“This is from a past state test,” the teacher said. “Normally you’d read the passage, then pick the right answer for each question. And we will get to that. By next month I’ll be standing here with a stopwatch, and you will be reading a passage like this and underlining every key concept in one minute and forty-five seconds. But today I don’t want you looking at the reading passage. Today we are going to answer questions without reading the passage. Isn’t that fun?”
The students stared blankly at her.
“OK, good,” she said. “Now, as we’ve all heard Mrs. Marris say, our job is to learn to be savvy test takers. Tell me, girls and boys — what rhymes with savvy?”
They sat quietly going through the alphabet in their heads.
“Gravy?” said a boy.
“No,” said the teacher. “Gravy. Savvy. No.”
“Navy?” said another boy.
“I was going to say that,” said a girl in the front row.
The teacher shook her head.
They looked confused.
“Nothing,” said the teacher, “nothing rhymes with savvy.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said a boy. “‘Twinkle, twinkle little nothing / How I wonder what you’re savvy.’ No way that rhymes.”
“My point,” said the teacher, “is no word rhymes with savvy.”
“I thought no word rhymed with orange,” said a girl.
“That’s not my point,” said the teacher. “Savvy rhymes with nothing; it’s out there all alone. And that’s how you must be when you take the test. Savvy as a fox in the forest at twilight. You’re out there all alone against these wise guys from the state who made up this test and would like nothing better than to have you fail. And you, the savvy test takers, must figure out how to outsmart them.
“For multiple-choice questions, there are four answers,” she continued. “Two will be way off, one will be close, and one will be right. What does the savvy test taker do?”
“Pick the right answer,” said a boy.
“Absolutely not,” said the teacher. “That’s the smart test taker. We haven’t got that far. I’m talking savvy.”
The girl in front suggested eliminating the two answers that are way off.
“Now there’s a savvy test taker,” the teacher said. “Good for you, Miss Savvy.”
She had them look at the first question and put an X through the two answers that were way off.
The question asked which two cities the transcontinental railroad linked. “The key,” said the teacher, “is the meaning of transcontinental.” They looked ready to fall asleep; heads were flopping on chests and jerking up. “Transcontinental?”
“Across the continent,” said Adam.
“I was going to say that,” said the girl in front.
“Good,” said the teacher. “Let me hear one answer you put an X through.”
“Paris to New York,” said a boy.
“Good,” said the teacher. “What would it be if it went from Paris to New York?”
“Sopping wet,” said the boy.
“True,” said the teacher, “but what word? Trans . . . Transatl . . . Transatlanti . . . No one? . . . Transatlantic, right?”
“I was going to say that,” said the girl in front.
The teacher asked for another wrong answer.
“Chicago to Sacramento,” said the girl in front.
“Good,” said the teacher.
“I disagree,” said a boy. “The question asked which two cities it linked. I guess they mean one on the East Coast and one in California, but it could be true the train linked Chicago and Sacramento, too. So I don’t see why that can’t be an answer.”
The teacher reread the question. “Well, you may have a point . . . No, no, no!” she said, regaining her senses. “You’re overthinking. You want to think like the guy from the state making up the test. He’s trying to be a little tricky, but not way tricky. I mean, he’s no genius — he makes up tests for a living.”
It was a little past four when Adam got to 306. He pulled an iced-tea carton from his backpack, stuck in a straw, and took a deep drink. He was dry. The voluntary/mandatory had been even worse than he’d feared. In the time they’d practiced educated guesses, Adam could have built the stupid railroad. Over the weekend Adam had tried convincing his father that he didn’t need the voluntary/mandatory classes, since he had done so well on the test last year, but boy, did that set his father off. “Young man,” his father had said, “today’s four-pluser is tomorrow’s two. Don’t ever forget that. You cannot let your guard down; people are always gunning for the four-pluser.” Adam had tried explaining that the test wasn’t hard, but his father started shouting, “Hubris! Hubris! Do you know what hubris is, Adam?” Adam didn’t, so he blurted out something ridiculous, ran up the stairs, stomping each one extra loud, rushed to his room, and slammed the door. Later his parents took him out for soft ice cream, but he still had to go to voluntary/mandatory.
