Adam and Jennifer nodded. Squish them like a bug is what Clarence meant.
Clarence vanished behind door number two, and in seconds Mrs. Boland appeared, also dressed in black. She was carrying three glossy folders. Keeping one, she handed the others to Clarence, who placed them on the mats in front of Adam and Jennifer.
“Read these carefully,” said Clarence as he poured Mrs. Boland a cup of coffee.
“Not now, Clarence,” Mrs. Boland said in a loud whisper. “It’s too soon,” and Clarence scooped up the cup and hurried to the washroom again.
Adam felt something he never expected.
That poor lady, he thought. She needs to loosen up.
The coeditors looked over the statement from Mrs. Boland. It was hard for Adam to sit up straight and read at the same time, but the more he went over it, the more impressed he was. The press release had been prepared especially for the Slash. It began:
Just as students at Harris must plan and order their busy days to get all their work done, the great county of Tremble must plan and order where homes are built so all our residents can live peacefully and prosperously side by side. That is precisely the work of the zoning board.
The release went on to say that it was the board’s job to give people of all races and backgrounds the opportunity to buy larger and more beautiful homes, and the bigger the homes, the more tax dollars the county receives, and that means more money for Harris Elementary/Middle School.
The release said that through several zoning reforms, Mrs. Boland hoped to encourage construction of million-dollar mini-mansions that would beautify Tremble and wipe out the final pockets of blight.
There was a quote from Mrs. Boland saying, “I must emphasize that every one of these new homes could be purchased by people of all races and backgrounds who work hard and make the sacrifices to afford the Tremble way of life.” And then there was a final paragraph about how the county and the Bolands had a long history of cooperation, working together to support the Special Olympics.
When Jennifer finished, she pulled out a notebook. “It’s very well written,” she said. Clarence was back, and for some reason, this made him beam. “But I have a few things not covered in your response to our questions,” Jennifer continued.
“Response to your questions?” said Mrs. Boland, looking at Clarence.
“I think maybe they’re confused,” said Clarence.
“You are confused,” said Mrs. Boland. “This is not a response to your questions. This is your article. This,” she said, wiggling the paper at Jennifer, “is what you’re going to print. We’ve written the story for you to make sure it’s accurate.”
The coeditors looked like a mini-mansion had been dropped on their heads. They did not know what to say.
“But . . . but . . .” Jennifer stammered, “we write our own stories. We’ll be glad to include your response. But this isn’t the whole story. This doesn’t say anything about the boarded-up houses or where families in the Willows will go. They can’t afford million-dollar mini-mansions.”
“Children,” said Mrs. Boland, “I’m not some dictator. I don’t tell people where to live. Anyone who has the money can buy a house anywhere in Tremble. The last time we were together, I got very upset. And when I received your questions this week and saw that you were doing ANOTHER WILLOWS STORY!! . . .”
Clarence cleared his throat and Mrs. Boland lowered her voice. “I mean . . . another Willows story, well, my first inclination was . . .”
Adam and Jennifer nodded. Squish them like a bug.
“But Clarence urged compromise,” she went on. “As usual, he was right. We worked very hard doing this article for you.” She looked at her watch. “Clarence, dear, it’s the right time for my coffee.”
Mrs. Boland picked up the folder. “This is all your readers need,” she said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m sure they teach you in school that compromise is the essence of democracy. Today, we’re going to be like our Founding Fathers at Independence Hall in Philadelphia when they drew up the Constitution. We’re not going to leave this room until we’ve worked out a compromise. I understand you may want to switch a word or two — they always do at the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser when we give them stories to print. Or maybe you want to break a long paragraph into two shorter ones. I have no problem with that. I’m always willing to compromise. I’ve cleared my schedule. I will stay until midnight if need be. No one leaves until we’re done.”
Adam was ready. It was time to go.
He unzipped his backpack and reached for his notebook.
As he yanked it out, pistachio shells flew everywhere, arcing upward, then making distinct plinks as they landed on the glass table.
