“I know,” said Zoe. “It’s just the prototype. I’ll take it to a Kwik Kopy and have fifty sheets printed up on nice paper.”
Natalie said, “That’s not what I mean.” She pointed at the top of the page, below where it said SHERRY CLUTCH LITERARY AGENCY. “Look. There’s no office address, there’s no phone number, no E-mail address, no fax number. No one’s going to believe this.”
Zoe gave Natalie one of her Do-you-really-think-I’m-that-dumb? kinds of looks. She patted Natalie’s arm and said, “Trust me. I’ve got it all figured out, I really do. That’s my job, remember? But if it’ll make you feel better to have Ms. Clayton get involved, then fine. That’ll be fine. I’ll figure that out too. All you have to do is finish the book and leave the rest to me.”
Natalie wished it could actually be that simple, but she knew better. With Zoe in charge, nothing was simple.
CHAPTER 10
The Chosen Grown-Up
Laura Clayton sorted the remains of her lunch into the recycling bins in the teachers’ room—glass, paper, plastic. As she rinsed her salad container she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink. She looked exhausted. It was her second year of teaching, and it was January, and Laura Clayton had to keep reminding herself that she loved her job.
Ms. Clayton glanced up at the clock, then opened the hallway door and walked briskly toward her classroom. She didn’t feel prepared for sixth period. She never felt prepared for sixth period. It was her most challenging group of kids, and the hour between twelve thirty and one thirty was when her daily energy level hit rock bottom.
Nothing—not her own years in New York’s best private schools, not her bachelor’s degree from Barnard College, not her master’s degree from Bank Street College, not even her student teaching—nothing had prepared her for the daily grind of classroom teaching, and especially teaching her sixth-grade class on a Monday afternoon.
The Deary School emphasized writing, and Laura Clayton agreed wholeheartedly. The curriculum required at least three writing assignments per week. Again, Ms. Clayton agreed. Writing was a vital skill. But she taught five English classes a day to grades five through eight. Even though Ms. Clayton’s average class size was only thirteen students, if she gave a simple, one-paragraph writing assignment to each kid, that meant at least four hours of reading and commenting and evaluating for her.
A group of Laura’s friends from Barnard College still lived in the city, and they couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t go out to clubs and shows with them on weeknights anymore. They had jobs at places like banks and ad agencies, department stores and publishing companies—one of her friends even worked at the United Nations. They had jobs where a person could slide by on four hours of sleep once in a while. Ms. Clayton had tried teaching five English classes on four hours of sleep once or twice. Now she knew better.
The sound of chirping robins came from the speaker below the clock in Ms. Clayton’s room. That was the class-passing sound for February. Four years back the new headmaster had replaced the bell timers with a programmable sound system. So far this year the passing sounds had been a humpback whale song, the honking of migrating geese, a bouncing basketball, the sound of bamboo wind chimes, and a Mozart flute solo.
The old alarm bell was gone, but chirping birds had the same effect. Kids burst from their walled containers all over the school, and for seven minutes a cheerful chaos shook both buildings of the Deary School. Then the sound of chirping robins—played much louder for the start-of-class signal—magically guided each student to the doorway of another walled container. For fourteen of the sixth graders at the Deary School that meant English class in the Linden Room. Ms. Clayton braced herself, and sixth period began.
• • • • •
Fifty-three minutes later robins chirped again in the Linden Room. Ms. Clayton handed out an assignment sheet explaining how to write a short persuasive essay, and then she dismissed the class. The kids left the room heading for their exercise period, and Ms. Clayton picked up an eraser and began clearing the chalkboard. As she methodically swept the board clean she took stock. Overall it had been a pretty decent class. They had read editorials on the same subject from three different news magazines. They had identified the persuasive words and techniques of each writer. The discussion had been lively but not too unruly, and the students did most of the talking. All in all, it had been a very good session. And now she had a full hour before her last class of the day. Another Monday was almost over.
When Ms. Clayton finished erasing the board and turned around, Zoe and Natalie were standing beside her desk.
Ms. Clayton said, “Yes, girls? What is it?”
