He drew a graph in his science binder to plot the results and each day added dots from the latest lunchtime surveys. On the x-axis (the horizontal line of the graph), he had the 1 to 5 “Help” ratings. On the y-axis (the vertical line) he had the “Grades.” The first time he plotted the results, he let out a whoop. They made a near-perfect 45-degree line heading up to the right. His hypothesis appeared correct: the less help a kid got, the lower the grade; the more help, the higher the grade. Kids who said they got no help clustered mainly between failing and the mid-70s; kids who said they’d been helped somewhat ranged from high 70s to low 80s; kids who got help on half the project were bunched in the mid-80s; and kids who got lots of help — 4s and 5s — scored 90 to 100.
It wasn’t perfect. There were a few who got a lot of help and scored in the 80s. And a few got no help and scored in the 90s. Those kids Adam was in awe of; they should have won the fair.
But the more surveys he added to the graph, the more they confirmed the trend: more help equals higher scores.
Adam thought that could be the headline when he wrote up the results for the Slash.
Through it all, Adam tried to be as invisible as possible in Devillio’s class.
Two things made him feel hopeful.
When he got back his abstract from Devillio, it had a check mark and just one comment: Font too large. Use 16 point.
No way Devillio had read it.
A few days after that, Devillio called on him. “Please hand these tests back, son,” he said.
He’d forgotten Adam’s name. Invisibility was key when battling the Devil.
The only people who sensed something fishy were Adam’s parents. They kept saying it was time for the family to get started on his science project. When Adam told them he wouldn’t need help, his mother looked shocked. “You sure?” she said. “You may be the only one.”
Adam was in the back of the newsroom with Shadow, working on his survey sheets. Shadow was reading off numbers, and Adam was plotting them on the graph when the door to 306 opened.
“So, this is the Slash,” said the woman. “I’ve heard sooo much about it.”
Room 306 went silent. They were good journalists and they could feel it: menace in the air. Kids who’d been slouched on a couch, instinctively jumped to attention. A girl lying flat across the top of a desk executed a flawless dismount. Phoebe discreetly gathered all her top-secret notebooks and stuffed them in a drawer.
After the voice came a thick perfumey smell that made Adam sneeze. This was no ordinary adult. And she was not alone. Mrs. Quigley was by her side.
“Boys and girls,” said Mrs. Quigley. “We have an important visitor today. Mrs. Boland is here, and guess what? She has news. As you may know, Mrs. Boland is a very busy woman. She’s chairperson of the zoning board. She’s director of the Boland Foundation, which donated the study guides for the state tests free of charge. And along with her husband, Sumner, the Bolands own the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser, Cable News 12, Boland Broadband . . .”
Mrs. Boland was smiling as if no one knew better than she did what a big shot she was. Adam edged back against the wall, hoping to stay out of her line of vision. As Mrs. Quigley spoke, Mrs. Boland’s piercing green eyes scanned the room, like a searchlight hunting escaped convicts. Adam was sure he knew the names of the escapees. Only when her beam moved away did he dare look at her.
She was prettier than he’d expected. He would have guessed that up close, she’d be plastered with makeup to cover her monstery self, but the truth was that her skin looked soft and clean and she had on a black business suit that Adam had to admit made her look, well, good in a curvy kind of way. Her hair was different from when he’d seen her on TV for Peter Friendly’s ten-part series on zoning scourges. It was shaggy, with blond and black streaks — a lot was going on but that didn’t look bad either. Adam was surprised; Mrs. Boland looked good enough to be on Tookey Berry’s Billiards & Paintball Emporium calendar.
“Mrs. Boland has come with exciting news,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Would you like to tell them, Mrs. Boland, or shall I?”
Mrs. Boland made a sweep of her arm as if to say she was way too modest to honk her own goose.
“Of course,” continued Mrs. Quigley. “Mrs. Boland is launching a massive countywide beautification program. School playgrounds and parks will be renovated. Ball fields will get new grass, fencing, and lights. New trees will be planted.”
