Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back!

by Michael Winerip

  “You OK?” she asked. “You were pretty quiet tonight.”

  Adam shrugged and closed the door.

  With twenty minutes left in science class, Mr. Devillio said, “Let’s take a break from the excretory system and hear how those science projects are coming along. I know you’re thinking it’s late January and the fair’s months away, but it sneaks up on you. You start, young lady.”

  Young lady. Typical Devillio, Adam thought. More than halfway through the school year and the man was calling them “young lady” or “son.” He still didn’t know their names.

  The girl explained that she was studying the relationship between kids’ weight and the number of times they ate at fast-food restaurants per month, but Adam doubted Devillio heard a word — he appeared to be scrolling through the e-mails on his BlackBerry.

  Adam had never seen a teacher with such a high phony quotient — the ratio between what grown-ups think of a teacher and what kids know. Adults treated him like Sir Isaac Devillio. The man taught all the honors science classes, was chairman of the middle-school science department, ran the Harris science fair and the county science fair, and constantly reminded Adam’s class of all the high muckety-muck state committees he served on. It seemed like every time Adam picked up the local paper, the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser, there was Mr. Devillio shaking some high and mighty hand.

  But teaching? Adam never had such a boring teacher. And so lazy. Devillio was constantly late to class, and then he’d spend forever telling them about his car troubles, his migraine headaches, his swollen ankles, his canker sore.

  On the other hand, when Adam was late — automatic detention. No excuses, son.

  “You’re next, son.” A boy was going to calculate whether a baseball traveled farther when hit by an aluminum or wooden bat.

  Day after day, Mr. Devillio drilled them on the definitions in their study packets. “Son, give me the three basic parts of the nephron.”

  “Who knows the seven materials filtered out of the blood by the Bowman’s capsule? I guarantee, it’ll be on the state test.”

  He never finished a packet, so his tests were full of questions that they never covered. But if they complained? “You know you are responsible for everything in those packets.”

  Teachers were not supposed to use cell phones in school, but Mr. Devillio told Adam’s class he had a special waiver because of all his “indispensable” committee work, and he repeatedly left the room to take calls. When he returned, he forgot what he’d been teaching and repeated himself. A boy in their class had made the mistake of trying to correct Mr. Devillio. “We just did the three parts and two functions of the circulatory system,” the boy said. “I think we’re supposed to be up to the three types of cells in plasma.”

  “Oh, you know everything about the three parts and two functions — is that right, son? Then let’s have the test right now.”

  After that, they let him repeat himself.

  The next project was running mice through a maze and testing whether different kinds of music made the mice go faster. Adam walked up to the wastebasket to toss out a tissue; he noticed that Mr. Devillio appeared to be Googling Chinese restaurants in West Tremble.

  Adam was sure Devillio never read the papers he had them write on every unit. Adam had done an eight-pager on the circulatory system, and the only comment Devillio put on it was on the bibliography, taking off points because Adam had forgotten to list a book’s date of publication.

  It hadn’t been Adam who nicknamed Mr. Devillio the Devil, but Adam totally agreed with it.

  Before Mr. Devillio could call on another student, there was a low buzzing sound they all recognized. The girl sitting behind Adam leaned forward and whispered, “The Devil’s vibrating.”

  “Did someone say something?” asked Mr. Devillio, scanning the room for a victim, and at the same time, pulling out his cell phone. He squinted at the number display. “The state high commission on standards. Everyone wants a piece of me. I don’t know how I do it. All right, you’re next, young lady. I’ll be listening from my office,” he said, going out and closing the door.

  The girl started describing her project, but every other word, some kid made a fake cough that sounded like “boring” or “stupid” or stuff from a bull’s excretory system.

  Adam decided to go for it; no way the Devil could hear them through that door. “Hey,” he called in a loud whisper. “I got a quick question. Come on. How many of you get help at home on the science fair? I know it sounds stupid, but there’s a reason.”

  They looked at one another. Adam raised his own hand, then a few hands went up, then all of them.

