The Zucchini Warriors

  “Come on, guys,” coaxed Bruno. “We won the championship; now it’s time to pay our dues.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” complained Sidney.

  “All right, everybody,” said Bruno, beginning to herd them in the direction of the stadium. “Let’s go, Pete. Move it out, Dave. That’s the way, Blabbermouth. Don’t worry. It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

  With much grumbling, the group headed off toward the north lawn. Bruno regarded the lone figure still standing by the driveway. “Shake a leg, Elm. You’re in this, too.” He watched as Elmer produced a piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolded it lovingly, and held it out.

  It was Elmer’s contract with Bruno, signed the day before the road trip to Kingston. He waved it confidently.

  “Aw, Elm, that was weeks ago! You’re not going to hold me to it, are you?”

  Whistling, Elmer started off toward the dormitories.

  “Come back here! I signed that thing under pressure!”

  From the stadium, Wilbur Hackenschleimer’s voice called, “Hey, Walton! Get over here and do some work!”

  Bruno didn’t hear him. “Talk about gratitude!” he bawled at Elmer’s receding back. “If I hadn’t started using your stupid rats for zucchini disposal, there’d still be four of them today!”

  Without turning around, Elmer waved his contract over his shoulder and kept on walking.

  “I hope your helium experiment turns to sewer gas!” roared Bruno. Elmer did not flinch. “Drimsdale! You’ll never get away with this!”

  Elmer turned a corner, walking out of view, leaving Bruno ranting at thin air.

  Appendix

  DELICIOUS MR. ZUCCHINITM ZUCCHINI STICKS

  Ingredients:

  1 lb. fresh zucchini, cut in spears

  8 oz. Mr. ZucchiniTM batter (now available in supermarkets everywhere)

  2 cups vegetable oil

  Method:

  Dip zucchini in batter until thickly coated. Deep-fry in oil. Zucchini is ready when batter is golden brown. Serve with Mr. ZucchiniTM Sweet-and-Sour, Blue Cheese or Hot Mustard Dressing (now available in your grocer’s freezer).

  Serves 4

  WARNING:

  Do not feed to Manchurian bush hamsters.

  Be sure to read the next hilarious Macdonald Hall adventure:

  Chapter 1

  Macdonald Hollywood

  Movie people swarmed all around Macdonald Hall. From the caravan of trucks and trailers that formed a small village in the easternmost corner of the tree-lined campus, they scrambled like worker ants, anxious to capture every second of sunlight for this first day of shooting.

  The trappings of Hollywood were everywhere. Cameras were being mounted on large motorized dollies. Microphones dangled from long booms. Enormous portable reflecting walls were being assembled in a semicircle as technicians took light meter readings. Sound engineers checked background noise. In the makeup trailer, powder-puffs and blush applicators worked furiously and hair dryers screamed. Vehicles, equipment boxes, jackets, even baseball caps were festooned with stickers and buttons advertising the movie. They blazoned: ACADEMY BLUES, starring Jordie Jones.

  On the main flagpole outside the Faculty Building, the red Maple Leaf of Canada was respectfully lowered and replaced by the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America. The director himself, Seth Dinkman, marched purposefully up to the brass plaque on the ivy-covered stone wall that proclaimed this venerable old institution to be Macdonald Hall. From a plastic bag he produced an identical plaque and snapped it directly over the existing one. It now read: Georgetown Academy, est. 1851.

  One camera began filming ahead of all the rest, and it did not belong to Dinkman’s Hollywood film crew. It was a video recorder operated by Mark Davies.

  “This is perfect!” he said, not taking his eye from the viewfinder. “I can start with a long shot of the people setting up.”

  Pete Anderson scowled at him. “I don’t think it’s fair that you get out of a whole term of English just to make a dumb movie about a bunch of guys making a dumb movie.”

  “I’m not getting out of anything,” Mark explained patiently. “I’m doing a documentary on the making of Academy Blues. I’ll be working harder than any of you guys.”

  Boots O’Neal shifted his position on the grass. “I can’t believe this is happening here. Being the set for a movie doesn’t seem like Macdonald Hall’s style. I figured The Fish would just give them some big lecture about how movie-making would interfere with our studies.”

