Cathy’s face assumed a dreamy, far-off look. “But it was so wonderful. How could anyone in my place resist it? She was there, and I gave it to her right in the kisser. It was the most beautiful two seconds of my life.”
“Yeah, well, for those two seconds you blew two beautiful days away from Peabody for a hundred and fifty people. How many laps did she give you?”
“Ten,” said Cathy, “But I’ll never have to do them.” She coughed. “I’ll fake sick for a while.”
“Like for eight months?” asked Diane.
“Peabody’s going to be gone before that,” said Cathy confidently. “I haven’t stopped trying to get rid of her. I just got sidetracked. She definitely goes before we have to suffer through her next brilliant plan.”
“Well, you’d better hurry,” sniffled Diane. “I overheard that we’re going on some kind of a march next weekend.”
“Oh, no way! There’s no way I’m doing anything else military! I’m a civilian!”
Diane sighed. “Tell that to Peabody.”
* * *
“The jig’s up,” said Larry Wilson the next day at lunch. “Wizzle’s got ink-jet paper. He’s in there now printing out reports like it’s going out of style.”
“How’d that happen?” asked Bruno, annoyed.
“This morning he drove down to Systems Supply Ltd. and fought with them so much that they let him into the warehouse to stuff three boxes personally.”
“Well, we’ll just have to replace them, won’t we?” decided Bruno. “We can give him more paper towels.”
“It’s not that easy,” said Larry. “When he went home for lunch he carried all the paper with him. He’s not letting it out of his sight.”
“Are you sure we couldn’t maybe nab it when he’s not looking?” asked Bruno hopefully.
“No way. He watched it like a hawk all morning.” Larry laughed. “Looked kind of weird.”
“All right,” said Bruno, “Operation Shut-Up is over. It sure was great while it lasted.”
“It isn’t over in our room,” put in Boots. “What are we going to do with all that paper?”
“Wizzle wants it,” said Bruno. “We’ll give it back to him. The Security Department will help us move it into the Faculty Building tonight. Right, Wilbur?”
“Okay,” conceded Wilbur between bites.
“Now,” said Bruno, “what are we going to do to replace Operation Shut-Up now that Wizzle’s back in business?”
“How about we take a break?” called Mark Davies. “It won’t get rid of Wizzle, but it’ll give the Lines Department a chance to catch up. Besides, I’m still stiff from yesterday morning’s calisthenics. The next time you decide to exercise Wizzle into the ground, Bruno, count me out.”
There were catcalls of agreement which spread to many of the other tables.
“I believe that those exercises were instrumental in the dislocation of my sacroiliac joint,” put in Elmer.
“Never mind that,” said Bruno. “How’s the balloon coming along?”
“The inflater is finished,” said Elmer, “and I happen to have a spare compressed-helium tank left over from my lighter-than-air experiments.”
“But it’s taking a lot of time to put together all that vinyl,” added Chris. “The Balloon Department’s been working in the gym every night, but it’s a big job.”
“Don’t worry about the time,” said Bruno. “Just keep up the good work. We need an idea for now.”
“I need an idea for now,” said Pete mournfully. “I’m editor of the school newspaper, remember? Wizzle expects to see the paper tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet. I don’t even have any articles. Nobody ever does anything worth writing about around here.”
“When I was editor, I never missed an issue,” said Mark sourly.
“Hey, don’t rub it in,” moaned Pete. “I just wish someone would do something really — uh — something —”
“Newsworthy,” said Mark.
“Yeah.”
Bruno had a thoughtful expression on his face which changed to a grin that matched the dancing of his eyes. “I know someone who did something newsworthy. G. Gavin Gunhold.”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Pete enthusiastically, whipping out a notebook and pencil and writing the name down. His brows furrowed. “Uh — who’s G. Gavin Gunhold?”
“Isn’t that the phony name you signed on the delivery ticket for some of Wizzle’s paper?” asked Boots.
“G. Gavin Gunhold,” announced Bruno, “is Macdonald Hall’s foremost student. He is a model young man. He is a star athlete, a scholar, a student leader, a youth action politician and everything else noble and good. And Wizzle’s never heard of him.”