  “Why’re you asking?” said a girl. “You know everyone’s parents always help.”

  Adam shook his head. “Not everyone,” he said. “Everyone in here.”

  The office door opened, and Adam froze, but Jennifer began talking, smooth and controlled, like she’d been describing her project for the last ten minutes. She was babbling about nitrates being dumped into the river and stimulating annoying weed growth. She said she was trying to figure out if the problem was discharge from the sewage treatment plant upriver or fertilizers washing off the golf course and people’s lawns.

  “Sounds fine, young lady,” said Mr. Devillio. “I’m pleased to hear —”

  Adam raised his hand. He was sick of holding back. Maybe that’s what was wrong with him lately. He needed to take action. Be more like the old Adam, who brought down a principal.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Mr. Devillio,” he said. “There’s something I want to ask about the science fair. I know it’s really great and everything, but I think it’s kind of . . . well, not fair that certain kids get tons of help at home and some kids —”

  “Parents helping on projects?” Mr. Devillio said. “Parents helping?” He walked back around his desk, the whole time saying, “Parents helping?” Adam wasn’t fooled. He knew Devillio was stalling so he could get the seating chart and figure out who Adam was.

  “Well . . . Adam,” he said. “Yes, Adam, do you know cases of parents helping? Because if you do, Adam, I want to hear now.” He held up a clipboard and pen. “Give me names, Adam. I’ll put a stop to it immediately. I’ll make calls home tonight. You all know you can get help at the after-school sessions I hold every week.”

  Kids were staring at their desks. Anyone who ever went to one of those sessions knew how useless they were. There were so many kids, you were lucky to get a minute with the man. Half the time he was on his stupid cell phone. And then all he did was give you a book to look for ideas in or a website to go to.

  Mr. Devillio stopped at Adam’s desk. “Now, Adam,” he said in a loud voice. “Adam! Look at me! Adam, are your parents helping on your project? Are they?”

  Adam looked down.

  Mr. Devillio took his clipboard and smacked the desktop so hard, Adam popped out of his seat.

  “Answer me, son,” the teacher yelled. “Answer me!”

  Still staring at his desk, Adam shook his head and in a barely audible voice, said, “No.”

  The bell rang.

  “Well, good,” said Mr. Devillio. “From now on, you just worry about yourself, Adam Copperfield. That should keep you plenty busy.”

  Adam picked up his book, slid his excretory materials into the binder, then jammed it all into his backpack.

  As kids crowded out, several made comments under their breath. “Moron,” they whispered. “Loser.” Even Jennifer gave him a look that said, Have you lost your mind?

  What had he been thinking? He had to get out of that room. His face felt flushed. He tried pushing past the logjam of kids at the door and into the hallway, but the mob moved at its own pace. Sweat was trickling down his back, dripping down his temples. The Devil’s room was a million degrees.

  That afternoon, Adam went right home after school. He skipped Geography Challenge. He skipped basketball practice. He told the nurse he had a stomachache.

>   It was a lie.

  He wished he had a stomachache. What Adam had was worse. Somehow, he really had lost control of his life. This wasn’t the fun kind of losing control, like careening down the Giant Chute at Splosh-Splosh Water & Adventure Park on Route 119 in Riverdale. This was scary — like being swept along the waters of the Tremble River in a raging flood.

  His parents were still at work. He walked in and went up to his room, closed the door, and flopped onto his bed. He was going to sleep; that was his plan — be asleep when his mom and dad got home, so he didn’t have to answer more questions.

  But he could not make his brain stop. He just lay there.

  Everyone — Devillio, the five vile predators, Mrs. Finch, Mrs. Quigley, Jennifer, Jennifer’s mom, his parents, even that pip-squeak Phoebe — seemed to move quicker than he did these days, outmaneuvering him at every turn. His life had changed so fast. That black SUV (Or was it midnight charcoal? This was the kind of question that filled Adam’s mind now.) was there one minute, gone the next. Yet in those sixty seconds, the car doors had been thrown open and inscrutable forces had been let loose. Adam had been converted from man of action to pathetic victim.