  “Actually, Mr. Sturgeon’s the most excited guy in the place,” grinned Larry Wilson. Larry was the office messenger and usually knew more about what was going on than most of the staff. “He thinks shooting a film here will be educational. Some of us might get to be in it, too. They need lots of extras for crowd scenes.”

  For the first time in an hour, Mark put down the camera and sat on the grass. “Hey, where’s Bruno? I’m surprised he wasn’t the first guy out here.”

  Boots snorted. “It’s too early. Bruno wouldn’t get up before nine if they were filming the parting of the Red Sea in our toilet bowl.”

  “He’ll show up,” said Larry confidently. “The only thing Bruno ever misses around here is class.”

  As if on cue, the main entrance of Dormitory 3 swung wide, and out into the bright spring sunshine stepped Bruno Walton, a splendid figure. His normally unruly dark hair was greased back to a smooth high polish, and his face was partially obscured by gigantic mirrored sunglasses. He wore a bright red crushed-velvet smoking jacket, loosely tied at the waist. Around his neck lay the elegant folds of a white silk ascot.

  “Who’s that guy?” asked Pete.

  Groaning, Boots got to his feet. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s my roommate. Hey, Bruno — what’s with the monkey suit?”

  Flashing a toothy grin, Bruno jogged over, careful to keep the ascot from unravelling. “That good, eh? I rented it in town. Eight bucks.” He surveyed his friends with disapproval. “You guys are so stupid. This place is crawling with directors, producers, cameramen and talent scouts, and here you are, sitting around looking like a bunch of kids. This could be the greatest day of our lives!”

  “That’s it! I knew it!” Boots exploded. “You think you’re going to be a star, don’t you?”

  “People get discovered every day,” lectured Bruno. “But first they have to notice you.”

  “They’re going to notice you, all right,” said Boots. “They’re going to say, ‘Who’s the greaseball in the red pyjamas?’ Besides, if they needed a star, they wouldn’t have hired Jordie Jones.”

  “Oh, him.” Bruno shrugged. “Of course I don’t expect to be the main character. I figure I’ll start off with a couple of crowd scenes and really steal the show. Then they’d be nuts not to give me a great part.”

  “Well, we already know who’s nuts,” said Boots sarcastically.

  “There aren’t any parts up for grabs,” Larry protested. “They just want students to be in the background.”

  “They think that’s all they want,” said Bruno brightly. “They’re making a movie about boarding school. What do a bunch of Hollywood guys know about it? Nothing. They need us. Hey, Mark, get a shot of a typical Macdonald Hall student prepared for his film debut.”

  “I hope you don’t mean you,” said Mark.

  “Bruno —” began Boots carefully. “Remember the assembly on Friday? Remember what The Fish was saying?”

  “He said this was going to be a great learning experience for us,” said Bruno.

  “He also said no bugging the movie guys!”

  “Who’s bugging?” Bruno was the picture of injured innocence. “We’re helping.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” Boots insisted. “If you want to get in big trouble and make an idiot of yourself as usual, you’d better know that you’re alone this time. I’m going to keep my nose clean and do exactly what The Fish said. If I wind up in a crowd scene and get to be in the mo
vie, that’s great. If I don’t, that’s okay, too. Right, guys?”

  “Right,” chorused Larry, Mark and Pete.

  Bruno’s smile didn’t waver. “I have no hard feelings. Even though you’re being morons now, I’m still going to put in a good word for you when I’m tight with the director.”

  By seven o’clock everything was ready, and Dinkman checked the angle of the last camera. Then, satisfied, he picked up a small old-fashioned school bell and rang it. Everyone stood, expectantly facing the furthest trailer, which was set off from the others for extra privacy. It was actually a luxury camper with a large gold star painted on the door. The door opened a crack, and out peered one of the most famous faces in the world.

  An enormous cheer rocked the countryside. Across the road from Macdonald Hall, the renowned Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies erupted into life. Faces jammed every window, and a line of girls five deep appeared on the roof. Out the front door burst the school’s marching band, followed by an honour guard carrying field hockey sticks like rifles. From Miss Scrimmage’s second floor balcony a gigantic banner unfurled. It read:

  WE U, JORDIE JONES

  Signs on bedsheets, reading WELCOME, JORDIE, framed in all manner of hearts and flowers, fluttered everywhere.

