Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  Adam sat bolt upright. He was on the floor, having fallen out of bed, but his brain was wide awake. Marris had used Miss Bloch’s hard-earned money to remodel the bathroom in the Bunker! To build custom-made cabinets! To install an electronic system! She wasn’t spending a cent of the seventy-five thousand dollars on kids. It was right there under their noses, right in the Eddie story. No wonder Marris wanted those sentences cut out. No wonder she wanted to dump the whole Eddie article! Blessed Phoebe, world’s greatest third-grade reporter, she was absolutely right — she had made friends with the best source in the entire school, the man who saw everything yet moved invisibly among them. Mr. Eddie James.

  Adam needed to tell somebody, but it was past midnight, and of course there was only one person to tell. She’d be impressed. He slipped downstairs to the playroom and signed onto the computer. He would send Jennifer an e-mail laying out the whole thing. He glanced at his in-basket and saw a half-dozen e-mails, mostly jokes from his soccer buds.

  But there was one from Jennifer, marked “urgent.” He opened it. The message was really long. Adam read.

  It was all there. Every last loose end tied up. Was he impressed. What a girl. She’d figured it out herself. He checked the time it was sent — late afternoon. Even more impressive. She figured it out while she was awake. He moved the mouse, clicked the response arrow, and tapped out a brief reply so she’d see it before leaving for school the next morning:

  “Good morning. You are amazing. Good night.”

  He slid the keyboard over and placed his head on the desk. He wasn’t sleepy; his head just weighed a lot. And that’s how his father found him in the morning.

  Adam and Jennifer couldn’t figure it out. Why didn’t they feel happy? They were supposed to be on top of the world.

  The Slash was done and heading home in the backpacks of five hundred Harris students, soon to be plopped down in the living rooms of five hundred very influential Tremble families. These were high-achieving moms and dads — lawyers, doctors, business executives — who liked to think that they were totally involved in their kids’ lives and saved every scrap of paper from their schools. For years Adam had been amazed that wherever he visited in Tremble, there was the Slash, hanging by a magnet on people’s refrigerator doors. In technical publishing terms, the Slash had a long shelf life and great demographics. Or as Danny once said to Adam, “Kid, a lot of big shots read your paper.”

  And yet Adam and Jennifer felt like total failures. The two had worked so hard for so long, they had expected people to immediately call up and say this was the best newspaper in the history of the world.

  And that did not happen.

  Every single reporter was mad at them. The headlines on the stories were terrible; the play was lousy (“Why wasn’t my story at the top of page one?”); all the best lines had been cut out.

  Adam and Jennifer knew they shouldn’t take this personally — good reporters were happiest when completely miserable — but even Front-Page Phoebe was bellyaching. She sent Jennifer an e-mail saying she’d worked so hard to do the smile story with some subtlety, slyly poking fun without being too mean. But then she saw the big “Sugarcoated” headline and the blown-up photo of Suzy Mollar inside the M&M bag — were Jennifer and Adam trying to make everything as cheesy as possible? Didn’t they understand how upset that Phyllis woman was going to be? Worse yet, they had “totally ruined” the Eddie story by cutting out two sentences — without consulting her. “I thought you were different,” Phoebe wrote Jennifer, “but, no, you’re just like all big kids — nice to third graders one minute, leaving them to rot to death the next.”

  Adam and Jennifer had bigger problems — editor problems — that mere reporters could never fathom. They had been frightened by their meeting with Mrs. Marris in ways they couldn’t even explain to each other. The two had experienced a rare peek behind the Marris smile, and though they always knew she was a phony, it was chilling to glimpse the monster lurking below.

  For Jennifer, it was even more confusing, the way Marris had singled her out. Could Marris be right? Was the Eddie story embarrassing? Were there special things about being black that Jennifer was supposed to know but didn’t? Her father was always making her read books about famous black Americans, so she’d know how hard it had been. Had growing up in Tremble made her too soft? Would her mom and dad be ashamed?