  Why hadn’t he punched that kid back?

  He felt exhausted, but he’d even forgotten how to sleep.

  While he was tossing and thrashing, trying to get comfortable, he noticed the books Jennifer had given him, scattered across his bedroom floor. He reached for the nearest one. On the back cover was a picture of that Erik Forrest guy in military fatigues and a flak jacket hopping off a helicopter in a ducked-down position.

  Maybe reading about a war or two would take his mind off his own problems.

  “You have to do this,” said his dad. “Your friend Jennifer said she needs it for the front page. She called Mom three times.”

  They were driving to the mall bookstore, where Adam was supposed to have his exclusive interview with the world-famous war reporter, Erik Forrest. It was Adam’s first time out in days, except for school. He’d barely left his room. He just stayed in bed reading anything close by. He read the books Jennifer had given him. He reread all his old Mad magazines and the Dr. Seuss and William Steig picture books he’d loved when he was little. He read every word of the operator’s manuals for his CD player and for the outdoor Ping-Pong table. Anything not to think his own thoughts.

  He didn’t want to talk to anybody, let alone a great reporter who’d remind Adam of what a failure he was.

  They’d stopped. His dad reached across Adam’s lap and opened the door. “You’ll be fine,” his father said. “Two great reporters exchanging ideas. You’ll have lots to talk about.”

  Adam trudged toward the bookstore.

  “Adam!” his father called.

  He felt a surge — maybe his dad changed his mind.

  “You forgot this,” he said, holding up the backpack with the Erik Forrest books.

  When Adam reached the section of the bookstore for celebrity author appearances, he got a sick feeling. There was a TV crew, three radio reporters, a couple of people with laptops who seemed like they might be bloggers, and a reporter and photographer from the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser. Some exclusive. Adam hated being lied to. Too bad Jennifer wasn’t there; she could have reminded him why this was such a terrific story.

  He pulled out his notebook and squeezed between a TV sound person and the photographer.

  For a moment, Adam thought he was in the wrong place. The guy they were listening to didn’t look like the man on the book cover hopping off the helicopter. He looked like somebody’s grandfather.

  Worse than that, Adam could not believe what he was hearing. The world-famous war reporter was talking about pancakes. He was talking about his book, Someone Help Me: The Pancakes Are Exploding! The cover blurb said it was supposed to be this hilarious account of a war correspondent trying to adjust to becoming a stay-at-home dad.

  Of all the things Adam had read in his bedroom that week, Pancakes Are Exploding! was the most boring, worse than the operator’s manual for the CD player.

  Chapter after chapter described the world-famous reporter realizing how hard it was being a full-time housewife — getting to the bus stop late, spoiling the laundry by putting in a red tie-dyed shirt. Big deal. Adam’s dad did that every day and his father had a job.

  Adam was growing angrier by the minute. Now Mr. World-Famous was telling them the exact story that was in the book about trying to make pancakes for the first time and placing a pitcher on the hot stove by mistake and having it shatter, cutting World-Famous in three places.

  “I was hurt worse making pancakes than in any war,” he said, and all the press people howled and so did World-Famous, as if he hadn’t told that story a hundred times.

  “So, to be safe,” said Peter Friendly, of Cable News 12, “get out of the kitchen and go to war!”

  “Exactly,” said World-Famous, laughing uproariously.

  It got worse. A young man and woman from the publisher, with matching khaki pants and yellow button-down shirts, ushered them over to a fake cardboard kitchen display to take photos of Forrest in an apron and paper chef hat.

  Nearby was a press table stocked by the publisher with fancy deli sandwiches, cookies, brownies, and bottled water. The news people were wolfing down free food.

  Adam had never met any real writers and assumed they’d have a wise aura around their heads. This guy was a clown.

  In fact, the whole event felt like a circus. Adam had always believed that Jennifer’s rule about not taking food or anything else from people you were writing about was too strict. But watching these press people — they seemed like pigs, filling bags with food to take home.

