The Sixth Grade Nickname Game

  Into this book-club meeting strode Mr. Hughes, carrying a large paper bag. “Okay, men—and Cassandra, girls, the whole bunch of you. I still don’t understand your game plan, and nobody wants to show me the playbook. But it’s pretty obvious that you’re giving a hundred-and-ten percent. So I owe it to you to give a hundred-and-ten percent right back.” He ripped open the paper bag to reveal an enormous volume of War and Peace, 1,700 pages long. “Break!”

  Not only was 6B reading at recess and lunch, but a half hour in the morning, and again in the afternoon was devoted to DEAR (Drop Everything And Read) time. All spelling words came from books in progress. Social studies became historical fiction and books about other places around the world. They even tried to develop math problems based on different plot lines: If Detective Shapiro can unearth three clues per day, and it takes twenty-seven clues to solve The Case of the Overripe Tomato…

  Throughout all this, Mr. Hughes read along with them, poring over War and Peace with such intensity that perspiration streamed down his face.

  “He’s got to be the only person on earth who can sweat from reading,” was Charles’s observation.

  “Everyone’s having a great time,” Cassandra enthused. “Total nonreaders are finding out they like it. It’s easy, it’s fun, it helps Mr. Huge—”

  “The question is, will it work?” asked Wiley. “Sure, the reading is going great. But when the test comes along, will we get the right answers?”

  Jeff lay prone on his bed, chin propped on his hands, poring over the chart he’d been working on for the past hour.

  WILEY

  1. sits next to her in class

  2. times at her house: 1

  3. was her gym partner for square dancing

  (3 days)

  4. arm wrestled her at Valley Forge

  5. went Rollerblading with her

  6. worked on Stop Cops with her

  ME

  1. sits one seat away from her

  2. times at her house: 1

  3. was her lunchroom cleanup partner

  (20 minutes)

  4. didn’t

  5. didn’t

  6. didn’t

  Jeff sat up and frowned at the paper. There were an awful lot of “didn’ts” on his side of the chart, and no “didn’ts” at all on Wiley’s. Plus, twenty minutes of picking up garbage in the cafeteria didn’t exactly measure up to three whole gym classes of square dancing.

  Did that mean that Cassandra was going to ask Wiley to the Sadie Hawkins dance? Not necessarily. Actually, it had been pure luck that Wiley, and not Jeff, sat next to the empty desk that had gone to the new student; pure luck that the gym teacher had paired Wiley with her—it could have been Jeff; it could have been Skunk, or Snoopy, or anybody.

  His brow furrowed. Of course, luck had played no part in the Rollerblading affair. That had been Benedict Wiley, the traitor. On the other hand, how was it Jeff’s business what Wiley did with his spare time? This was, after all, a free country. And if it was free for Wiley, then it was free for Jeff, too. He had every right to seek out Cassandra’s company for Rollerblading (too dangerous), arm wrestling (he would lose), square dancing (outside of school? Forget it!), or anything.

  For instance, the Levys were trying to fix up the most broken-down ramshackle house in the world. Well, Jeff Greenbaum could go over there and offer to help them turn it into a real human dwelling. It was the neighborly thing to do.

  And he would stick a big fat “didn’t” on Wiley’s side of the chart.

  In the toolshed on the Adamson-Greenbaum property line, Wiley removed the screen and dropped a pinch of birdseed into the laundry basket that was D. D.’s home. “Come on, little guy. Eat something.”

  He was impressed by how quickly the blue-crested warbler sparrow got across the basket to his meal. It was the first time the little creature had shown the ability to move around with the Popsicle-stick splint on his wing. Wiley raised an eyebrow. Maybe D. D. wasn’t such a dead duck after all. He had to tell Jeff.

  He replaced the screen, left the shed, and crossed the yard to the Greenbaum house. He didn’t even consider knocking before wandering in the kitchen door. He was just as much a son there as he was in his own home.

  “Hi, Mom-Baum,” he greeted Mrs. Greenbaum. “Where’s Jeff?”

  “I assumed he was with you,” she replied. “He went out about twenty minutes ago. I think I heard him in the garage, getting his bike.”