As arranged, Natalie spoke first. “Ms. Clayton, Zoe and I want to start a writing club, and we were wondering if you could be our adviser.”
Ms. Clayton smiled at them and sat down in her chair. “A writing club? You mean like creative writing?”
Natalie nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Creative writing.”
Ms. Clayton was pleased. Natalie was a talented writer, easily better than any of her other students, even the kids in grades seven and eight. No matter what writing assignment she gave, Natalie Nelson’s work always stood out.
She turned to Zoe. Zoe’s writing was all right, but it was nothing like Natalie’s. Ms. Clayton said, “And you, Zoe? You want to be in the writing club too?”
Zoe said, “Oh, yes, I do.”
“And do you want to invite students from the upper grades to join,” asked Ms. Clayton, “or were you just thinking of having it be a sixth-grade club?”
Zoe said, “Well . . . really we were hoping that it could be just me and Natalie in the club. ’Cause . . . well, we want it to be more like a . . . like a publishing club.”
Ms. Clayton’s eyebrows went up. “A publishing club?”
“Yeah,” said Zoe, “because, you see, well, I mean, you know how Natalie’s a great writer? Well, you see, she’s almost done with her first novel, and it’s a really great novel—it’s really, really good—and, and . . . Natalie’s book has got to get published. It’s . . . it’s got to. So, really we want to start a publishing club. Like I said.”
“A . . . publishing . . . club.” Ms. Clayton was having trouble getting her mind around the idea.
Zoe nodded. “Uh-huh. Natalie’s the writer, I’m her agent, and you . . . you’re our adviser. You help us. You help us get Natalie’s book published. So it’s a publishing club.”
Both girls stood waiting. Natalie was blushing, looking down at her feet, embarrassed. Not Zoe. Zoe leaned forward, both her hands on the teacher’s desk, looking at Ms. Clayton’s face.
Ms. Clayton didn’t know what to say. It made sense, in a sixth-grade sort of way. But somehow—she wasn’t quite sure why—it felt like trouble. She was just about to start shaking her head, just about to start making excuses, just about to say, “No thanks,” when Zoe reached into her backpack, pulled out Natalie’s manuscript, and laid it on the desk.
Zoe said, “Well, we’ve got to run to gym now, so we’ll come and talk to you tomorrow before school. And here’s the manuscript. You should read it—it’s really good. See you tomorrow.”
As the robins began chirping from the speaker below the clock, Zoe took Natalie’s hand and pulled her toward the doorway.
And Ms. Clayton gave them a wave and a half-dazed little smile and said, “Yes . . . fine. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 11
Welcome to the Club
Laura Clayton sat at her desk. The school had slowly become silent in the late afternoon, but she had not noticed. She had been reading. And now she was done.
Zoe had told the truth. “The Cheater,” by Natalie Nelson, was a remarkable novel. Ms. Clayton had read part of the manuscript during her free period, right after Zoe put it on her desk. After school she sat down at her desk again and didn’t move until she’d finished the last page. Like Zoe, Ms. Clayton couldn’t wait to read the rest of the book.
The novel was intense, but it was also funny. Ms. Clayton had been pulled into the lives of four friends at a private school in New York. The plot was clever, and the book also explored some big ideas, like loyalty and friendship, and learning the difference between right and wrong.
There was one passage that really got her, close to the end. It was when the girl watched her dad. He was inside the headmaster’s office, and she was outside, watching him through a glass wall.
My father sits and listens politely to Dr. Sipes. Dr. Sipes is doing his best to send me to a special school, a school for problem kids. I don’t need to hear his words. I can read his face. He wants to make an example of me. It’s not about me. It’s about his rules. It’s about keeping his school under control. I can see all this in his face.
Dr. Sipes stands up and paces now, but he stays behind his desk, always behind his desk. The desk is a barrier. It is a drawbridge. It is the moat of his castle. He hides there. When he stays behind his desk, he feels safe.
Suddenly my father stands too. I am seeing the side of his face. He shakes his head no. He will not hear these bad things. Not about me. He knows better. He knows me better. My father leans forward. He leans over the desk. Dr. Sipes steps back, as if pushed by a finger on his chest.