Mrs. Quigley explained that to announce this exciting news, Mrs. Boland was touring the schools. “And guess what her first stop is?” Mrs. Quigley paused dramatically. If they were grown-ups, they would have known this was the moment to clap to show their infinite gratitude to Mrs. Boland for choosing Harris Elementary/Middle to launch her beautification tour. But they were kids, and even worse, newspaper people. And because they were readers of their very own Slash, they knew that this was the woman, in person, who had tried to tear down every basketball hoop in Tremble during her last beautification binge. Even the littlest were not fooled.
Mrs. Quigley had rolled a ticking time bomb into 306.
From the corner of his eye, Adam saw a blur of motion, and then realized that it was Jennifer, hurrying up front. “That is so nice,” Jennifer said, clapping as she walked, which got them all clapping.
The principal gave Jennifer a big smile and mouthed the words “Thank you,” then introduced her to Mrs. Boland.
“Ah, yes, Jennifer, I recognize the name,” said Mrs. Boland. Trying to be professional, Jennifer offered her hand, but Mrs. Boland ignored the gesture, as if touching anything Boland was a huge deal.
The woman’s search beams were still scanning for the other escapee. “Aren’t there supposed to be two of them?” she asked.
Mrs. Quigley looked puzzled.
“Editors,” said Mrs. Boland. “Two editors.”
“Ah, yes. Adam,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Adam.”
Adam was under a desk, supposedly looking for a pen top.
He stood slowly and walked up front. “Found it,” he said, waving the pen.
Mrs. Quigley said she was sure that the Slash would want to do a story about the beautification plan, and she noted that Mrs. Boland had insisted on coming up to 306 to give the reporters the scoop in person.
“Wonderful,” said Jennifer. “But Mrs. Boland, we know how busy you are helping people, so if you want to leave us a press release, we’ll write it up. . . .”
“Darn,” said Mrs. Boland. “Did I forget that press release? Maybe we could do a little interview.”
The bell rang.
Adam had never seen kids load up backpacks and scoot out of a room so fast. The only sound was everyone murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as they piled out.
That was Adam’s plan, too. “Got to go,” he said, hoisting his baritone. “Geography Challenge and baritone lesson.”
“Adam,” said Mrs. Boland. “I’m sure the acting principal would excuse you from class for a few minutes. This won’t take long.”
“No problem,” said Mrs. Quigley, heading out the door. “The two of you just stop by my office when you’re done. Mrs. Rose will give you late passes.”
“Mrs. Quigley . . .” Jennifer called out, and Adam could hear the fear in her voice. “Would you like to join us for the interview, Mrs. Quigley? You might have ideas . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Quigley. “I’d love to, but the kindergarteners are taking their state coloring proficiency test. I’m a monitor and as usual, I’m late.” She winked at them and disappeared down the hall.
The door clicked shut. They were alone with the time bomb.
“Well,” said Mrs. Boland. “At last.”
“Would you like to sit down?” Jennifer asked.
“In this sty, are you kidding?” said Mrs. Boland, and she shuddered.
“It’s great about the beautification plan,” said Jennifer, who was struggling to keep things on the surface. “I was wondering —”
“Please st
op,” said Mrs. Boland. “I’m going to make this fast. I should have closed you down after that basketball story. Don’t think I couldn’t have. One call to the right politician — good-bye. But no, I figured you’re just kids, you’ve got basketball hoops at home, you’re too lazy to go to the park, so you write some slanted story against me. I let it go. My gift to you. But isn’t it human nature — you do people a favor, you think they thank you?” She shook her head. “No, no, no. They think you’re soft. First opportunity, they cram a stick of dynamite up your behind.”