  “Oh.” Wiley frowned, his lips hardening into a thin line. There was only one place Jeff would go that was bike distance away—the Old Gunhold house.

  Cassandra and Jeff, each with an armload of bricks, headed down the two flights of stairs to the main floor of the old house.

  “It’s so fantastic of you to help out, Jeff,” said Cassandra gratefully. She stacked her bricks atop the pile in what was going to be the living room. “It’ll look awesome in here with real brick on the walls.”

  High above them, Mr. Levy clung to a ladder near the roof, removing bricks one at a time from a crumbling chimney. As they came loose, he was tossing them into the house through a third-story window. It was Cassandra and Jeff’s job to haul them downstairs.

  “I guess you save a lot of money,” Jeff commented, “by reusing your old bricks.”

  “Oh, no,” Cassandra replied. “New ones are dirt cheap. But they’re so smooth and perfect and boring. These weathered bricks are chipped and cracked and stained and wonderful. They’re twenty times cooler. See?”

  Jeff did not see, but he said he did. It seemed pretty obvious to him that you used your old stuff when you didn’t want to buy new stuff. But it was something you’d expect from a family who had moved into the old Gunhold place when they probably could have afforded any house in town. “Hey, what’s that noise? I hope it’s not your dad falling off the roof.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Daddy’s a whiz on ladders.” She listened to the muffled banging. “That sounds like it’s coming from the root cellar.” She led Jeff into the kitchen and threw open the basement door.

  There, still choking on the dust and spitting out cobwebs, stood Wiley.

  Cassandra was delighted. “Hey, look, Jeff! It’s Wiley!”

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” the two chorused.

  “That was fast,” Cassandra beamed at Wiley. “Jeff said you couldn’t come because you were so far behind in your reading.”

  “Jeff is going to get his nose squashed in a really thick book,” Wiley promised darkly.

  So Wiley joined the brick-lugging team, and the work resumed.

  The boys labored in sulky silence for a while, following the bouncing red hair and today’s skirt—a pattern of fresh vegetables—up and down the stairs.

  Jeff had pretty much accepted the fact that Wiley wasn’t going to get his “didn’t,” when he heard Cassandra exclaim, “Oh, Wiley, my dad says we shouldn’t carry more than four at a time.”

  Jeff looked over his shoulder at his friend. Wiley was heading down the staircase with six bricks in his arms.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Wiley said airily. “I used to do some weight lifting.”

  “Oh, really?” commented Jeff acidly. “Was that before or after your Rollerblading career?”

  He dropped his bricks and raced back up. There he loaded his arms with seven bricks. He headed for the stairs, flashing a dazzling smile at Wiley as he brushed past.

  Cassandra stepped aside on the first landing. “You guys are totally unbelievable! Here’s Jeff carrying seven bricks! And Wiley right behind you with eight!”

  Jeff’s nine-brick load was pretty heavy, but when he added the tenth it was pure torture. His breath came out in short gasps as he assured Cassandra, “Oh…this is…really…no…problem!”

  Upstairs, there was a crash as Wiley tried to pick up eleven, and dropped them all. It was music to Jeff’s ears.

  Jeff struggled the rest of the way down, deposited his cargo, and sprinted back upstairs. If he could somehow make
it with eleven bricks, he would be the undisputed winner of the afternoon.

  Upstairs, he found Wiley reloading.

  “You don’t have a prayer!” the two hissed in unison.

  There was a moment of shocked silence. Even fighting, they were so close that their thoughts were the same.

  “Just watch me!” snarled Jeff, beginning to fill his own arms.

  There was the fast and furious clinking of bricks as they strove toward the magic number of eleven. Finally, each groaning under the weight of ten, they looked around for the final brick. There were none left.

  “Last one,” came Mr. Levy’s voice from outside. A single brick came sailing in the window.

  Wiley and Jeff locked eyes, and a silent message flashed between them by radar: Mine!

  Both boys lunged at exactly the same moment. They collided like sumo wrestlers. But instead of the smacking together of two muscular stomachs, the crash came from the violent meeting of twenty bricks. Wiley went down, his armload flying in all directions. Jeff staggered back, but held on. His balance dangling by a thread, he hugged his ten bricks and squatted down for one more. There was a gasp from Wiley as Jeff grasped number eleven and slapped it to his pile.

