The Wizzle War (8 page)

* * *

Sidney Rampulsky, dressed in his Macdonald Hall phys. ed. uniform, stood in the middle of Miss Scrimmage’s gym. The ballet class was taking place in one half of the room; the other half was being used for advanced gymnastics.

“Okay, Sidney,” sang out Miss Smedley, “now don’t be self-conscious. Go ahead and try the steps.”

She put on the music and Sidney started, concentrating hard on his feet. He was determined to get it right this time so he wouldn’t have to come back. He began to dance sideways as directed.

“That’s far enough, Sidney,” called Miss Smedley. Then, more urgently, “That’s far enough, Sidney! Sidney!”

His intense concentration blocking her warning, Sidney kept on dancing, tripping across a bench at the sidelines, knocking it over and sending four girls sprawling. He got up and continued to follow the steps as he had learned them.

“That’s it, Sidney. Very good. Nice and easy does it, Sidney. Sidney! Look out for the wall!
Look out for the wall.”

Still concentrating, Sidney bounced off the wall, dislodging the chalk board. It crashed to the floor, the slate shattering into little pieces. A cloud of chalk dust rose.

“Okay, Sidney, stop,” called Miss Smedley, choking in the dust. “That’s enough, Sidney. Sidney! You’re going to the wrong side of the gym! Sydney!
Stop!
”

Still mentally following his steps, Sidney danced into the
midst of the gymnastics class, bumping into the balance beam and knocking it over. There was an enormous crash as the beam hit the polished floor and a girl went flying.

“No, Sidney!”
Miss Smedley was screaming now.
“Please! No! Stop! Oh, I can’t look —!”

Sidney ricocheted off the far wall and bumped into the uneven bars. The girl who was performing on them screamed as she and the bars fell heavily to the floor.

Still following his routine, and oblivious of all pleading and screaming, Sidney danced on. He wandered aimlessly between the parallel bars, causing the shocked gymnast working on them to leap for her life.

“Stop, Sidney!”
In desperation, Miss Smedley switched off the music, scratching the record from start to finish, but Sidney was no longer aware of what was going on around him. He had been sent here to dance, and he was dancing. He spun around twice and jumped up, landing right on the springboard for the vaulting horse. He sailed through the air, hitting the horse at an angle and knocking it over with a drop kick. It crashed to the floor and broke into three pieces. Then he began the running start for his grand finale.

Amid tumultuous cheers from the girls, who had crowded to the other side of the room and were watching in awe, Sidney pirouetted across the gym, stubbing his toe on the mat by the climbing apparatus. Desperately he snatched at air and finally gripped a loose climbing rope. With a terrified howl, he swung through the air feet first and became hopelessly entangled in a rope ladder, hanging upside-down in the climbing apparatus.

“Uh — I’m finished, Miss Smedley,” he called, “but I don’t
think I know how to get down.”

Miss Scrimmage’s girls broke into loud applause and cheering, and ran for the climber to aid the suspended Sidney.

“Girls, don’t!” cried Miss Smedley in horror, watching as they all began to ascend. “You can’t all be on the climber at the same time! The weight —”

There was an awful cracking sound as the frame of the apparatus slowly gave way. The whole set-up — Sidney, girls and all — fell with a tremendous crash to the floor.

The gym door burst open and in rushed Miss Peabody. She spied Sidney amid the debris and made straight for him.

“A little clumsy?! A
little
clumsy?!” she shouted, hauling him bodily out of the wreckage. “I’ll give Wizzle a little clumsy!”

She grabbed Sidney by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants and began to run him out the door. “Stop crying!” she tossed over her shoulder at the whimpering Miss Smedley. Pushing Sidney, the Assistant Headmistress burst out the front door of the school, propelled him to the highway, saw there was no traffic, and hurled him out into the road. “Now,
beat it
! And don’t come back!”

Sidney ran for his life. Only one thing could save him now — Bruno’s committee.