  Having witnessed Marris’s raw power close up, the editors wondered how they would ever get the Spotlight Team’s cafeteria investigation into the November issue. What would they tell Sammy? He had spent a week on the computer constructing a graphic comparing stickability of a dozen mashed potato samples.

  And worse than all the others combined was the Miss Bloch mess.

  What were they supposed to do, ask Marris for permission to print a story saying she stole seventy-five thousand dollars of the students’ money?

  The October issue hadn’t been read by a soul yet, and already Adam and Jennifer were certain they were doomed.

  By tradition, Mrs. Marris got the first ten copies. After confirming that her editing orders had been followed, she circled the “Free Help!” story in red, underlining the sentence about the Boland Foundation’s generous gift. Then she took a piece of her favorite stationery with the little bunnies dancing around the border and penned Mrs. Boland a note:

  Spring:

  Thought you and Sumner would like to see the latest issue of Harris’s award-winning Slash! You made the front page! I can’t thank you enough for all you do for our school and for Tremble! You are so beloved by the people of this great county! Bolandvision is Tremble’s vision of the future! I know you humbly regard yourselves as just Spring and Sumner, but to us, you are the couple for all seasons!

  Warmest regards,

  and she signed her name, dotting the i in Marris with a fat little heart.

  It took a few days, but just when Adam and Jennifer had abandoned all hope, they began to hear from readers. Sammy said his mom was stunned. He said usually she skimmed the paper looking for one interesting fact — like a teacher whose last name had changed because she got a divorce. Sammy’s mom had been expecting a front page of Halloween safety tips and could not believe that the most interesting news was at the top of page 1, in the first paragraph, where it belonged.

  One morning that week, Eddie Roosevelt James waited for Phoebe in front of the school. He told her he brought the story home and showed his wife, who showed it to their children, and they all cried. There were even things in there Eddie’s grown children did not know. Mrs. James baked a batch of Toll House cookies as a thank-you, and Jennifer — Miss Journalism Ethics — said it was OK to eat them, since the story was already published and Phoebe was no longer in danger of having her reporting principles corrupted by a free cookie bribe. The entire Slash staff cheered Jennifer’s ruling by making burping noises and polishing off Mrs. James’s cookies in two minutes.

  When the Harris PTA tri-presidents read the Eddie story, they decided his contribution to the school had been overlooked too long. They made a plan to hold an Eddie the Janitor Appreciation Night honoring his more than twenty-five years of service, a surprise party to be held in late November. Jennifer’s mom was a big PTA honcho and filled Jennifer in.

  But all Jennifer asked was, “What did Mrs. Marris say?”

  Her mother gave her a long look. “Funny you should ask,” said her mom. “We expected her to be excited, but she actually seemed bothered. So the PTA told her not to worry, that we’d do the whole thing ourselves, that it will come out of our budget, that we knew how busy she was, and all she had to do was show up and sing Eddie’s praises.”

  “And what did she say?” asked Jennifer.

  “She smiled,” said her mother.

  Jennifer knew that didn’t mean a thing, but let it go. She was relieved by how much her mom and dad had complimented the Eddie story.

  Still, Jennifer didn’t talk to them or Adam or anyone about the fears Marris had planted in her
mind. She was glad to put it behind her.

  The great reaction to the Eddie story gave Adam and Jennifer confidence in their editing instincts. It was a good story; Marris was wrong. They heard compliments from kids, teachers — even adults they didn’t know.

  Mr. Brooks handed Adam a note, saying that in all his years at Harris, he had never read such an impressive issue of the Slash.

  Adam’s friend Danny took time from a busy day of dog and cat placements to shoot Adam an e-mail saying how amazed he was to see that real journalism was still alive in Tremble.

  Even Phoebe sent Jennifer a follow-up e-mail, saying maybe she’d overreacted a tiny bit. This second e-mail was spurred by Phoebe’s newfound fame. Teachers and parents were calling her a superstar, saying they couldn’t remember the last time a third grader had two front-page stories. Jennifer’s twin sisters reported that Phoebe was telling everyone at recess about this middle-school boy named Adam, “a really, really tough kid,” who always calls her Front-Page Phoebe.