  Adam couldn’t wait for them to leave. Fortunately, one story seemed to be all they needed. The female assistant took Forrest’s arm and started leading him out.

  “Great sound bite,” she said.

  “I’m getting good at this,” said Forrest.

  “Excuse me,” said Adam. “Hey, excuse me.”

  They stopped.

  Adam told them his name and newspaper and explained that he had been promised an exclusive interview with Mr. Forrest.

  “We just had that fabulous press opportunity,” said the woman. “You could have asked any question.”

  “It’s not the same. This says exclusive,” said Adam, showing the e-mail Jennifer gave him.

  The woman took it reluctantly. “Oh, this,” she said. “Actually it says local exclusive. That means, at your school, you’re the only paper we invited.”

  “The Slash is the only paper at our school,” said Adam. “That’s exclusive nothing.”

  “Wait,” said Mr. Forrest. “We promised this young man an exclusive?” The woman rolled her eyes, but she did nod; Adam saw it. “Then we will keep our promise.” They were near the front of the store, and Forrest led Adam to two soft chairs in the literature section.

  The woman reminded Forrest that they needed to leave in ten minutes for the next mall, then hurried off.

  “It’s Adam, right?” said Forrest. “How can I help you, Adam? You want a story I didn’t tell the rest of the pack? Here’s your exclusive. I was doing a wash —”

  “I know,” said Adam. “The red tie-dyed shirt. I read the book.”

  Forrest stared at Adam. “You read Pancakes Are Exploding!? My God. No one ever reads the book. What did you think?”

  What did he think? The last time Adam spoke truth to power, he’d been flattened by Devillio. And this guy was Mr. World-Famous. Finally Adam said, “It wasn’t that great.”

  “Fabulous,” said Forrest. “The only reporter on the twelve-city tour who reads the book, and you hated it.”

  “It’s not that I hated it,” said Adam. “It’s like, I didn’t think it was worthy of you.”

  Forrest’s face softened. “Ah,” he said, “that is different.”

  “My coeditor, Jennifer, gave me a bunch of your books,” Adam continued, “and the war ones —
they were amazing. The way you were in the helicopter with that wounded Marine being airlifted out of the fighting. I mean, this was way before I was born, but when I read it, I felt like the soldier just died that second. It’s like I miss him even though I never met him.”

  Adam’s eyes had welled up and he was too embarrassed to look at Forrest. But then Forrest blew his nose and Adam noticed that Forrest’s eyes looked moist, too.

  “Jesus, Adam,” said Forrest. “How did such a little boy get such an enormous heart? You know how I feel right now?” He got up, walked along the wall of literature, stopped at the Ds, and returned with a book, which he held up for Adam. Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. “Seeing you,” said Forrest, “so young and idealistic and hungry for truth — I feel like I’m Ebenezer Scrooge meeting the ghost of my past self. I’m looking at you, but I feel like I’m looking at the old me.”

  He sat down. “What do you want to ask, Adam? You’ve earned your exclusive.”

  Adam didn’t know how to say it. He wanted to know how such a great reporter could wind up doing such an unimportant book. He wanted to know it as much for himself as for the story.

  “Speak up,” said Forrest. “Now’s no time to get shy. The khaki-pantsers will be back any second. You’ve told me my book stinks. After that, any question should be easy.”

  Adam asked how a writer makes sure that he’s doing stuff that matters and not compromising his principles. “It’s not just you, Mr. Forrest — it’s me, too,” Adam said. “I feel like I’ve lost my confidence. Everything I do turns bad lately. I was so sure my investigative story on parents doing their kids’ science projects was good but everyone thought I was a jerk. I feel . . . lost. I just want to feel like a great reporter again. How do you know if you’re any good?”

  “Ahhh,” said Forrest. “Tough one. But I can tell you this. There were a dozen newspeople here today, and only one is willing to work hard enough to get it right. Only one is still asking questions. That’s inside of you. It’s your attitude, your energy, the standards you bring to the story.”