“Bruno, what are you talking about?” asked Boots irritably. “Why are you making up this creep?”
“When Wizzle finds out that he doesn’t know our best student,” explained Bruno, “he’ll move heaven and earth to find the guy. And when he can’t, it’ll drive him nuts.”
“It won’t work, Bruno,” said Larry. “The Fish or one of the teachers is bound to tell him there is no G. Gavin Gunhold.”
“He won’t even ask,” replied Bruno, “because his own brainchild, WizzleWare, is going to have a full record of G. Gavin Gunhold. Elmer, can you do it?”
“What? You mean program this person into the student records?”
“Yeah,” said Bruno. “Tonight when we deliver the paper. Elmer’ll come with us and program Gunhold into the computer. A star is born!”
“What about my newspaper?” asked Pete in distress.
“Boots and I aren’t busy,” Bruno replied. “We’ll help you. We can write some articles on the achievements of G. Gavin Gunhold.” He pounded the table. “All right, you guys. Operation Gunhold is now on.”
* * *
Carrying a box of his precious ink-jet paper, Mr. Wizzle bounced energetically into the school’s outer office and stopped short. His jaw dropped and the carton in his hands fell to the floor with a thump. There, piled in and around his desk, almost completely hiding it from view, were dozens of boxes of paper.
“Where the devil —”
“Planning to work overtime, Wizzle?”
Mr. Wizzle wheeled to see the Headmaster standing behind him. “Uh — Mr. Sturgeon — did you see any of this arrive?”
“It was here this morning when I came in,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “Mrs. Davis counted fifty-four boxes. A bit expensive, don’t you think?”
“Well — uh — you see, they kept sending me toilet paper and napkins, and I guess yesterday they realized — and they sent — I’ll have some of it sent back.”
“Good idea,” said Mr. Sturgeon, walking into his office.
Resolving to give Systems Supply Ltd. a piece of his mind, Mr. Wizzle set about clearing a path through the cartons to his office. He entered and saw a copy of the school newspaper sitting on his desk. So Anderson had come through, he thought with satisfaction. He had been dead right about Anderson then. Give a boy enough responsibility and he will rise to meet the challenge.
He sat down and looked at the headline:
GUNHOLD WINS CHAMPIONSHIP
He frowned. What could this be about?
Macdonald Hall superstar G. Gavin Gunhold showed excellent form in winning the Ontario Junior Track and Field Championship in Hamilton last week. Out of the nine events, Gunhold won five, placed second in three more, and third in the last, to capture the trophy.
“I’m really pleased,” said Gunhold in an interview …
Mr. Wizzle skipped to another article down the page.
PARK CLEAN-UP PROGRAM A SUCCESS
York County Parks and Recreation Department expressed their gratitude to G. Gavin Gunhold and the group of Macdonald Hall students who ran the anti-litter campaign at Bruce’s Mill Park …
Mr. Wizzle opened to page two.
YORK ACADEMY CHESSMASTER DEFEATED
Macdonald Hall chess champion G. Gavin Gunhold brought the Hartley Trophy back to Ma
cdonald Hall in triumph last week, soundly defeating York Academy’s Stanley Wump four games straight in a best-of-seven series. “It’s about time,” Gunhold was quoted as saying …
And on page three:
MACDONALD HALL BAND PLACES SECOND
The Macdonald Hall marching band took second place honours in the region last week, coming in close behind Humberland Collegiate. Macdonald Hall did pick up one first, though, as the soloist prize was decisively won by G. Gavin Gunhold on the oboe. “We should have won the whole thing,” Gunhold said afterwards, “but I’m still pleased …”
Mr. Wizzle frowned. How was it that he had never noticed this boy Gunhold? He left his office, cleared away some of the boxes, and sat down at the computer. He typed Gunhold’s name and clicked Search.
Gunhold, G. Gavin
Status: Senior
Height: 1.88 m
Weight: 77 kg
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Blond
Dental record: Perfect
Allergies: None
Academic average: 94.7%
Percentile: 99
Demerits: 0
Psychological profile: Stable; excellent adjustment
Career recommendation: Medicine
Special achievements:
A long list of G. Gavin Gunhold’s honours and awards followed.