“Mrs. Boland,” said Adam, “we appreciated it. I don’t know if you saw the quote —”
“You don’t have a clue,” said Mrs. Boland. “I’ve worked so hard to protect this community from becoming another suburban wasteland overrun by chain-link fences, above-ground pools, and aluminum siding. Do you know what I get paid as zoning board president? Zippo. I donate my salary to charity. My gift to the people of Tremble. I hire renowned experts and develop a master plan to keep Tremble a lovely place for good people who work hard and earn a good living. I could quit and settle for having a ‘nice’ suburb, but that’s not me. I won’t rest until we’re the jewel of the Tri-River Region. And what thanks do I get? I get a story in your paper about people in the Willows not being consulted on changes to their crummy, run-down neighborhood. Not being consulted!” Mrs. Boland slammed a desktop.
“My God, the dust,” she mumbled, pulling out a wipe from her briefcase and cleaning her hands.
“Since when is the Willows your problem?” she went on. “You like it so much — I don’t see you living in the Willows. You live in River Path,” she said, pointing at Adam. “And you,” she said to Jennifer. “Every night your daddy comes home from his big-city law firm to that nice house in River Bluffs.”
The coeditors looked stunned.
“You think I don’t know about you?” Mrs. Boland continued, riveting her beam on Jennifer. “Your folks don’t go to church in the Willows. They go to that nice big church in North Tremble.”
“You, I understand,” she said, nodding at Adam. His shirt was untucked. His hair was standing up in back. His shoes were untied. “What a mess,” she said. “I can see you’d be right at home in this slop bucket. But you,” she said to Jennifer. “You seem to have been raised with manners and style. Surely, young lady, you understand that being a clean, orderly person and living in a clean, orderly town go hand in hand.”
“It’s my fault,” said Adam. “Jennifer tried to get us to clean up the newsroom.”
“Please stop,” she said. “You are done writing about the Willows. You hear me? It would be so easy to shut you down. I could be shocked to hear that the Slash has no full-time adviser. Your poor acting principal is so busy. So we at the Boland Foundation could provide you an adviser from my beloved husband’s Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser to watch over you, day and night. A mentor to edit your stories so they turn out right. Make sure you baby reporters don’t get confused. Clean stories to help beautify Tremble.
“Or I could get a bunch of managers from Bolandvision Cable, people my husband pays generous salaries to, so they can afford the taxes that fund your schools. And they could come to the school board and demand to know how, in this time of scarce resources, Harris can afford a whole room for a student paper plus the cost of publishing monthly. Wouldn’t it be sad if we needed to make cutbacks? Slash the Slash from the budget.
“You give it some thought. See if you need any more stories on the Willows.”
Mrs. Boland stared hard at them. “That will be all,” she said.
Adam felt like he was coming down with bubonic plague.
As Mrs. Boland wheeled to leave, he got a whiff of her perfume again, and — he couldn’t help it — sneezed twice this time.
She froze. Adam could see her shudder. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to cover your mouth?” she snapped.
“Mrs. Boland,” said Jennifer, “you never told us about your beautification plan for Harris.”
“Silly me,” she said. “You know what’s funny? I do have those press releases.” She reached into her briefcase, yanked out a thick stack, crumpled one, and threw it in Adam’s face. “Special delivery,” she said, and turned to go. But as she slid the releases back in, she fumbled and dropped her briefcase.
Adam bent to pick it up, and Mrs. Boland gasped.
“Please, no,” she said. “Don’t touch that with your sneezy hands.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, used it to lift the briefcase, and marched out.
Neither Adam nor Jennifer spoke for a long time. They’d never felt so cornered by a grown-up.
“My God,” Jennifer finally said. “I could barely breathe.”
“I know,” said Adam. “She was, like, worse than Marris, she was like . . .” The two looked at each other, neither able to think of the words.
“What was that deal with the wipes and the handkerchief?” said Adam. “She seemed like a clean freak.”
“Clean hands and a clean county, I guess,” said Jennifer. “Are there any normal grown-ups?” She picked up the crumpled press release and smoothed it out.
“Don’t waste your time on that,” said Adam.
“Oh my gosh,” said Jennifer. “Reverend Shorty was right.” She showed him the end of the release. It said the new beautification program would make an all-out effort to eliminate Tremble’s last “pockets of blight.”
“That’s their code for the Willows,” said Jennifer.
“It doesn’t actually say Willows,” said Adam.