Jennifer walked in. When she saw Adam was there first, she looked at her watch in mock astonishment and they both smiled. He was happy to see her.
“What’s hubris?” Adam asked.
“Overblown pride,” said Jennifer. “Why?”
“Nothing,” said Adam. “You think Phoebe’s going to show?”
“I think she will,” said Phoebe, walking in. “Sorry I’m late, but my voluntary/mandatory got out late.” She thudded down her backpack, then flopped on a couch. “Got your note,” Phoebe said to Jennifer. “Actually, got it twice. Very weird. A girl came up to me in the hall, said, ‘This is from my sister,’ and gave me the note. Then at recess the girl came up again, said, ‘This is from my sister,’ and handed me the same note. I kept wondering how many times she’d come back. I felt like I was in a video someone kept rewinding.”
“They’re twins,” said Jennifer with a laugh. “My sisters. Two different girls, two different notes.”
Phoebe nodded and pretended to get it. She knew from dealing with her older brothers that you have to let a lot go by. She understood Jennifer and Adam would never let her in on their inside jokes.
Jennifer stood up. “Got to go,” she said.
Adam looked panicked. “You’re leaving?” he said. “We have to talk about the smile story.”
“You don’t need me,” said Jennifer. “One coeditor per reporter is plenty. We’re studying the Constitution in Social Studies. Two coeditors per reporter is a violation of the Eighth Amendment — cruel and unusual punishment.”
Adam glanced at Phoebe. He was determined to be upbeat, so it was hard to think of anything to say.
“Did you like it?” asked Phoebe.
“Like what?” said Adam.
“The Eddie the janitor story,” said Phoebe. “Was it OK?”
“Oh yeah,” said Adam. “It was good. We didn’t tell you? I thought we said something. Nice job.”
“Really?” said Phoebe. “You liked it?”
Adam nodded.
“YES!” squeaked Phoebe, jumping out of her chair and twirling around. She had hoped the Slash editors would think the Eddie story was so great they’d call her right away at home and admit they’d made a terrible mistake not putting her on the Spotlight Team. But days had passed with no word. “Did you like the part about the birds and the toothbrush and spoon?”
“Yeah,” said Adam. “I did.”
“And the boy in the wheelchair. Wow. Pretty great, huh? I had to go back five times before Eddie told me that.”
“Yeah, it was good,” said Adam.
“I have lots more in my notebooks,” said Phoebe. “Want another page or two?”
“No,” said Adam. “Length is perfect.”
“You really liked it?” said Phoebe. “You’re not just saying it because you feel sorry for me?”
“No,” said Adam. “I adored it. Loved it. Would marry it if I could.”
“Could it go front page?” asked Phoebe.
“Don’t know yet,” said Adam.
/> “I think it could be a very strong front-page story,” said Phoebe.
“We’ll see,” said Adam.
“I have great ideas for front-page art,” she said. “We could get a front-page photo of Eddie with the two mourning doves. Or —”
“I DON’T KNOW!” screamed Adam. “STOP, PLEASE, JUST STOP FOR A MINUTE! LET’S TAKE A TALKING BREAK.” Adam sat for a few seconds, composing himself. He had been concentrating so much on getting Jennifer to stop being mad at him, he’d forgotten what Phoebe was like. He had let his guard down. This was a good reminder for any coeditor. Just because someone wrote nicely didn’t mean they were a pleasure to be around.
Adam asked how the smile contest went. “I was flipping channels,” he said, “and caught News 12. It looked kind of funny, all those kids smiling.”
“It was weird,” said Phoebe. She pulled out a sheet of paper from her backpack. “So far, I’ve written the start,” she said. “I’m not sure about it. I feel a little — I don’t know — sneaky. The story is supposed to be about kids working hard smiling to win five hundred dollars for a good cause. That’s what the press release said. And I think the people in charge tried to do good, but this lady Phyllis — there was something so phony about the whole thing.”