Mr. Wizzle sat back thoughtfully. How was it that he’d never heard of this boy? A giddy memory came to him suddenly, the memory of a heated conversation with Systems Supply Ltd. They’d said that G. Gavin Gunhold had signed for the first shipment of paper. The boy certainly seemed to get around.
Chapter 12
G. Gavin Gunhold Is Dead
“William, who is G. Gavin Gunhold?”
Mr. Sturgeon smiled at his wife. “Oh, you read the paper, did you? I think G. Gavin Gunhold is a joke, Mildred. Wizzle made Anderson editor of the school paper and Anderson doesn’t know what to put in a newspaper, so I suppose a group of the boys got together and thought up G. Gavin Gunhold. It’s quite clever, actually.”
“It isn’t right,” she said primly. “It’s expensive to put out a newspaper, and it shouldn’t be wasted on nonsense.”
“You haven’t seen wasted paper until you’ve seen Wizzle. He had fifty-four cartons of the stuff piled in the office this morning. Anyway, there’s no harm in G. Gavin Gunhold. The boys have to report something.”
She sighed. “In a way it’s a shame it isn’t all true. He certainly sounds like a wonderful boy.”
* * *
Bruno and Boots were walking with Pete Anderson down the hall of the Faculty Building when Mr. Wizzle approached them.
“Ah, Anderson, I’ve been looking all over for you. An excellent job you did on the paper. I especially liked the articles on Gavin Gunhold.”
“Thank you, sir,” stammered Pete.
“By the way, boys, have any of you seen Gunhold today?” Boots and Pete both turned pale.
“Uh — Gavin just walked out of biology class,” supplied Bruno. “He was headed for the English wing, I think.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Wizzle trotted off.
Boots and Pete exhaled simultaneously.
* * *
Mr. Wizzle sat at his desk. How distressing! He had wasted a whole day looking for G. Gavin Gunhold with no success — the boy was nowhere to be found. It seemed that everywhere Mr. Wizzle inquired, he had just missed him by five minutes. He had even checked with Elmer Drimsdale, Gunhold’s roommate, but Drimsdale had said that Gavin was always busy, always on the move. There was something strange about that. From past dormitory inspections Mr. Wizzle could have sworn Drimsdale lived alone. Yet there were two beds, two desks, two dressers and two sets of clothing in the closet. Gunhold lived in 201 all right.
He noticed a letter on the corner of his desk and reached for it. The letterhead (printed not an hour earlier in the Macdonald Hall print shop) read:
The Caldwell Foundation, Edmonton, Alberta
Dear Sir,
It is my distinct pleasure to inform you that one of your students, G. Gavin Gunhold, has won this year’s Caldwell Foundation Medal for his paper on patriotism. A ticket will be waiting for Mr. Gunhold at Magellan Airlines Booth 11, Toronto International Airport, and we expect to see him at our awards dinner.
Mr. Wizzle stared at the date. Heavens! It was on Saturday! If he didn’t find Gunhold immediately, the boy might miss being present to accept his award!
Quickly he dashed off a note and called for the messenger.
“Yes, sir?” said Larry Wilson.
“Take this over to room 201 and see that Gavin Gunhold gets it. It’s of the utmost importance.” Larry ran down the hall and out the door of the Faculty Building only to collapse in fits of helpless laughter on the front lawn.
* * *
By Thursday night Mr. Wizzle was no less than frantic. He had been checking around all day and Gunhold was nowhere to be found. All the boys he’d asked claimed that Gunhold was on a special field trip but would be home for dinner. Wizzle had gone to the dining hall at six o’clock only to be told that Gunhold was working in the chemistry lab, which was closed. Finally one boy had mentioned that Gunhold had organized a small group of boys who had been given special permission to go off-campus to one of the local farms to help out an ailing farmer. They would be back by lights-out. Wizzle had left a strict message with Drimsdale that Gunhold was to call him immediately at home.
At two minutes to ten the telephone rang in Mr. Wizzle’s cottage. He ran for the phone, but as he took his first step a strong earth tremor hit the house. He stopped indecisively, torn between his duty to a student and his own personal safety. The phone rang again and he took a step toward it. Suddenly the tremor became stronger and he thought he saw a new crack appearing in the plaster. His mind made up, Mr. Wizzle sprinted to the door and rushed outside. He paused to catch his breath. Inside, the ringing stopped.