Mrs. Boland and Clarence gasped.
“I am so sorry,” said Adam. “What an idiot. Let me clean it up.”
Adam grabbed his handkerchief and began wiping the pistachio shells off the table. To Adam, the silence seemed to last forever, though it was just a few seconds. No one except Adam moved.
All eyes were riveted on his handkerchief. Back and forth, back and forth.
Jennifer would later say she was amazed at how clearly Adam’s thick streaks of phlegmy snot showed up on that clean glass table.
“FILTH!” bellowed Mrs. Boland, whose face went from pink to purple without pausing at red. “HOW COULD YOU? GET OUT!”
Jennifer was frozen in her seat, but Adam’s backpack was zipped and he was on the move. To reach Jennifer quickly, he ran around the near end of the table, behind Clarence and Mrs. Boland. As Adam passed, Mrs. Boland crossed her arms in front of her face, as if Adam was a toxic germ. Rounding the end of the table and heading toward Jennifer, he glimpsed Clarence.
Adam must have been hallucinating.
He could have sworn Clarence winked at him.
Adam grabbed Jennifer’s hand and yanked her up. The two ran through the boardroom door, along the hallway, and out the zoning department glass doors. Adam looked frantically side to side. The elevator would take too long. He spotted a red exit sign, and they bolted through that door.
It was the stairs. They raced down six flights, burst into the building lobby, and shot out the front entrance.
Adam looked toward the road, panicked that they were being followed, and as he did, he spotted the prettiest sight ever: Jennifer’s blessed mother, turning the Astro van into the driveway.
The coeditors stood panting, trying to catch their breath.
As the van pulled near, Jennifer said, “You can let go of my hand now.”
“Oops,” Adam said. “Sorry.”
“I mean you don’t have to . . .”
“I was . . . um . . . you know . . . distracted,” said Adam.
“I bet,” said Jennifer. “You did that to Mrs. Boland on purpose, didn’t you?”
“What?” said Adam.
“That was some secret plan,” she said. “You are problematic.”
They climbed into the van and felt such relief when it moved. For a long time, both were quiet.
“You know,” Jennifer finally said. “Mrs. Boland is going to destroy us. We’re through.”
“I know,” said Adam. “But sometimes, when you’re doomed, it’s nice to go out in style.”
The Slash was shut down.
Three days after the paper went home in students’ backpacks, the coeditors heard from Mrs. Quigley. She said the Tremble superintendent had talked to some deputy super-duper, who’d ordered the first-assistant-associate-superintendent to call Mrs. Quigley.
“That Bleepin weasel!” said Jennifer. “We know that guy.”
“A real kid person,” said Adam.
“The very one,” said Mrs. Quigley.
What really killed Adam and Jennifer was that they were sure the March/April issue had been their most legendary Slash ever, even better than the paper that got Marris fired as principal.
They’d picked Adam’s “Science Unfair” story to lead the paper, at the top r
ight of page one, because it affected every Harris student.
And sure enough, the very day the story came out, Mr. Devillio, the world’s phoniest science teacher, told their class how happy he was that the fair was going to change.
The Willows story ran top left, a true tale of David versus Goliath: The ordinary Willows people versus the Tremble government and Boland Realty, Inc. Tish might not have talked to them, but Jennifer got interviews with several kids who would have to move away if the Willows became Boland Estates.
The lead was about a family of four. They didn’t have enough money to buy their own house in Tremble, the story said, but they rented in the Willows because they wanted their kids to go to a good school like Harris. Jennifer’s photo of the family — standing on the sidewalk between their house and a boarded-up house next door — ran under the headline:
In the middle of page one was Phoebe’s iceberger about the climbing tree being saved, thanks, once again, to the Slash.
And across the bottom was the Bully Survey. Mrs. Quigley’s bully solution was brilliant as far as the coeditors were concerned. After describing several moving tales of bully victimhood, the article explained the coeditors’ concern with the poll’s results.