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Jeff straightened his legs until he was standing in the center of the room with his monumental load. His arms were on fire; the tendons in his neck felt like overstretched rubber bands. He took a step forward. His legs were numb. His ears rang, and he could almost hear the foghorn voice of Mr. Hughes cheering him on. He wondered if giving a hundred-and-ten percent would spare him from being found at the bottom of two flights of stairs, dead under eleven bricks.

  “Hey, guys—” Cassandra appeared in the doorway. She took a look at Jeff’s feat of strength, and her green eyes opened as wide as the O formed by her mouth. “Wow!”

  Suddenly, Jeff could have carried those bricks up the side of Mount Everest and back down again. He had a vision of a new page in the chart:

  ME

  WILEY

  7. lifted eleven bricks

  7. didn’t

  Mr. Levy hoisted himself in through the window. He caught sight of Jeff, rushed over, and snatched the bricks from his arms. “What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to kill yourself?” He turned around to where Wiley had quickly picked up four bricks and was heading for the stairs. “Now, that’s sensible. Way to go, Wiley.”

  Another chart entry popped into Jeff’s mind:

  WILEY

  ME

  8. did something sensible

  8. didn’t

  THE OLD ORCHARD Public School newsletter, The Student Post, hit the stands during afternoon recess. While the paper was officially the work of the entire sixth grade, all the editors were from Miss Hardaway’s class. But this time there was a feature from one of the Dim Bulbs of 6B—the Endangered Species Crossword Puzzle by Cassandra Levy.

  “Hey,” said Peter. “What’s a seven-letter word for ‘warbling blue-crested feathered friend’?”

  “Sparrow,” chorused Wiley and Jeff automatically.

  “Wait a second.” Wiley snatched the Post from Raymond and flipped it over to the back page. Across the top blazoned: Ask the Iceman.

  “Cool! It’s the Iceman’s column!” exclaimed Peter.

  Dear Iceman,

  I am a fifth-grade girl, and I’m having trouble with my so-called friends. They say they really like me, but I think it’s just because my dad works at Tidal Wave Water Park and can get them on Dunk Mountain for free. What should I do?

  Signed,

  Used

  Dear Used,

  I don’t know.

  Yours truly,

  Iceman

  “What?” Wiley rocked back on his heels. “That’s it? ‘I don’t know?’ What kind of advice is that?”

  “It’s the perfect advice,” Raymond argued. “Iceman wasn’t sure what to say, so he admitted it straight out.”

  Peter nodded in admiration. “It takes a big man to confess that he doesn’t have all the answers.”

  Wiley was getting annoyed. “Guys, doesn’t this seem strange to you? A month ago, nobody even knew Mike Smith. Now no one goes to the bathroom without getting his advice first!”

  “He used to keep a low profile,” shrugged Peter. “Laid back, modest. That’s the Iceman’s style.”

  Jeff’s heart sank. “So nobody thinks it was—you know—a hoax?”

  “Some hoax,” burped Raymond. He read the last letter of Ask the Iceman. “‘Dear Iceman. Has anybody asked you to the Sadie Hawkins dance?’ I’ll bet every girl in sixth grade is dying to take that hoax!”

  Wiley made a face. “Listen, Gasbag, if he’s such an iceman, how come this newsletter is so boring? I wouldn’t paper-train a puppy with The Student Post. Look what they think we have to know: November Open House to Be International Night. Yawn.”

  “Think of the kind of goody-two-shoes who signs up for that,” added Jeff.

  “Major losers,” agreed Peter.

  A horn honked. Mrs. Adamson was waving at them from her Honda.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Sir Inge,” Wiley announced, jogging toward the car.

  “I’ll get your homework,” Jeff called after him.

  “Don’t worry,” Wiley tossed over his shoulder. “Cassandra said she’ll bring it over tonight.” And he climbed in the car, leaving Jeff clawing pieces out of his Student Post.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Jeff floated on the sea of possibilities. With Wiley at the doctor’s office, he was Cassandra’s automatic best friend for the day. It was almost a date—except the word “date” terrified him. Just thinking it made his teeth chatter and his throat close up.