  The young blond movie star stepped out onto the lawn and waved, and the girls went berserk for ten minutes.

  Bruno looked from the star to the chaos at Miss Scrimmage’s. “Un-believable!” he said in disgust. He had to shout just to be heard over the ruckus.

  “I think they’ve got a few Jordie Jones fans across the road,” said Boots dryly.

  Bruno snorted. “Jordie Jones — big deal. I’ve seen him in that TV series he made when he was three — Cutesy Newbar. What a joke! All he did was drool and have his diaper fall down! That’s not acting! That’s hanging a moon!”

  Larry goggled. “He was Cutesy Newbar?”

  “Sure,” said Bruno. “You didn’t recognize him with his pants on. If he’d backed out of that trailer with his diaper around his knees, you’d have said, ‘Hey, look — Cutesy Newbar.’”

  Boots smiled sardonically. “Well, he’s a big star, and you’re not.”

  “Not today,” amended Bruno.

  “Shhh!” The camera was back in Mark’s hand. “They’re getting started!”

  Director Dinkman raised an electric megaphone to his lips. “Okay, sports fans, listen up. We’re going to start with everybody’s favourite — connecting shots of Jordie walking around the campus.” There were loud groans from the crew. “Yeah, I know. It’s boring. But we’ll need a lot of this footage when we’re putting the picture together. So let’s get it over with. We’ll want some kids in the background. You, you, you —” he began to point at random to the Macdonald Hall boys grouped behind the sawhorses that partitioned off the filming area, “— you and you. Props, get these guys some stuff.”

  Whooping and cheering, the five chosen extras scampered over to where two property men were handing out armloads of books, backpacks, a baseball and two gloves.

  “Wait a second,” said Bruno in consternation. “You mean that’s it? Five lousy guys?” He put up his hand and called over to the director, “Uh, sir — sir —”

  Dinkman looked up, spotted Bruno and stared. “Can I do something for you, pal?”

  Bruno cleared his throat carefully. “Well — uh — I don’t like to complain, but the way you picked those guys — you know — ‘you, you, you, you and you’ — seems kind of careless.”

  Dinkman laughed. “Actually, it was very scientific. I said to myself, ‘Who looks like a normal kid, and who looks like a Christmas cracker?’” He turned back to his cameraman.

  “Uh, sir,” Bruno persisted. “Sir —”

  “Shhh!” hissed Boots. “Cut it out!”

  Dinkman looked up, frowning slightly. “I’m a little busy,” he said, still pleasantly.

  “Well, it’s just that I think it would be a lot more fair —” began Bruno.

  The director was no longer patient. “Kid, life isn’t fair. The movie business isn’t fair. The guy who sold you that jacket really isn’t fair. And it’s not fair to the producers, who are footing the bill at almost $14,000 an hour, for me to be standing here arguing with you, because it’s costing over two hundred bucks a minute.”

  As Bruno stood boiling, the director deployed his extras and called, “Action!” The cameras followed Jordie Jones as he made his way across the lawn. With every step of his famous feet, the volume from Miss Scrimmage’s seemed to quadruple.

  Boots put a sympathetic arm around his roommate’s velvet shoulders. “Forget it, Bruno. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  Bruno didn’t seem to hear. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s just going to have to learn the hard way. Look who he’s got out there throwing a baseball — Sidney Rampulsky, the world champion klutz! He had to quit Little League because he kept tripping over centre field!”

  They watched Sidney and Calvin Fihzgart toss a hardball back and forth as the star meandered across the lawn and the cameras rolled. But when Calvin’s toss went a little high, Sidney had to scramble back for it. On the recovery and return he slipped on the grass, and the throw went wild. It sizzled over Jordie Jones’s shoulder, missing his ear by barely a centimetre, and slammed into one of the reflecting walls, knocking it off balance. It toppled into the next one, which in turn knocked over a third, and soon they all went down like dominoes. The Macdonald Hall boys broke into appreciative applause.