It did not list the top ten bullies.
In fact, only one bully vote-getter was named: Adam Canfield. And that’s because Adam wrote a first-person sidebar on how crappy he felt about getting even three bully votes and how it made him wonder which three kids hated him.
The story also pointed out that the Slash had no intention of censoring the news. So any student who wanted the results just had to make an appointment with the principal. The story said Mrs. Quigley would be delighted to read off the top ten bullies — in alphabetical order — plus the other sixty-five who got at least one vote. And since these students would be displaying such curiosity about bullies, they would be asked to serve on a schoolwide committee to reduce bullying.
“Guess how many kids came to see me about the bully results?” said Mrs. Quigley. “Four!”
“That’s all?” said Jennifer.
“Kids are smarter than adults,” said Mrs. Quigley. “They know how sleepy you get sitting on committees.”
“Your plan was great,” said Adam. But he didn’t feel great. “You think there’s any way we can trick Bleepin into keeping the Slash going?”
“Adam,” said Mrs. Quigley, “you know Bleepin wasn’t the real culprit; he was just the trained seal they sent to do the trick. You know who’s responsible.”
Mrs. Quigley told them that a few days before the Slash came out, she received a very “heated” call from a Boland assistant, warning if the “correct” story wasn’t printed, the next call would be the end of the Slash.
“That’s outrageous,” said Jennifer. “You should’ve seen their ‘correct’ story.”
“I did,” said Mrs. Quigley. “They e-mailed it.”
“You didn’t tell us?” said Jennifer.
“I liked yours better.”
“Mrs. Quigley,” said Jennifer, “you stood up to the Bolands?”
“Believe me, it was no big deal,” she said. “I’m only the acting principal. I’m leaving in June. What could they do, kick me out two months early?”
“You did that for us?” said Jennifer.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Quigley, “I did it because I believe truth must win out. And sometimes the poor, abused truth needs help.”
Adam was amazed. He never knew it. A brave principal was a school newspaper’s best friend.
“While we’re on a roll,” said Mrs. Quigley, “more bad news.” The Boland Foundation and Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser had just announced the winners of their student newspaper awards, and the Slash was the only paper in all Tremble that did not win a citation of excellence.
“What a joke,” said Adam. “The Slash is the best student paper anywhere; it’s way better than that ridiculous Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Poopetizer.”
“These literary awards,” said Mrs. Quigley, “can get a little political sometimes.”
Adam and Jennifer were numb. They were exhausted, and though they didn’t tell anyone, there was a part of them that felt enormous relief at not having to worry about the next issue of the Slash. But it was not sweet relief; it was guilt-ridden relief.
When Adam bumped into Slash staff members — reporters, editors, photographers, typists, fact-checkers — they talked about how outraged they were and vowed to fight to their deaths to save the Slash.
Adam, on the other hand, could not feel a thing. He had been outraged by the Bolands, outraged by the science unfair, outraged by the bully vote, outraged by the threat to the climbing tree.
Now it appeared that Adam’s brain was suffering an outrage outage.
If he saw Slash staffers in the halls, he walked the other way.
The staff talked endlessly about what they planned to do, but without their coeditors, they were lost. Everyone had a different plan.
Phoebe wanted to picket Mrs. Boland for the rest of her stinking life, no matter where she went, showing up at every public meeting and sneezing in her face.
Sammy favored a consumer boycott of Bolandvision Cable, with families stopping their cable service.
A typist suggested getting the key to 306 from Eddie the janitor, having staff members lock themselves in the newsroom, and then going on a hunger strike, refusing to take even sweetened fruit juices.
Shadow was sure Mr. Johnny Stack could save them.
Phoebe collected all these ideas into a Take Action Now! list that she e-mailed to Jennifer, who showed it to Adam. Their suggestions touched the coeditors, but privately, Jennifer told Adam that she wouldn’t give a penny for their thoughts.