  But he had the ideal plan. With their reading marathon in its third week, 6B was quickly plowing through the entire fiction section of the media center.

  “So,” he said at three-thirty, “why don’t we take a walk to the public library? They’ve got a much better selection.”

  “Jeff, are you crazy?” Cassandra looked at him like he’d suggested they storm the library with machine guns. “We can’t leave now! Today’s the sign-up for November Open House!”

  He stared at her. “You mean International Night?”

  “Of course! I can’t wait to see what country I get to work on!” She fixed her green eyes on him. “You are going to participate, aren’t you?”

  “Uh—yeah!” Jeff said quickly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Only,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “I was just thinking—it’s too bad Wiley won’t be doing it with us.”

  “We’ll sign him up, too,” suggested Cassandra.

  Jeff shook his head. “He wouldn’t want that. You see, Wiley doesn’t have school spirit like we do.”

  “Well, that’s terrible,” Cassandra said disapprovingly. “That’s like the Mojave Desert hermit lynx, the most antisocial animal in nature. And at least it’s an endangered species. What’s Wiley’s excuse?”

  “Don’t be so hard on him,” Jeff advised. “In fact, let’s not say a word about this so he won’t feel left out.”

  She beamed. “You’re a great friend, Jeff. Even when he’s being a total jerk, you always look out for Wiley.”

  Jeff followed her long flouncing skirt (a New York City subway map today) to the gym. He was amazed at how crowded the sign-ups were. He was particularly surprised to see Peter and Raymond at the end of a long line to work on Miss Hardaway’s Canada presentation.

  Jeff sidled up to them. “You said only losers went in for this stuff.”

  “Losers?” repeated Peter in disbelief. “The Iceman’s here!”

  Mike had attracted the entire sixth grade to Miss Hardaway’s corner. In sharp contrast, Mr. Hughes stood about ten feet away. His massive chest and tremendous muscles obscured the sign on the wall behind him: Mexico. There was no long line in front of him. In fact, the 6B teacher was alone.

  “Aw, poor Mr. Huge!” Cassandra grabbed Jeff by the arm and hauled him over to
their teacher. There, the two officially signed on to the Mexico team.

  Naturally, Mr. Hughes was overjoyed. As the three started discussing their plans for International Night, the big teacher began to cheer.

  “We’re going all the way!” he predicted. “We’re going to give a hundred-and-ten percent to take Mexico to the Hall of Fame!”

  “We might have to bump it up to a hundred-and-twenty percent,” put in Jeff. “There are only three of us.”

  Mr. Doncaster had noticed the same thing. He pulled five of Mr. Richards’s third graders out of Japan and assigned them to Mexico.

  At first, the eight-year-olds were terrified of Mr. Hughes, but Cassandra pulled them aside. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “He’s a real sweetie.”

  “He killed our fish!” one girl accused, her lip quivering.

  “Impossible,” Cassandra assured her. “Mr. Hughes is like the Algonquin spotted bear. He may be totally humongous, but he’s soft as a puppy inside.”

  “HOLD ON, CRUSTY. Last paragraph…done!”

  Wiley tossed his paperback onto the plastic tub of books in Christy’s arms. “This makes eight novels—more than I read all last year.”

  It was Thursday, just a week away from the State Reading Assessment. Every day at three-thirty, a volunteer from 6B would return the class’s finished books to the media center.

  “What did you put in there, an anvil?” groaned Christy as she struggled out into the hall with her load.

  “I only like the two-hundred-pagers,” Wiley called after her. He turned to Cassandra. “Let’s follow her to the library. I’ll bet I can knock off three more books before the big test.”

  “Oh, you go ahead,” said Cassandra. “Jeff and I have plans.”

  “Jeff?!” Wiley’s face twisted. “Well…uh…could we make it a threesome? I mean, all we’re doing is reading—”

  “Oh, we’re not reading today,” she replied seriously. “We’re making a piñata.”

  Wiley gawked. “Why?”