He rushed across the campus toward Dormitory 2, wondering idly why Wilbur Hacken was always standing out in the open blowing his nose. He rushed inside and began pounding on the door of room 201.
Elmer answered the door. “Oh, Mr. Wizzle. Did Gavin get in touch with you?”
“No, he didn’t! Where is he?”
“The boys he was with came back,” explained Elmer, “but Gavin is going to stay the night. He’s got special permission to miss his morning classes tomorrow.” He frowned. “He said he was going to call you. I guess you must have been out.”
“Uh — yes. Yes, I was out. Well, go to bed, Drimsdale. I’ll catch Gunhold later.”
Mr. Wizzle ran out of the dormitory and back across the lawn. This whole G. Gavin Gunhold thing was beginning to get to him. Why, if he hadn’t seen the complete records on the boy, he’d swear that Gunhold didn’t even exist! Coming on top of those earthquakes, that miserable foul-up with the printer paper, his horrible accident at Scrimmage’s and those terrible calisthenics, this was just too much.
He ran up to Mr. Sturgeon’s front porch and rang the bell insistently.
The Headmaster opened the door. “Hello, Wizzle. Come in. What can I do for you?”
Mr. Wizzle walked in, his face wild. “Mr. Sturgeon, I’ve spent all week looking for G. Gavin Gunhold and I can’t find him anywhere!”
“Well, that’s understandable,” said Mr. Sturgeon.
Mr. Wizzle looked at him. “Yes — uh — every time I look for him he’s either just left or is off-campus by special permission! He’s never at class, although his record says he’s a straight-A student! And now he’s won the Caldwell Foundation Medal for his paper on patriotism, and his plane for Edmonton is leaving tomorrow afternoon, but he doesn’t know about it because he’s at some farmer’s house helping out! Mr. Sturgeon, what am I going to do?”
Mr. Sturgeon led him into the neat kitchen. “Sit down, Wizzle,” he said kindly.
The two men sat down at the table.
“Wizzle, there is no such person as G. Gavin Gunhold.”
&n
bsp; Mr. Wizzle went white. “But — but there has to be! The computer has a file on him!”
“Then someone else fed it in. I can assure you there is no G. Gavin Gunhold. He has no academic record; he didn’t win a track meet, a chess tournament or a foundation medal; he doesn’t play the oboe and he isn’t out assisting farmers. He just isn’t, Wizzle. It’s as simple as that.”
Mr. Wizzle looked sick. All he could manage to say was, “I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid the entire thing is a hoax,” explained Mr. Sturgeon.
Mr. Wizzle leapt to his feet, his face flaming. “The nerve! Just wait till I get my hands on the boys responsible! Drimsdale! I’ll expel Drimsdale! And Anderson! And Walton! I told you about Walton! He said Gunhold was a close friend of his! Yes, and Wilson —!”
“Calm down for a moment, Wizzle,” said the Headmaster, “and answer a question for me, please. In all your inquiries, did even one boy deny knowing Gunhold?”
“Well — uh — no.”
“Then obviously all the boys were in on the joke. And you cannot expel everyone or hand out thousands of demerits. Wizzle, the two of us might not agree on some matters of education, but there is one thing of which I can assure you after years of experience as an educator: No matter how strictly or how well you enforce discipline, there are always going to be practical jokes. And this one, if you will forgive my saying so, has been rather magnificent.”
“You’re on their side!” stormed Mr. Wizzle.
“Most assuredly I am. They’re my boys. A word of advice: If you rant and rave and make a big fuss about this it will all be part of the joke and they’ll laugh even harder. But if you take it like a man and come up smiling, they’ll respect you for it. Let me handle this.”
Mr. Wizzle inhaled deeply. “I suppose you might have a point there.” His voice rose again. “But I really don’t think I have to tolerate —”
“Wizzle,” said the Headmaster patiently.
“Well, how about —”
“No.”
“Oh, all right!”
Mrs. Sturgeon appeared in the doorway. “William, what’s — Oh, hello, Mr. Wizzle. Would you like some tea?”