  “No-o-o-o!” From the sidelines, a streak of white barrelled across the lawn, hurdling equipment and technicians alike. In front of Jordie Jones, the whirlwind stopped and resolved itself into a short chubby man dressed entirely in glaring white California sports clothes.

  “J.J., are you all right? Talk to me!” The waving of his arms was creating a breeze that riffled the jet-black toupee perched on the top of his head like a small animal staking out its territory. His eyes, through thick glasses, were wild.

  The young star shrugged. “I’m fine, Goose. It didn’t even touch me.”

  “Cut! Cut!” Dinkman glared at the little man in white. “Get off my set, you lunatic!”

  Goose Golden bristled. “As Jordie’s personal manager, I formally protest this unnecessary risk to his well-being!”

  Dinkman looked disgusted. “It was a baseball, not a hand grenade. Beat it, Goose, before your face breaks the cameras.”

  Golden put a protective arm around Jordie. “My client refuses to work until safety conditions have improved on this set.”

  The director reddened. “You’re the most annoying idiot in Hollywood! You haven’t changed since you represented Waldo the Waltzing Alley Cat!”

  “I still don’t think catnip breaks are unreasonable,” the manager said righteously. He reached into his white warm-up jacket and produced a thick legal document. “Now, if you’ll refer to the ‘Dangers to Person’ clause of J.J.’s contract, page 31, subsection 19C, paragraph (ii) —”

  Dinkman sighed heavily and turned to Sidney. “Sorry, kid. You’re history.” Golden looked triumphant. “Okay, we need another ballplayer. You.” His finger was pointing at Bruno and Boots. Bruno jumped forward eagerly. “No, not you, Casanova. The blond kid beside you.”

  “Aw, come on!” cried Bruno in exasperation. Tossing a sideways grin over his shoulder, Boots took over Sidney’s glove. By this time, the reflecting walls were back in place, and the filming began again. Sidney jogged over to Bruno. “I washed out,” he said sadly.

  But Bruno was already sauntering casually past the sawhorses, edging ever closer to camera range. “Pssst! Bruno!” This from Boots between catches. “Get out of here!”

  Bruno grinned blissfully and continued his stroll. An excited murmur passed through the ranks of the Macdonald Hall students.

  “Hey, check out Bruno!” exclaimed Larry. “He’s putting himself in the movie!”

&nb
sp; His hands clasped behind his back, Bruno promenaded like a retired millionaire surveying his estate. By this time, all the boys had noticed him and were watching in fascination. He walked right up to Jordie Jones, murmured, “Hey, how ya doin’?” and kept on going.

  “Cut! Cut!” Seth Dinkman’s face was approaching the colour of Bruno’s jacket. “Kid —” he began.

  An all-too-familiar voice interrupted. “Walton,” it said, “perhaps you can spare me a minute of your valuable time.”

  Everyone wheeled. William R. Sturgeon, alias The Fish, Headmaster of Macdonald Hall, stood behind the sawhorses, arms folded.

  Boots put his hand over his eyes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sturgeon,” said Bruno brightly. “We’ve started Academy Blues. I’m a typical student walking across the campus.”

  “And that, no doubt, is the new school uniform,” said the Headmaster. He turned to Dinkman. “I trust you can shoot around him for the next little while?”

  “Please,” said the director gratefully.

  “Come along, Walton,” said Mr. Sturgeon, “and we shall discuss last Friday’s assembly, and how I rarely speak just to hear the sound of my own voice.”

  Reluctantly Bruno trailed off after the Headmaster. Soon he was seated on the hard wooden bench in the main office of the Faculty Building, facing Mr. Sturgeon across his massive oak desk.

  “Now, Walton, bearing in mind that I know you were not selected as an extra for that scene, I require an explanation as to why you were right in the thick of the action.”

  “Well, sir,” said Bruno, “you know how it is.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “They just needed a bunch of guys goofing around,” Bruno explained, a little shamefaced. “They picked five, and I figured what’s the difference between six and five? I didn’t think they’d even notice me.”

  Mr. Sturgeon’s thin lips twitched, but the smile never quite surfaced. “What disturbs me is that my rules were disobeyed — on the very first day, in the very first scene, before breakfast! That must be some sort of record, Walton, even for you.”