The Wizzle War (15 page)

“Oh, that’s okay,” smiled Cathy. “We just came over for a Coalition meeting. How are the wedding plans?”

“Great,” grinned Bruno. “I think Wizzle’s falling in love. He’s over visiting Peabody practically every day. They’ll probably get married soon.”

Boots laughed. “Bruno, people don’t get married just because you want them to. It’ll take a little more time than that if it ever happens at all.”

“Really?” asked Bruno. “How long?”

Diane shrugged. “Months. Years.”

“No!” Bruno was aghast. “We can’t wait that long. We’ll have to figure out some way to speed up the process.”

“Well, Miss Scrimmage is on our side,” said Cathy. “She’s fawning all over them and playing mother of the bride. The only thing that bothers me is Peabody. Who can tell what she’s feeling? That is, if she’s feeling anything at all. How can we melt her heart if she doesn’t have a heart to melt?”

“Hmmm,” said Bruno. “How about — yeah! Send her some flowers and candy and stuff like that and say it’s from Wizzle!”

Diane was unconvinced. “She’d probably be charmed more by an M-16 rifle.”

“Don’t be so negative,” said Cathy. “Okay, we’ll look after the flowers and candy. Let’s go. See you, guys.”

“Bruno,” said Boots after the girls had left, “this is all crazy. It’s never going to work. And if The Fish gets wind of it — We ought to stop it.”

“It’s not so simple,” said Bruno. “We made Wizzle fall in love with Peabody. Now we have a moral responsibility to see to it that she loves him back.”

Boots did not reply. He was having a giddy vision of a ten-metre Wizzle balloon rising out of nowhere in front of Mr. Sturgeon.

* * *

Well, thought Miss Peabody, alone in Miss Scrimmage’s sitting room, there wasn’t any doubt about it. Wizzle was in love with her all right. This morning a huge bouquet of flowers had appeared outside her door. There had been no card, but it was obviously Wizzle’s doing. And at Miss Scrimmage’s endless teas he did nothing but compliment her on her hair, her eyes, her clothes, even her shoes.

Why her?

“Oh, look!” came Miss Scrimmage’s voice from the hall. Miss Peabody mouthed the words along with the Headmistress’s now daily ritual. “Look who’s here. It’s Mr. Wizzle. Do come in and have some tea, won’t you’”

Mr. Wizzle bounced energetically into the room and beamed at Miss Peabody.

“Hello, Wizzle,” she said without enthusiasm. Miss Scrimmage sat down and began clinking teacups.

“It’s a beautiful day,” commented Mr. Wizzle. It was a poetic remark brought on by the nearness of Miss Peabody.

Miss Peabody sighed. “Thanks for the flowers, Wizzle.”

He was taken aback. She had received flowers! But he had sent no flowers! A crushing thought occurred to him. There
was another man. Someone else had noticed Miss Peabody and sent her flowers. Who could it be? Sturgeon? No, too old, and married besides. Fudge? No, not Fudge. Flynn? Of course! Coach Flynn was after Miss Peabody!

“Is something wrong, Mr. Wizzle?” asked Miss Scrimmage in concern. “You look rather pale.”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” replied Mr. Wizzle with false heartiness. “It’s just that I can’t stay very long today. I’ve got to do some shopping.”

He would buy presents for Miss Peabody — beautiful presents, lots of them. And he would start exercising regularly until he had trimmed down a little.

“Quilting!” Mr. Sturgeon slapped the letters joyously onto the Scrabble board. “Now let’s see. That’s fifty points for using all the letters — eighteen points times three for the triple word score — that’s fifty-four — and seven points for joining the G to ASP — a hundred and eleven all told, Mildred. I’m killing you this game!” He grinned with satisfaction.

His wife smiled. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time, William. Surely it can’t be just because you’re winning the game.”

Mr. Sturgeon chortled happily. “I’m Headmaster again, Mildred. For the past couple of weeks Wizzle’s been spending so much time over at Scrimmage’s that he’s hardly ever here. It’s wonderful.”

“At Scrimmage’s? Why does he go there?”

“Mildred, haven’t you heard? He’s courting Miss Peabody.”