  Phoebe ended her e-mail to Jennifer by saying: “This has helped me remember why I chose a career in journalism in the first place.”

  Not all adults were pleased.

  As expected, Phyllis called to complain about the smile contest coverage. She learned about it at the Tremble Dental Association Halloween Ball. Phyllis had gone as Queen Toothpaste, complete with a red twist-on fez cap; her husband was King Floss, wrapped head to toe in white kite string. A dentist dressed as a Novocain needle had bowed dramatically to the king and queen, but later, over a scotch and soda, mentioned having a child at Harris and added how sorry he was to read what a “total disaster” the smile contest was.

  People at the ball said Phyllis looked like all the paste had been squeezed from her tube.

  Next morning she left a ten-minute rant on the Slash’s answering machine. She said that the article was all lies — though she hadn’t actually read it, nor did she intend to. She complained that the little weasel of a midget reporter had twisted everything around, after Phyllis had put all her trust in that stupid flea, had given the pip-squeak all the time she needed, answered every puny question, and this was how Phyllis was paid back.

  “I knew that girl was a moron dwarf, and I made the mistake of feeling sorry for the runt and helping her out,” Phyllis bellowed into the phone during one of her calmer moments. She demanded a complete retraction and insisted that the reporter call back immediately.

  Adam was the first to replay her call and initially was worried, but the more he listened, the more he realized that this Phyllis was a cavalcade of misinformation. Even so, he explained to Phoebe that to be fair, she had to phone Phyllis back — send her the story if she had any interest in reading it — and listen to her complaints. Then the coeditors would discuss whether there was merit to what Phyllis said or perhaps offer her the chance to write a letter to the editor.

  When Phoebe heard Phyllis’s voice mail, any feelings of guilt vanished. She told Adam that if she had realized Phyllis’s true witchiness, she would have put even more candy in the story. Phoebe called Phyllis twice, but the charming one never returned the calls.

  Within hours after the Slash appeared, Code Enforcement got its first call about the plan to take down all the hoops.

  “You want to file a complaint, honey?” the Code Enforcement woman said to the caller. “Now, please, don’t shout, please, honey. Shouting never helped anything. . . . Oooooh . . . Neither did nasty words. . . . Hold on, I’m going to walk to the next office and consult a supervisor.”

  She put her hand over the phone, swiveled her chair around so she was facing the Herbs, and said, “Complaint. Line 1.” Instantly the Herbs put down their cheese Danishes. It was strict policy, coming straight from the top of county government — complaints had to be addressed immediately. Complaints that were ignored had a nasty tendency of finding their way up the ladder until they reached the politicians who ran the county government. And that was the last thing the politicians wanted, angry voters screaming that no one had the decency to get back to them about their complaints. It didn’t take long for a bunch of unanswered complaints to pile up, and before anyone knew it, a fellow could get voted out of office and have to get a real job.

  Which is not to say that the Herbs were expected to do anything about complaints beyond listen, take down the names, and promise to get back to the callers. The hope was that by letting complainers vent, they would get it out of their systems and go away. Then the politicians could continue doing whatever they darn well pleased — mostly getting their relatives county jobs that paid a nice salary, weren’t hard, and didn’t take lots of brains.

  “That caller say what the complaint was?” asked Herb Green.

  “Basketball hoops.”

  The Herbs looked at each other. “How would anyone know we had something going with basketball hoops?” said Herb Black.

  “Caller said he read it in his kid’s school paper, the Splash.”

  Herb Green rubbed his belly, which was making rumbly noises. That second Danish had been a mistake. “Herb, you think those two kids selling Girl Scout cookies really wrote that up?”

  “Don’t know, Herb,” said Herb Black. “You think Mrs. Boland gave them permission?”

  “People would have found out anyway, once we started red-tagging the hoops, Herb,” said Herb Green.

  “True, Herb,” said Herb Black. “But when Mrs. Boland’s on a beautification kick, she’s not big on giving a lot of advance warning to John Q. Public.”