“Miss Scrimmage, would you kindly repeat that?” said Mr. Sturgeon into the telephone that afternoon. “One of my boys destroyed your gymnasium? Miss Scrimmage, I hardly see how that’s possible. The boys were all in classes … Mr. Wizzle sent him?” The Headmaster’s grip tightened on the pen he was holding. “Did he? I see. Tell me, Miss Scrimmage, would the boy’s name by any chance be Rampulsky? … I thought so …
Twelve hundred dollars damage
 … But how? … No, Miss Scrimmage, I don’t really want to know. I shall look into the matter. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Sturgeon hung up the phone and walked to the outer office where Mr. Wizzle was pounding a keyboard.

“Wizzle,” said the Headmaster gravely, “what’s all this about Sidney Rampulsky taking ballet lessons at Scrimmage’s?”

Mr. Wizzle turned around. “Oh, that. Well, it seems that Rampulsky had — uh — a little accident and —”

“A
little
accident? Would you call twelve hundred dollars damage a little accident?”

“Well, he had an accident, and now Miss Peabody’s a little upset.” He grimaced. On the phone earlier she had bluntly threatened to come over and take the twelve hundred dollars out of his hide.

“Have you informed the Board about this?” asked Mr.
Sturgeon.

“Well, no. I mean, I was just about to and — uh — er — I’ll do it right now.”

“Good,” approved Mr. Sturgeon. “And make sure you tell them exactly what happened, without leaving anything out.”

Mr. Wizzle watched as his WizzleWare automatically switched to screen-saver mode and the printer whirred into action. What with the earthquakes and now this, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse.

Mr. Sturgeon returned to his office and sat down with a frown. He would certainly not have a moment’s peace as long as Wizzle was here.

* * *

“Oh, man!” Pete Anderson was holding his head at dinner that evening. “Those tests — were they ever hard! There’s no way I passed! The best I could have done was about thirty percent — forty, tops! And Wizzle’s got more for me to do every day! I’m doomed!”

Bruno, surrounded by Wilbur, Chris and Elmer, chewed thoughtfully. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Pete, “I thought maybe — you know, maybe I — that is, we — uh — do you still have your committee?”

“Forget the tests,” grinned Bruno. “Welcome back.”

A loud crash signified that Sidney was at the table. “Bruno,” he said, picking up the cutlery that had fallen from his tray, “the most terrible thing just happened to me!” He related the events of his first ballet lesson, which had the boys howling with laughter.

“Then Miss Peabody threw me across the road. It’s not funny, you guys! I want to join your committee and get rid of Wizzle before he finds me and gives me demerits!”

Larry Wilson and Mark Davies sat down at the end of the table. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” said Mark, “but if it’s getting rid of Wizzle, I’m in. He just kicked me out of being editor of the school newspaper!”

“Yeah?” said Wilbur between bites. “So who’s the editor now?”

“Pete,” said Mark sourly.

Pete choked on his sandwich. “Me? Editor?”

“Yeah. The results of your latest tests are just in, and Wizzle says you need the job more than I do.”

“Oh, no,” moaned Pete. “Now I have to do the newspaper! I was better off with the tests!”

“How about you, Larry?” asked Bruno. “Are you joining up with us?”

“Sure,” said Larry.

“What’s your grievance?” asked Chris.

“I don’t have one,” replied Larry. “I just like being on committees.”

Bruno stood up at the end of the table, smiling hugely. “This is fantastic! The whole organization’s here!”

“What about Boots?” called someone.

Bruno flushed momentarily. “Boots has a few personal problems to work out.” The triumphant expression returned to his face. “But we’re a committee again. We can
fight
again!” Dramatically, he ripped off his tie and threw it to the floor.

“Bruno Walton, what was the purpose of that outburst?”

Everyone wheeled to see Mr. Wizzle standing in the
doorway, writing in his notebook.

“Five demerits. And put your tie back on. Now, Anderson, I have some good news for you. Come to my office for a moment.”

“See you around, editor,” said Bruno, knotting his tie.

Pete tossed him a worried glance and followed Mr. Wizzle.

* * *

It was two o’clock in the morning, but there was still vigorous activity in Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard. The Blue Squadron, led by Cathy Burton and Diane Grant, marched in formation up and down between the rows of trees. They had been drilling every night, in addition to normal practice time, and were easily the most expert squadron of the four.

Cathy marched at the head of the troops, carrying the flagpole that held the bright blue banner. She turned around. “Company, halt!” she whispered loudly. “Okay, we’re definitely going to win the big parade tomorrow. That twenty-four-hour pass is as good as ours.”