“Really?” Mrs. Sturgeon clasped her hands. “How lovely!”

“It certainly is. We haven’t heard the clattering of that computer for more than a week.”

“You mean he’s neglecting his duties?”

“Fortunately, yes,” said the Headmaster, “and everyone’s better off for it. He really seems to have fallen for her. He’s constantly carrying presents and flowers and candy over to her, and he’s even taken up jogging along the road in front of
Scrimmage’s every morning!”

“And does Miss Peabody return his affection?”

“I devoutly hope so,” said the Headmaster. “If she does not, then your Mr. Wizzle is making a perfect ninnyhammer out of himself. Come on, Mildred. It’s your turn.”

* * *

“I don’t understand what’s taking so long!” complained Bruno. “Why aren’t they married yet? It’s been almost a month!”

“The problem is Peabody,” said Cathy. “She’s got no heart. Are you absolutely sure there’s no such thing as a love potion?”

“Positive,” said Bruno. “Hmmm. Maybe it’s not all Peabody. Maybe it’s Wizzle. He’s just not forceful enough. Girls, what do they do when they’re together at Scrimmage’s?”

“Nothing,” said Diane. “They have tea with Miss Scrimmage.”

“Well, that’s the problem!” exclaimed Bruno. “I think we’re going to have to work on Wizzle’s confidence so he’ll ask her for a date and they can be alone together.”

“How are we going to do that?” asked Boots.

Bruno grinned. “You’ll see.”

* * *

Mr. Wizzle was sitting at his desk gift-wrapping a volume of war poetry when the voices of Bruno Walton and Boots O’Neal wafted in through the open window.

“My brother wrote me a letter,” Bruno was saying. “He wants to get to know this girl, but he doesn’t know how to approach her and he wanted my advice. At first I didn’t know what to tell him and then I thought ‘What would Mr. Wizzle do?’ After that it was all clear to me.”

Boots whistled. “Yeah, that Mr. Wizzle sure has a way with women.”

“I know,” said Bruno. “Take Miss Peabody, for instance. He knows that she’s the type of woman who appreciates forcefulness. I’ll bet he doesn’t waste time beating around the bush. He’d just step right in there and ask her out, straight as an arrow!”

Mr. Wizzle sat taller in his chair. Yes! That was exactly what he would do!

* * *

“Hello, Peabody speaking … Oh, Wizzle, it’s you … Friday night? … Are you sure you really want that? … Well — uh — okay, I guess so. Good-bye, Wizzle.”

Miss Peabody slammed down the receiver with an annoyed frown. Now, why had she accepted his invitation? What a waste of a Friday night! Why would someone who had no trouble at all kicking three hundred butts into shape not have the guts to tell Wizzle that she didn’t want to go out with him on Friday evening? Surely a former U.S. Marine could manage to say, “No, Wizzle, I don’t want to go out with you.” Of course. Then why hadn’t she said it?

Oh, well, with any luck Friday would go badly and even Wizzle would be able to see that the two of them were just not compatible. Reassured by this thought, she resumed her paper work.

* * *

Late Friday night Miss Scrimmage stood in the doorway of the residence hall to welcome Miss Peabody home from her date.

“Hello, dear. How was your evening?”

“Terrible!” muttered Miss Peabody, trudging into the building. “Just don’t ask!”

Miss Scrimmage was aghast. “Did Mr. Wizzle make improper advances?”

The Assistant Headmistress rolled her eyes. “Do you know what his idea of a big time is? We went to a cello recital!”

“Oh, how nice.”

“I yawned so wide I thought he’d fall in! Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. Goodnight.”

She walked to her room, reflecting that the worst part of the whole dreary experience was that she couldn’t bring herself to tell Wizzle that they were through. She entered her room and kicked her Niagara Falls cushion, another gift from Wizzle, across the floor. Why should she feel obliged to tell Wizzle they were finished when they had never even started?

* * *

“He’s a dead loss, that’s what he is. A dead loss,” said Bruno glumly at the lunch table. “He stinks with women. Boots and I were talking with Cathy. Wizzle took Peabody out Friday night. You know where he took her? A cello recital! You know — those big violins that moan a lot. I just can’t believe it! At this rate it’ll be years before they even hold hands!”