She handed Adam the lead. The story began:
The Tremble Dental Association recently held a smile contest at the mall to promote healthy teeth and remind people that October is Dental Health Month. At the start of the competition — which lasted over four hours before a champion smiler was crowned — Dr. Artimus Cooper, DDS, issued a grave warning. “If we don’t control our kids’ sweets intake,” he said, “we could be looking at a billion new cavities in America in twenty years.”
Well, thanks to the dental association smile contest, we are well on our way to those billion new cavities. In fact, at the rate those smilers at the mall were consuming candy and soda, they themselves may get a billion new cavities.
Trying to smile for several hours is exhausting. Where did the smilers get their energy? Candy. Tons of candy. Suzy Mollar, Number 12, winner of the five-hundred-dollar grand prize, ate almost an entire ten-pound bag of M&M’s during her four hours and three minutes of smiling and drank soda as well. She declared sugar the key. “My mom poured those M&M’s down my throat,” she said. “Yipes! My toes were tingling; I could feel my heart pounding. I was riding a sugar wave to victory.”
When he finished, Adam said, “Geez, that really happened?”
Phoebe nodded.
“You sure?” asked Adam.
“Want to see the photos?” said Phoebe.
“You have photos already?” said Adam.
Phoebe nodded. “I was so nervous they wouldn’t come out, I made my mom go to One-Hour Photo.”
He looked through the pile, shaking his head, then held one up. “This girl with the Number 12 tooth and the M&M bag stuffed over her head — Suzy Mollar?”
“Tremble Dental Association smile champion,” said Phoebe.
“Boy,” said Adam. “Save us from Dental Health Month, huh?”
They were quiet, then Adam said, “You did great, Phoebe. You did it again. I have to admit, this is amazing. It’ll be wonderful when it’s done.”
Phoebe nodded.
Adam braced himself for another Phoebe victory dance, but she just sat there. “Anything wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “This one doesn’t feel great. When I did Eddie — it was a hero’s story long overdue for telling. But this one’s going to upset people.”
“Well, it should,” said Adam. “These dental people sound like idiots.”
“I guess,” said Phoebe. “It’s just harder to say that if you’ve met them face-to-face. I mean Dr. Cooper and Phyllis, they weren’t trying to be stupid. This Phyllis, she wanted to give me an award.”
“Were they the ones standing in front of the smilers on News 12?” said Adam. “They looked awfully ready to take credit for the event.”
Phoebe nodded.
“How come News 12 didn’t have the candy?” asked Adam.
“They stayed a minute and left,” said Phoebe. “They had some big four-hundred-pound story to go to.”
“They’re a disaster,” said Adam.
“I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “Maybe that’s what people want. Happy news.”
“No,” said Adam. “It’s not your job to write what Phyllis wants. If that’s what we did, we could have Phyllis do the story and call it ‘Phyllis’s World.’ Our job as reporters is to tell the truth as we see it. It has to be backed by facts, but that’s what good newspapers do. That’s why people read newspapers. They trust reporters to be honest about what they see. They trust reporters to ask questions that everyone else is too embarrassed to ask or too afraid. Phoebe, you are the public’s eyes and ears. You, Phoebe, take your best shot at telling them the truth about what’s going on in their town.”
Phoebe didn’t look like the public’s eyes and ears. She looked shrunken. “Maybe we could do the story without their names,” Phoebe said weakly. “So Phyllis and her husband wouldn’t be embarrassed. Couldn’t we just say ‘dental officials’?”
“Oh no,” said Adam. “No way. We have to use names. That’s good journalism. Using real names holds us to a higher standard. It means we have to be telling the truth about people. If we make up the names, how can the reader be sure we’re not making up facts, too?”
Phoebe didn’t say a word.