There was restrained cheering.

“Everyone get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow morning wake up bright and chipper and ready to march your little guts out. Anybody who fouls up dies.”

The girls all trooped back to their rooms.

“You know,” whispered Diane as she and Cathy crept into the residence, “your little pep talk back there sounded a lot like Peabody.”

Cathy cast her a withering glare. “If you want to be my friend, don’t say things like that.”

* * *

About the same time, the door of the Macdonald Hall guest cottage burst open and Mr. Wizzle raced out into the night. Barefoot, he ran about twenty metres and hurled himself face first onto the ground, where he lay panting.

Cautiously he looked up. The campus was dark. No one else had noticed the earthquake. He touched the ground. It seemed to be over.

He got to his feet and began to walk slowly back to his house. The upstairs light went on in the Headmaster’s cottage and Mr. Sturgeon’s head appeared at the window.

“I say, Wizzle,” he called down. “Any problem?”

“Oh, no. No,” replied Mr. Wizzle with a heartiness he was far from feeling. “I was just — taking a little walk. You know — to get some air.”

“I would not presume to lecture,” said the Headmaster, “but might I point out that you are in your underwear?”

“Oh, well — uh — ha, ha — we’re all boys here.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Sturgeon, “except perhaps my wife and the three hundred or so young girls across the road. In your future walks, Wizzle, kindly be more circumspect in your choice of costume. Good night.”

Mr. Wizzle fled back home.

The Headmaster shut the window. “Mildred, I think Wizzle’s cracking up. He was running around out there in his underwear.”

“You must be mistaken, dear. Mr. Wizzle would never do such a thing.”

“Mildred, would I lie to you?”

“Oh, go to sleep, William.”

* * *

The boys sat at their usual table at lunch on Saturday discussing strategy.

“Okay,” said Bruno, “today’s the big membership drive. Today we’re going to go out there and recruit all the guys to help us on the committee. Get them to join up, and tell them to come to our mammoth rally tonight.”

“What mammoth rally?” asked Wilbur suspiciously.

“Our big anti-Wizzle meeting. We’re all going to get together and get organized — you know, set up subcommittees and departments. We’re going to be more efficient than WizzleWare.”

“Actually,” began Elmer, “a cutting-edge software program —”

“Stow it, Elm,” said Bruno. “We’ll all have to work really hard recruiting people. I want ten choice guys from each of you. Including us, that’ll make around ninety.”

“Around
ninety?
”

“We can get more if we need them,” said Bruno.

“Where can we meet that’ll accommodate ninety people?” asked Chris, who was of a practical turn of mind.

“In the woods out back,” replied Bruno.

“Count me out,” said everybody.

“You guys all tried to quit once before,” Bruno reminded them, “and look where you are now.”

“Okay,” muttered Wilbur between bites. “But just in case, I’m going to enjoy my last two meals. If we’re caught —”

“Don’t worry,” grinned Bruno. “I never get caught.”

* * *

The girls of the Blue Squadron were due to parade last. They lined up, clad in dress tunics with blue arm bands, waiting for the White team to finish marching.

“We’re a cinch!” crowed Cathy to Diane. “Did you see how lousy the other squads were? We’re going to win this parade by a landslide, and then it’s bye-bye Peabody for a whole day!”

“Okay!” bellowed Miss Peabody’s voice from the reviewing platform. “Blue Squadron!”

Cathy picked up her flag and took her place at the front of her troops. “Company, march!”

They started off marching in perfect formation, moving as one person. All those practice hours were worth it, thought Cathy in jubilation. They were picture-perfect. Even Miss Peabody had to be impressed. She felt like singing, but one didn’t sing while one marched.

“Eyes right!” commanded Cathy. She dipped the flag in front of the reviewing stand, but she dipped it too low and the tip of the pole stubbed into the ground and stuck there. Cathy marched forward into the flag and bounced back, knocking over Diane, who fell backward into the rank behind her. Rank by rank, the entire Blue Squadron marching team keeled over backward like a row of bowling pins.

Overcome by guilt, humiliation and the pain of losing, Cathy scrambled to her feet, ripped the flagpole from the ground and screamed something decidedly unladylike.