“It’s hopeless,” said Boots. “They’re the least romantic pair in the world.”

“It does seem unlikely that we will achieve our goal of matrimony,” put in Elmer.

“You guys are just going about it the wrong way,” said
Wilbur.

“Oh, yeah?” challenged Bruno. “Since when did you become the big Casanova?”

“It’s very simple,” Wilbur insisted. “There’s only one thing you should use to get two people in the mood to grow fond of each other.”

“What’s that?” asked Boots.

“Food.”

Everyone laughed.

“No, really!” said Wilbur, now so involved in the argument that he was ignoring his lunch. “Think about it. When families get together they put on a big spread; when married couples celebrate their anniversaries they have supper together; when major corporations form business affiliations the contract is signed in a restaurant over lunch; and when two people are interested in each other they have intimate dinners by candlelight.” He looked around. “Right?”

There were still snickers.

“No. No — wait!” said Bruno. “He’s got a point there. Let’s set Wizzle and Peabody up for a romantic dinner. Now let’s see — where?”

“Ralph’s Diner has the best hamburgers in Chutney,” offered Pete Anderson.

“No, no,” said Sidney. “It’s got to be classier than that. Maybe fish and chips.”

“No,” said Bruno. “It’s got to be somewhere really nice.”

“My uncle Manfred owns a restaurant,” said Wilbur.

“What’s it called?!” grinned Larry. “Mr. Eat?”

Wilbur looked insulted. “Have you ever heard of Manny’s?”

“
The
Manny’s?” Chris goggled. “That fancy place in downtown Toronto?”

Wilbur nodded proudly. “Food is a serious business in our family. Last year the president of the United States dined there on his trip to Toronto. It’s got a five-star rating.”

Bruno smiled broadly. “That settles it. Saturday night Wizzle and Peabody are going out for the most fantastic dinner of their lives.”

Boots frowned. “Bruno, if this Manny’s is as fancy as Wilbur says it is, it’s going to cost a fortune.”

“So what?” shrugged Bruno. “Wizzle’s paying. Wilbur, make the reservation. Ask your uncle for the best table.”

* * *

Mr. Wizzle walked into his office to find a mauve envelope on his desk. He opened it and removed a perfumed note in elegant, flowing handwriting. It read simply:
Manny’s, Saturday night, eight o’clock
.

He held the note to his nose and inhaled the deep scent of lavender. His heart soared. Miss Peabody was meeting him for dinner!

Miss Peabody read the note she found on her desk. It was printed quite professionally on a white sheet of paper.

She frowned. Wizzle? No, it couldn’t be. It had too much style. Who could it be then? What could it mean? The tone of the letter was vaguely threatening. She set her jaw stubbornly. Well, she would definitely get to the bottom of this — on Saturday at eight.

* * *

“Right on time, half an hour early,” announced Bruno triumphantly. He, Boots and Wilbur sat in the waiters’ room off the gleaming kitchen of Manny’s renowned restaurant. They watched the closed-circuit TV screen as Wilbur’s uncle personally escorted Mr. Wizzle to a private dining room.

“This TV thing is great!” exclaimed Bruno gleefully. “This way you can spy on all the people eating here!”

“It’s not for spying,” said Wilbur indignantly. “It’s so waiters can watch their tables without hovering around the people.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a really fancy place,” said Bruno. “I’m glad your uncle’s nice enough to let us in here.”

Boots looked at his watch. “I wonder how long it’ll be before Peabody arrives. I’d like to get this over with and get back to school before The Fish finds out we’re gone. We’re supposed to be confined to our room, you know.”

“Relax,” said Wilbur. “Uncle Manfred’s garlic bread is worth any risk. Have some.”

Bruno and Boots each took a piece of bread and continued to watch the screen. Just then Wilbur’s Uncle Manfred came up behind them. “Well, gentlemen, everything is ready except for the wine. Any suggestions?”

“Wine?” asked Bruno uncertainly.