  “Herb, you think we should call Mrs. Boland?” asked Herb Green.

  Herb Black whistled. “I don’t know, Herb. My philosophy on that — if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  “Right,” said Herb Green. “But does that mean we should call?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Herb Black. “We’ve had one complaint; in a few days, it could all blow over. Mrs. Boland’s not the kind you want to get worked up if you don’t have to.”

  Turned out the Herbs did not have to call Mrs. Boland. She called them. By week’s end the Herbs had received 187 complaints and climbing; each day they’d received more than the day before. First it was parents of Harris kids. Then those parents copied the article and gave it to parents from other parts of the county. Coaches gave it to coaches, scout leaders to scout leaders, first cousins to second cousins.

  People were so upset, they didn’t stop at Code Enforcement; some even called the county zoning board. Mrs. Boland’s secretary had fielded a dozen complaints herself.

  Mrs. Boland, of course, was one of the few people lucky enough to have an original copy of the Slash, thanks to Mrs. Marris. Mrs. Boland had glanced at the “Free Help!” story the Harris principal had circled, but before she could bask in that glory, she was startled to see “Your Hoop’s Coming Down!” at the top of the page. Spring Boland immediately called the Herbs to ask why in the world they’d spilled the beans to a ridiculous school paper.

  “We told them they should get your permission for a story,” said Herb Green.

  “Idiots,” screamed Mrs. Boland. “Reporters don’t have to ask permission.”

  “Those nice ones at Cable News 12 always ask,” said Herb Green.

  “Well, of course — we own them,” said Mrs. Boland. “My Sumner always insists on hiring good-looking reporters with nice manners and tasteful clothes.”

  “Mrs. Boland,” said Herb Black. “We’re here to serve you. Tell us what to do. You want us to start red-tagging illegal hoops, or you think we should pull back and wait for this to die down?”

  Spring Boland was quiet. A hard question. It might be good to back off, let people forget, and have the Herbs go after the hoops later. Mrs. Boland was a firm believer that the public was pretty stupid and would forget almost everything, including their own names, if you gave them time.

  But there was a principle at stake. Mrs. Boland believed in an iron fist when it came to zoning. That was the reason she’d asked her dear husband to get he
r appointed to the zoning board in the first place — she didn’t want Tremble turning into a slum. Someone had to keep up standards. Tremble might be one of the richest suburbs in the Tri-River Region, but as far as Mrs. Boland was concerned, it still had far too many homes with aluminum siding, chainlink fences, and aboveground pools. And those tiny shotgun houses in the Willows? What were people thinking? Why would anyone want to live like that? She envisioned a major beautification push; she wanted the county to buy all those nasty little houses, tear them down, and arrange for a builder to put up mini-estates on half-acre lots. One of the five real estate companies her Sumner owned had already bought a few of those horrible places and boarded them up, but at this rate, Mrs. Boland feared it could take years to tear down the Willows.

  Basketball hoops were a perfect starting point for her master plan. And the best thing was, they were totally against the law, a blatant violation of 200-52.7A.

  They had become an obsession; once she started noticing them, she couldn’t stop seeing the rusty, weathered monstrosities everywhere. Some fiberglass, some plastic, some wood, some metal; all in all, a mishmash of bad taste. Kids belonged on playgrounds, off the streets, safe and out of view. She had tried explaining this to that bothersome family living down the road from her West Tremble estate. Actually, she hadn’t explained it to them — she’d sent her caretaker. This family was one of those large, noisy, sticky-looking assemblages — four children — with a portable hoop out front and kids playing most of the weekend and weekdays after school with their friends. Sometimes there were a dozen juveniles on the street, their bikes, scooters, and skateboards sprawled on the sidewalk, and Mrs. Boland could barely navigate her four-ton Ford Excursion past them. When Mrs. Boland’s caretaker had politely suggested the playground idea to the sticky children’s mother, the woman had become quite agitated. Her exact words, as reported by the caretaker, were: “Tell that Boland woman to drop dead.”