“Catherine!” Miss Scrimmage covered her ears and closed her eyes.

Cathy hefted the pole like a javelin, reared back in rage and hurled it into the apple orchard.

“Blue Squadron,” barked Miss Peabody, “get off the field! Red Squadron, you’re the winners. Congratulations.”

The girls on the red team went into raptures of celebration.

“Burton, front and centre!”

* * *

Miss Peabody leaned back in her office chair. “Cooled off yet, Burton?”

“Yes, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy, still shaking with rage.

“That was a pretty nice parade you had there. I can see you put a lot of work into it.”

Cathy looked up in surprise.

“As for what happened — well, things like that are always going to happen, even in the Marines.”

Cathy looked at her strangely. Could this be Peabody’s version of kindness?

“Yes, it was pretty good there for a while,” said Miss Peabody. “Too bad you had to open up your big mouth and ruin it. That was stupid. Miss Scrimmage wants you punished for foul language.” She grinned. “Run a couple of laps this afternoon — if you have time.”

“Yes, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy, mystified.

“Right!” barked Miss Peabody, the smile gone. “Now, push off. I have work to do.”

Cathy left, frowning in perplexity. Had she been punished or what?

* * *

Boots O’Neal walked into the outer office of the Faculty Building bearing a message for Mr. Wizzle from Coach Flynn.
Mrs. Davis was not at her desk and Mr. Wizzle’s office was empty, so he stepped towards Mr. Sturgeon’s oak door, which was ajar. Inside he could hear the Headmaster talking with Mr. Wizzle. Although the conversation was muffled, he could distinctly make out Mr. Wizzle mentioning something that was uppermost in Boots’s mind: Bruno Walton.

He did not mean to eavesdrop, but nevertheless he stood rooted to the spot.

“Bruno Walton is at the root of every problem we’ve ever had,” Mr. Wizzle was saying. “His behaviour is atrocious; he’s disrespectful and rebellious. Why, I’m sure he was responsible for that
Macdonald Hall Free Press
. The minute I mentioned it at the assembly, every eye went to him. And the boy obviously does not take his education seriously. Just look at the results of his tests. In question nine on this one he says he prefers possessions to friends; in question fourteen, he holds friendship more valuable than worldly goods. Or this one — he answered (a) for every question. And in the third test, he simply filled in everything. My software suffered a small breakdown trying to analyze his scan sheet.”

Mr. Sturgeon stifled a smile. “I’ll have a word with the boy.”

“And yesterday,” Mr. Wizzle went on, undeterred, “he handed in the last of his lines — three hundred and fifty of them. Three hundred and forty-nine were in order, but one of them, buried in the middle, read — and I quote — ‘I will not rest until I kick this turkey out of Macdonald Hall’! Can you imagine that?”

“I see,” said the Headmaster, his expression inscrutable.

“I’m giving Walton five demerits for not taking the testing
seriously, and five more for writing that insulting line. That gives him fifty-six. I recommend that he be expelled at once.”

Outside the door, Boots felt his heart skip a beat. “Recommendation considered and rejected,” said Mr. Sturgeon immediately.

“Perhaps you didn’t quite understand me,” said Mr. Wizzle. “Bruno Walton is a troublemaker.”

“I understood you perfectly,” said the Headmaster. “The subject is closed.”

“But Mr. Sturgeon, according to the Wizzle System —”

“The Wizzle System is mistaken,” said Mr. Sturgeon coldly.

“Well, I don’t like to say this, sir, but the Board has given me considerable authority here.”

“Not over my boys,” said Mr. Sturgeon firmly.

Mr. Wizzle sighed. “Very well, sir. We’ll try it your way. But I firmly believe that Bruno Walton is a bad influence at Macdonald Hall.”

“Your opinion has been noted.”

* * *

Bruno lay on his bed contemplating his committee and mentally planning tonight’s meeting. There was a tremendous crash and the door flew open, the lock broken. In hopped Boots, cradling his left foot tenderly.

“Bruno, I’ve got to talk to you!”

Bruno looked at him questioningly. “What is it?”

“Yeah, uh —” Boots paused. Should Bruno be told how close he’d come to being expelled? No. The Fish had stuck up for him this time. But how long would that last? “Uh — what’s new?”