“Of course,” replied the restaurateur. “We always serve a complimentary bottle with our private dinners. Since you know the happy couple, I thought you might recommend something …”

“Well,” Bruno said, “what kind of wine would you serve at a wedding?”

“Champagne, naturally.”

Bruno nodded. “If you say so, then champagne it is.”

The boys went back to watching the screen.

On the stroke of eight o’clock, Miss Peabody appeared at the front entrance.

“This is it!” exclaimed Bruno. He turned to the employee in charge of piping background music into the restaurant. “Remember — when she walks into the room, play that song.”

Manfred Hackenschleimer escorted Miss Peabody to the private dining room and bowed her inside.

“Miss Peabody!” said Mr. Wizzle, leaping to his feet as violin music swelled through the room.

She stared at him. “Wizzle. It’s you.”

“Yes, well, here we are.”

Miss Peabody took an involuntary step into the room, knowing full well that she should have been taking a voluntary step out of it. Well, she wasn’t staying, that was all. She would just stay long enough not to hurt his feelings, and then she would put an end to this once and for all.

Cautiously she sat down. “Wizzle, I —”

A waiter walked discreetly into the room. “Ah, Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody. Good evening. I am Maurice.” He placed a large silver ice bucket on a stand beside the table. “Champagne,
compliments of the house.”

“Er — that’s very nice,” said Mr. Wizzle.

Glad of the interruption, Miss Peabody nodded in agreement.

Skillfully Maurice opened the champagne and poured a small amount into Mr. Wizzle’s glass for his approval.

Mr. Wizzle tasted the champagne and pronounced it worthy, secretly hoping that it was. As a non-drinker, he had no conception of what differentiated good champagne from bad. Maurice withdrew silently.

“A toast to you, Miss Peabody,” said Mr. Wizzle, beaming.

Geez, thought Miss Peabody, and drained her glass.

He refilled it. She drank deeply again. This was not working out. How could she tell Wizzle she was leaving?

“You look beautiful!” he blurted, and gulped some champagne.

Miss Peabody was at a loss for words. Wizzle was a wimp, but the dark suit he was wearing tonight gave him an almost military appearance. And all that furious jogging she had prescribed was beginning to pay off … She picked up her glass and drained it again, conscious that she was blushing. This was ridiculous — U.S. Marines did not blush. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. After all, this was the man who had taken her to a cello recital.

“Look, Wizzle —”

Maurice peered in again. “Ah, enjoying your champagne, I see. Would you care to order?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Wizzle looked questioningly at Miss Peabody.

But she was just leaving … “Uh — I’ll have the
Boeuf Charlemagne
, please.”

It looked as if she would have to eat dinner with him.

Bruno was staring at the screen. “I can’t tell what’s going on! Are they having a good time?”

Boots shrugged. “How should I know? I wish they’d hurry it up.”

“Fine dining is never hurried,” explained Wilbur, who was watching some of the other tables with great interest. “Now, the man in the blue suit at table fourteen really knows his food. He’s having the duck
à l’orange
with white wine.”

Maurice came into the waiters’ room.

“What did they order?” asked Wilbur excitedly. “
Boeuf Charlemagne
for the lady, and for the gentleman, Caesar salad.”

“Hey, don’t put too much garlic in Wizzle’s salad,” cautioned Bruno. “If he’s got bad breath, Peabody won’t marry him.”

Maurice drew himself up in a huff. “Our chef always uses exactly the right amount of everything!”

Mr. Wizzle eyed his
paté de foie gras
suspiciously. He was a vegetarian, and this looked a lot like meat. But Miss Peabody was having hers, so he would have to eat it to make a good impression.

Miss Peabody looked at him sharply. “I thought you didn’t eat meat, Wizzle.”

“Uh — I don’t, but — I mean, this is a special occasion.”

Miss Peabody thought back to the note that had summoned her here.
This may seriously concern your future
, it had said. Oh, no! She grabbed her glass, drained it, filled it up again and drank a bit more until all thoughts of the note were gone from
her mind.

In the waiters’ room Bruno beckoned to Maurice. “They’ve almost finished the champagne. Could you bring them another bottle?”