“It means Willows,” said Jennifer.
Adam needed to talk to Danny, and it wasn’t just this Boland mess.
The judge’s clerk had called Adam’s dad about the shoveling case. The judge wanted to hear from Adam about the mugging and any feelings he had about how the five arrested kids should be punished. Community service? Counseling? Jail? Lethal injection?
In a case like this, the clerk explained, the victim’s feelings were given weight.
Adam’s feelings? His feelings were that he didn’t want to get involved. That was the judge’s job. That’s why judges had those big gavels — not to kill bugs — but to slam down and say, “Three years hard labor. Next!” Adam had never seen anything on TV about victims being given the gavel. What if people found out that he’d recommended jail? He never realized how much went into being a victim.
His dad said Adam didn’t have to make a recommendation and shouldn’t worry about it.
But Adam wasn’t sure. Adam really wanted to talk it out with Danny.
Adam wanted to find out if Danny knew Mrs. Quigley.
And, more than anything, Adam needed help figuring out what to do about the Willows story. He didn’t want to discourage Jennifer. She’d never done such great reporting. But maybe it wasn’t the job of a school paper to write about the Bolands buying up the Willows. That was grown-up stuff. Kids wanted to read about the top ten bullies. They wanted egg sandwiches.
Danny had been a huge help when Marris was after them.
Only one minor problem.
Adam had to find Danny.
Saturday morning, after baseball practice but before running club, Adam rode his bike to the animal shelter.
The receptionist told him the same thing she’d said when Adam phoned: Danny wasn’t in. And no, she didn’t know when he’d be back.
“I’m his really good friend,” said Adam, “and I’m worried about him.”
“You’re so lucky to have Danny for a friend,” she said. “He’s amazing when he’s up.”
They always said that about Danny. She made it sound like Danny lived in an elevator. “When he’s up?” repeated Adam. “Where is he now? Down?”
The receptionist gave Adam a strange look but didn’t say more.
“Do you know if he’s all right?” asked Adam.
“We know he’s OK,” said the receptionist. “He checks in with us. It’s just — I can’t say more for priv
acy reasons. Please understand.”
Was Danny on some secret animal shelter mission? Maybe he’d gone undercover investigating a poodle smuggling ring in Paraguay. Adam wasn’t even sure they had telephones in Paraguay.
“I really need to talk to him,” said Adam. “But he’s never home.”
“You sure?” she said. “Look, I’ve already said too much. People are waiting.” Adam was so absorbed, he had not noticed. Behind him were a woman and a little girl with a pet adoption form. Behind them was a man with a golden retriever and a lady with a white boxer.
This was his parents’ fault. He hated them for not letting him have a dog. They kept saying he was too busy and would never walk it. He hated being so overprogrammed. He’d love to quit swimming. He’d love to quit before-school/after-school classes for the state tests. He’d love to have just one second to himself.
He stepped out of line. The little girl was telling the receptionist that she was going to adopt a Yorkie terrier and call him New. “Everywhere I go I can tell the whole, entire world, I love my new Yorkie, New. Get it? And in a long time, when I get growed up, I can say I love my old Yorkie, New. Get it?”
Adam got it. Couldn’t one thing on this entire planet love him twenty-four hours a day for no good reason except that he was Adam?
Being a reporter, it seemed like he spent every waking hour asking questions that upset people. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the reporter’s life. He wanted to be surrounded by love and get licks all over his face every second.
It was too far to bike.
He didn’t know which buses to take.
And Adam didn’t want to ask his parents for a ride; they’d start getting snoopy about what was up.
So that Sunday afternoon, a glorious March day, Adam waited until his mom and dad went biking along the river. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out forty dollars from his savings, and called a taxi.
Usually, Danny came over to their house. Danny wasn’t married, and Adam’s parents said they enjoyed cooking for him. Adam had been to Danny’s only twice. Danny lived in a condo; that had surprised Adam. It was pretty plain and not too large. For some reason Adam had envisioned Danny in a more dramatic place, like a houseboat on the river or a bat cave.
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 11