My father has asked a question. I can see the question in the tilt of his chin. I can see the question hang there in the air above the wide desk. And I can see that it is a challenge. It is a glove tossed onto the drawbridge.
And Dr. Sipes does not move. He cannot answer the challenge. He does not pick up the glove. It lies there smoldering on his desk. And I can see my father has won. He has done battle. For me. And he has won.
I stand up as he comes out of the headmaster’s office. My father smiles at me, and it is like the sun coming from behind a cloud. “Come on, Angela. We’re going home now.”
My father walks out and does not look back.
Neither do I.
There was a power and a depth to Natalie’s writing that surprised Ms. Clayton. If the ending was anywhere near as good as the first fifteen chapters, “The Cheater” was a book Ms. Clayton would buy for herself and her classroom, and she’d also recommend it to all her friends. If she hadn’t been Natalie’s writing teacher for the past five months, she never would have believed a twelve-year-old had written it.
• • • • •
Ms. Clayton walked toward her room on Tuesday morning, bulging briefcase in one hand, coffee cup in the other. When she turned the corner on the second floor, there beside her locked door stood Natalie and Zoe.
“Good morning, Ms. Clayton,” said Natalie, and Zoe waved and said, “Hi.”
Ms. Clayton smiled and said, “Good morning, girls.” She set her briefcase down, took a key ring from her coat pocket, and unlocked the door. Zoe pulled it open for her and then followed her into the Linden Room. Natalie hung back in the doorway, but Zoe motioned her to come in, so she did.
Ms. Clayton put her coffee on the desk, set her briefcase on her chair, and then walked over to the large wardrobe to hang up her coat and scarf. With her back to the girls, she said, “I’ve read the manuscript. I read it here at school yesterday, and again at home last night.” Turning to look at Natalie, she smiled. “Zoe’s right, Natalie. It’s an excellent novel, and once you finish it, I’m almost sure someone will want to publish it.”
Natalie blushed and gulped. She said, “Do you really think so?”
Ms. Clayton nodded and said, “Well, I’m no publisher, but I’ve read a lot of books, and I think I know a good one when I see it.” Coming over to her desk, Ms. Clayton pulled the manuscript folder from her briefcase and set it on the green blotter. Then she moved her briefcase to the floor and sat down. “Pull a couple of chairs over here, and let’s talk about this idea for a club.”
The girls took off their coats and sat, Zoe on the left and Natalie on the right. Ms. Clayton said, “Now, since this is New York City and we know a lot of publishers are located here, we could just open up the Yellow Pages and find the addresses of three or four publishers. Then when Natalie finishes her book, we can send the manuscript to one of them . . . or maybe even to three or four at once. I’ll be happy to help you figure out how to do that, and then we can wait and see what happens. Is that what you have in mind?”
Zoe shifted in her chair and said, “Well, not exactly.”
Natalie said, “You see, my mom works at a publishing company, and I’ve been there and I’ve seen what happens when writers just send stuff. If we do what you said, my manuscript will just get dumped into a big pile with all the other mail.”
Zoe added, “And my dad said that unless you have an agent, no one will ever read your manuscript. That’s why I’m Natalie’s agent.”
“You’re her agent?” Ms. Clayton sipped her coffee and then said, “Oh, yes—I think you said that yesterday. What else?”
Zoe sat up on the front edge of her chair, her eyes bright. “And, well, we want Natalie’s mom to be the first editor to read the book, but we don’t want her to know Natalie wrote it because—”
“Because you want her mom to be objective—not be influenced one way or the other, right?” said Ms. Clayton.
And Zoe said, “Right.”
Then Zoe sketched out her plan. While Zoe explained, Natalie watched Ms. Clayton’s face. The signs were not good.
“And that’s all there is to it!” said Zoe. “So, what do you think?”
Ms. Clayton pushed her chair back from the desk a little and sat up straight. “I don’t know. The pseudonym . . . and then you pretending to be Natalie’s agent—that doesn’t seem quite honest . . . and I’m not even sure it’s legal.”
