ahead. “Young ladies, skirts. Gentlemen, ties. No exceptions. The last Tuesday in October is Election Day. Voting will take place during homeroom, results will be tabulated by the Election Board during lunch, and the results will be announced at the end of the day.”
Mr. Shute closed the official handbook. “And now we will hear a word from our outgoing president, Kayla Gold.” He turned to Kayla, adding, “Quickly.”
There was polite applause as Kayla walked across the stage toward the podium. “Hi, everyone!” she said brightly. “I just want to say that being class president is awesome and you should really all think about running! It’s so much fun! I mean, it’s a ton of work. You really have to put in a lot of hours. I’m not kidding you. And giving the speech is kind of nerve-racking, I mean, if you’re not used to talking in front of the whole school. And you have to write out your speech ahead of time, which is sort of like having an extra homework assignment. But it’s great to be president, even though you have to stay after school a bunch of times and sit in on meetings with the teachers and Principal Shute, which sometimes run really long. But like I
said, it’s great, and you should all give it a try!” Kayla returned to her seat with a little extra swish in her walk.
Maggie leaned over and whispered to Lena, “That girl could talk George Washington out of running for president.”
“Her talents are many,” responded Lena. “Her genius is evil. This isn’t what I call democracy.”
Maggie looked at her watch again. She wasn’t thinking so much about democracy. The whole assembly was moving much more quickly than she had expected. Timing. It was everything in a hack.
“Back to your classrooms!” announced Mr. Shute, so abruptly that all the students and even the teachers were caught off guard.
“Maggie!” hissed Lena.
No, no, no, thought Maggie. He can’t possibly be done. In the history of Odawahaka Middle School, there had never been an assembly that had lasted less than ten minutes.
“We have to stall!” hissed Lena.
“Improvisation is your department.”
Mr. Shute flicked off the podium light as the teachers stood from their seats to exit the stage. Kayla smiled out at the audience, giving the sixth grade one last view of her gorgeous teeth. In a minute, the auditorium would be empty. And a hack—so carefully planned and executed—would die a lonely, invisible death. It could not be allowed to happen.
Lena raised her hand and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Shute? As the official class photographer, I’d like to take a few pictures.”
“I don’t think a class assembly to read a few rules requires a photo.” He gathered up the handbook and turned to leave.
“Excuse me?” persisted Lena. “I . . . I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“I would like to know . . .” Lena paused. “Hold on. I just forgot what I was going to ask. Does that ever happen to you?” Mr. Shute glared at her but made no reply. Lena looked at Maggie, but Maggie’s mind was a complete blank. The students sat back down in their chairs, happy to avoid a few more minutes of math or science or Spanish.
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