Picketing, hunger strikes, and boycotts only worked if the media gave you coverage, and no one in the local press cared about the Slash. This had broken the coeditors’ weary hearts: No one picked up their great Willows story. Not Bolandvision 12 or the Citizen-Gazette, of course, but not the local radio stations either or the online news services — not one blog.
As for Sammy’s idea to boycott Boland cable — Tremble citizens might complain about cable costing a fortune and being a monopoly, but as far as Adam could tell, they considered cable a basic necessity, like air and water.
Nor did Jennifer believe that Mr. Johnny Stack could solve this one. He had clearly given Shadow a lifetime’s worth of good advice, but Jennifer didn’t see how ignoring the fools would fix this problem.
It took a few weeks. He barely noticed at first. Then slowly, very slowly, something began to stir inside Adam. It wasn’t in his brain. Closer to his chest. Not that old outrage exactly. More a longing. He began having a vague sense that something — it almost felt like a good friend — was absent from his life. There was a void. A hole.
Then, one morning he woke up missing Phoebe.
That terrified him, and he went looking for Jennifer.
They had to do something to save the Slash!
As usual, she was way ahead of him. She’d been spending hours on her computer, researching. She compiled a list of organizations that seemed like they might care if a newspaper were shut down or if people were forced to leave their homes: the American Civil Liberties Union; the National Coalition Against Censorship; Investigative Reporters and Editors Inc.; the NAACP; the United States Department of Housing and Urban Development’s fair housing division.
And she wrote to them all.
Adam had his own plan, which was way simpler. He called Erik Forrest, the globe-trotting war correspondent and Mr. Mom memoirist.
Forrest had once said if Adam ever needed help, just call.
“Hey, Mr. Forrest, it’s Adam Canfield of the Slash. Remember me? From the bookstore in Tremble . . .”
“Remember you?” said Mr. Forrest. “I have your story taped on my terminal.”
“Really?” said Adam. “Great.”
“Oh yeah,” said Mr. Forrest. “How could I forget you? In the en
tire twelve-city tour, I did interviews with everyone from People magazine to the Jason’s Daddy Stays at Home blog, and to the best of my knowledge, you were the only one to call the book stupid. I had no idea you were such a master of literary criticism. Others called it ‘light’ or ‘breezy,’ but you obviously don’t mince words. ‘Stupid.’ Yes, I remember ‘stupid.’”
“Geez, Mr. Forrest,” said Adam, “that wasn’t the real point. I think you’re great. What I was trying to say . . .”
“Be quiet, Adam, I got the point. Why do you think I have your story taped on my terminal? I’ll tell you, that book tour cured me of ever again writing for easy money. Now, I do believe I would have come to that realization on my own, but meeting you — it was the turning point. That little sidebar you did on Erik Forrest’s four tips to great reporting — I realized I’d stopped following my own advice.”
“Wow, Mr. Forrest,” said Adam. “Something I wrote helped a famous writer like you?”
“Yup. I’m like an alcoholic in recovery. I have not been on a cable news show for thirty-seven straight days.”
“Boy,” said Adam, “this makes me feel like doing a little follow-up story.”
“If you don’t mind, Adam,” said Mr. Forrest, “I’d like to keep this conversation private. Just two reporters talking shop. That OK?”
“Oh sure, Mr. Forrest, no problem. Anyway, that’s not why I called.”
Adam reminded Forrest of the Willows story, and then told him all the latest details, including Adam’s messy handkerchief trick and Mrs. Boland’s shutting down the Slash.
As bad as the news was, it was exciting to tell. Mr. Forrest really appreciated the juicy reporting details, like finding Harris kids who’d have to leave the Willows and getting Reverend Shorty to talk on the record.
“What a gotcha,” he said.
Adam mentioned all the groups that Jennifer had been sending letters to and Mr. Forrest said that was good. But if any of these groups went to court to fight the shutdown of the Slash, Mr. Forrest said, it could take years for a final decision.
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 18