“Come on, Front-Page Phoebe,” said Adam. “I’m not used to you being so quiet. You OK?”
“I guess,” said Phoebe. “I just keep thinking, When Phyllis reads it — I’m dead.”
By the time Adam set out for 48 Grand Street to see what he could learn about Miss Minnie Bloch and her gift to the school, he knew a lot more about the Willows. As promised, Danny had dropped off the old newspaper with the historical articles. “Look it over,” Danny said. “It’s good background.”
There was one black-and-white photo, in particular, that Adam could not stop staring at. Dated “circa 1900,” it was taken in front of the train station and showed a woman with a dress that went from the top of her neck to her ankles, sitting in a horse-drawn wagon with a sign painted on the sideboard that read, TREMBLE RIVER TAXI & LIVERY. In the wagon were four smiling children, three girls in long dresses with big bows in their hair, and a boy, about Adam’s age, in a white shirt, tie, pressed shorts, and high stockings. The woman and her children were white. In front of the carriage, beside several large trunks, stood several men and women, staring seriously into the camera, half of them white, the rest black.
The photo caption said, Early Tremble River Summer Residents with Servants.
Adam read the articles describing Tremble’s progress from a sleepy summer community to a prosperous year-round suburb full of adults taking the train into the city for work. But it was the photo that he kept thinking about on this October afternoon, as he biked up Grand toward Minnie Bloch’s house. The woman and children in the taxi, waiting to be driven to their new summer cottage — they lived by the river, where Adam lived. And the servants who carried the trunks — they were the ancestors of people who now lived in the Willows.
He was pretty sure this was what Danny had wanted him to understand.
Adam had never been up these streets, never had a play date or carpooled with anyone from this neighborhood. As he biked, he noticed a few kids who looked familiar from school or sports, but he didn’t know their names.
The houses were just as Danny had described, small and rectangular, going back deeper than they were wide. Adam could see why they were called shotgun houses. Maybe half looked good, with flower boxes and potted plants, but a lot needed a paint job and raking. Riding into the wind, Adam could smell the sewage plant.
Number 48 Grand was boarded up. A sheet of plywood was nailed over each window. Adam was disappointed. He’d been hoping someone would be living there who would know about Miss Bloch. In
the small front yard, there was a real estate sign that said SOLD. On the way over, Adam had noticed four or five of those same SOLD signs in front of boarded-up homes. He pulled out a notebook and began writing a description of the house.
“Can I help you?” asked a woman standing on the front steps of the house next door. Adam startled. He hadn’t noticed anyone when he rode up.
“Lordy,” said the woman, “you’re not one of those real estate agents buying up the Willows, are you?” She had a big wad of something in her mouth and spit a glob of dark-colored, menacing-looking liquid from her cheek into a white Styrofoam cup.
“Oh no, ma’am,” said Adam. “I’m definitely not a real estate anything.”
“Didn’t think so,” she said. “Didn’t think they were starting them that young, although you never know when it comes to those snakes. If I see one more house bought and boarded up on this street, I’m going to get out my bazooka.” She spit more dark juice into the cup. “How come you’re scribbling all them words in that notebook?” she asked.
When Adam explained he was a reporter, her eyes bulged. “You’re not from that Bolandvision News 12 are you?” she yelled. “I hate that news almost as much as I hate that Sumner J. Boland. They never tell the real truth. All news all the time, my ass. That is the sorriest news I ever seen.”
“I know what you mean,” said Adam. “It’s pretty bad.” He told her he was from the Slash and was trying to write about a Miss Bloch who used to live there.
The woman’s expression seemed to soften. “Why on earth would you want to do a story on Minnie?” she asked. “She’s dead. Won’t be much of a story.”
“She left money to our school,” said Adam. “I was just trying to find out more about her. No one seems to know much.”
“You go to Harris?” said the woman. “Why didn’t you say so, son? I guess I could tell you a thing or two about Minnie. There’s things to tell.” She held out her hand. “Want some?”
Adam Canfield of the Slash Page 7