Natalie kicked Zoe’s chair. “See?” she said, and then turning to Ms. Clayton she added, “That’s what I told Zoe. I told her that making up all these names was just like lying, and I told her I didn’t want to do it.”
Ms. Clayton said, “Changing your name isn’t the part I’m concerned about, Natalie. Zoe’s right. Using a pen name is perfectly acceptable, and many writers through the years have done it. The man who wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland used a pseudonym, and there was a French woman who used the name George Sand, and lots more—that part is just fine. It’s Zoe pretending to be an agent—that’s what worries me.”
Zoe shook her head. “But I’m not pretending to be her agent. I am her agent. I know I’m just a kid, but does it say somewhere that an agent has to be old?”
Ms. Clayton squinted and took another sip of coffee. Then she said, “Well, most agents are grown-ups, but if Natalie has asked you to try to get her novel published, then . . . I guess that makes you her agent. Still, there’s no such agency as this Sherry Clutch company.”
Zoe said, “But don’t people just make up names for their companies sometimes? You know, just make up a new name? That’s okay, isn’t it?”
Ms. Clayton said, “Well, yes . . . I guess so.”
“So I’m making up the name of a new company—the Sherry Clutch Literary Agency,” said Zoe.
Natalie said, “But you said your name was going to be Sherry Clutch.”
Zoe gave Natalie a withering look and said, “Not if our adviser says it shouldn’t be. If that’s a problem . . . then . . . then I’ll use my own name, so it’ll be me contacting your mom from the Sherry Clutch Agency.”
Natalie snorted. “Yeah, like my mom won’t know right away that it’s you.”
Zoe wheeled to face Ms. Clayton. “People are allowed to have nicknames, right?”
Ms. Clayton nodded her agreement but looked puzzled.
Zoe continued, “So I’m going to use the name my grandma calls me. It’s my nickname—Zee Zee. I’m going to be Zee Zee from the Sherry Clutch Agency—Zee Zee . . . Reisman.” And when Zoe said her last name, it sounded like “raceman.”
Natalie said, “Your name doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like ‘rice,’ not like ‘race.’ And besides, when you sign a letter, the spelling will still
be the same, and my mom will know.”
Zoe snapped back, “I’m not the only Reisman in New York City, Natalie. Open up the phone book. Go ahead, take a look. Tons of people spell their name like mine. And who says I have to say my name to sound like ‘riceman’? Who says? I can pronounce my name any way I want to—isn’t that right, Ms. Clayton?” And Ms. Clayton, now a referee, nodded again in favor of Zoe.
Zoe was in full argument mode now. “So, here’s how it works. It’s okay for Natalie to become Cassandra Day, because she’s an author; and it’s okay to name a new company and call it the Sherry Clutch Agency; and it’s okay for me to call myself Zee Zee ‘Raceman,’ because it’s still my real name and I’m just changing it a little to protect the identity of my author. So I guess everything’s okay, right?”
Zoe looked from Natalie to Ms. Clayton. Ms. Clayton looked from Zoe to Natalie. And then Natalie and Ms. Clayton both looked at Zoe. Ms. Clayton sighed and said, “I should probably get my head examined, but I have to agree with you, Zoe. I think everything you described is perfectly legal. And the novel is certainly real, so it’s not like we’re trying to commit a fraud on anyone. So . . .” Ms. Clayton reached across her desk and shook Natalie’s hand and then Zoe’s. She smiled and said, “Ladies, I think we have a publishing club. So, what’s next? Any ideas?”
Natalie said, “Ideas? That’s Zoe’s department—and you’re going to be sorry that you ever asked.”
As it turned out, Natalie was right.
CHAPTER 12
In or Out?
Now that a grown-up was involved, Natalie felt better about everything. Zoe didn’t seem quite as insane, and it was exciting that Ms. Clayton liked her book. Natalie felt like she could write again. So for the rest of the week she wrote for two hours every night, and then she worked all afternoon on both Saturday and Sunday. It turned out that all the story needed was three more chapters, and by Sunday night her book was done.