The War With Mr. Wizzle

“Not while I’m strangling in a tie,” said Bruno shortly, “and piling up a stack of demerits that you can’t see over. And sitting in a Wizzle class. Who knows what a guy like that will decide we should learn?”

  “Sounds pretty grim,” agreed Cathy.

  “It is,” replied Boots. “And it looks as if it’s going to get worse.”

  “What can we do to help?” asked Diane warily.

  Bruno grinned broadly. “We came to you for feedback.”

  “Feedback?”

  “A Wizzle word,” he explained. “It means suggestions and stuff.” His dark eyes looked into Cathy’s blue ones. “We’ve got to get rid of this guy! Unless you want to see us turned into a bunch of robots with ties in a fifth-rate school, you’ve got to help us do something!”

  “We’ll give you as much help as you want,” said Cathy immediately.

  “We will?” asked Diane, her heart sinking.

  “Of course. We can’t let Macdonald Hall go to pot. Besides, it could be fun.” Cathy’s eyes sparkled. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Well,” said Bruno thoughtfully, “so far, the only thing we’ve come up with is anonymous suggestions in the Feedback boxes Wizzle’s hung up in the dorms. Stuff like ‘Macdonald Hall Lives.’ If everybody writes them, maybe he’ll get the message.”

  “Good,” Cathy nodded. “Very good. What about an underground newspaper?”

  Light dawned on Bruno’s face. “Of course! The Macdonald Hall Free Press! We can all write articles for it! We’ll start first thing in the morning!”

  Boots frowned. “You know, we have The Fish to think about, too. He may not like changes at the Hall very much, but he’s still not going to let us revolt.”

  “A newspaper isn’t a revolt,” insisted Bruno. “It’s part of the democratic process — freedom of the press. When Wizzle and The Fish and the Board see our opinions honestly and tastefully expressed, they’ll have to pay attention.”

  “But, Bruno —”

  “It’s settled, and as coeditor, you should be very proud!”

  “Let’s go home,” mumbled Boots dejectedly. “It’s getting late.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Bruno. “Thanks a lot for the idea, girls. If we need any more help, we’ll be back.”

  “Any time,” said Cathy cheerfully. “Meanwhile, keep your fingers crossed that Miss Scrimmage’s surprise isn’t anything horrible. Goodnight.”

  The two boys shinnied down the drainpipe and retraced their steps to their own room. They climbed in and shut the window behind them.

  “What a crummy year this is starting out to be,” complained Boots. “Problems at the Hall, maybe problems at Scrimmage’s.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bruno. “Everything will be back to normal in no time.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door. “What’s going on in there?” came the voice of Walter C. Wizzle. “It’s one AM. Why are you boys still up?”

  “We’re just going to sleep,” called Bruno as he and Boots dove fully dressed into their beds and pulled the blankets up to their necks.

  There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and Mr. Wizzle walked into the room, switching on the overhead light as he entered.

  “Bruno Walton again. And who is your roommate?”

  “Boots — I mean, Melvin O’Neal, sir,” said Boots in a small voice.

  Mr. Wizzle made a note on his pad. “Five demerits for each of you. Don’t violate curfew again.” He studied the pad. “Hmmm — Walton, you have thirteen demerits. I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning at precisely eight o’clock.”

  He switched off the light and left the room.

  “Walter C. Wizzle!” muttered Bruno.

  Chapter 3

  Balloonjuice!

  “Is Mr. Wizzle in?” asked Bruno halfheartedly. It was eight o’clock the following morning, and he was reporting to account for the first ten of his thirteen demerits.

  Mrs. Davis’s pleasant smile faded abruptly. “Oh, Bruno, classes haven’t even started yet! Don’t tell me you’re in trouble already!”

  “I got some demerits,” grinned Bruno sheepishly. He stretched his neck in a vain effort to escape the viselike grip of his tie. “Hey, Mrs. Davis, is that the new program?” He pointed to the computer, which was sorting files in a blizzard of on-screen data.

  The secretary sighed. “That’s it. WizzleWare.”

  Mr. Wizzle bounced enthusiastically into the office. “Good morning, Mrs. Davis. Ah, Bruno Walton. Come into my office for a moment.”

  Bruno followed Mr. Wizzle into a small room off the reception area. “But, sir,” he said in surprise, “isn’t this Mr. Flynn’s office?”

  “Mr. Flynn is a phys. ed. teacher,” said Mr. Wizzle. “His office is now in the gymnasium. Okay, Walton, you’ve managed to get more than ten demerits by various infractions of the rules. By tomorrow morning I want to see two hundred lines of ‘I will obey fully all the rules of Macdonald Hall.’”

  Bruno’s jaw dropped. “Lines, sir?”

  “Yes, lines,” said Mr. Wizzle. “You may go now.”

  Bruno walked out of the office and came face to face with Mr. Sturgeon, who was talking to his secretary.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Walton. Mrs. Davis tells me that Mr. Wizzle has had to punish you.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bruno, studying the carpet. “And I’d better get going. I’ve got two hundred lines to finish for tomorrow. Mr. Wizzle sure is riding the wave of the future.” He blinked innocently.

  “That will do, Walton.” Mr. Sturgeon fixed him with a cold, fishy glare. “On your way.”

  Bruno scampered off down the hall and the Headmaster strolled into Mr. Wizzle’s office.

  “Lines, Wizzle? Lines?”

  Mr. Wizzle looked up from his desk brightly. “Certainly. A young mind is always active and expanding. To be forced to write lines limits the opportunities for psychic growth. Therefore, it is all the more potent as punishment.”

  “I see.” The Headmaster nodded. “Bore them to tears, is that it?”

  “Essentially, yes,” replied Mr. Wizzle earnestly. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Sturgeon, I’ve arranged a staff meeting for four o’clock Thursday.”

  “Have you?” said Mr. Sturgeon coldly.

  “Yes. Tomorrow morning in period one I’m holding psychological tests for all students. With WizzleWare, I should have the results fully analyzed by Thursday afternoon.”

  “It should be interesting,” said the Headmaster with a thin smile.

  * * *

  “He gives lines?” asked Boots incredulously at the breakfast table.

  “Nobody gives lines anymore,” said Mark Davies positively.

  “He does,” said Bruno. “But forget the lines. Here’s how we’re going to get rid of Wizzle. We’re going to put out an underground newspaper and fight for our rights.”

  “That’s a great idea!” said Chris.

  “That’s a terrible idea!” exclaimed Mark. “The minute it appears they’ll know it came from the print shop and I’ll be in trouble!”

  “No you won’t,” said Bruno. “You’ll teach Boots and me how to run the printing press, and when Wizzle or The Fish asks you if you did it, you can truthfully say no.”

  “Aw, Bruno —” protested Mark.

  “Don’t worry,” said Bruno. “It’s foolproof. Good idea, right, guys?”

  “We’ll all be expelled,” said Wilbur mournfully between bites.

  “They’ll never catch us,” said Bruno confidently.

  “Now, all you guys spread the word around the school. We want articles and things from everybody against the dress code and against changing Macdonald Hall.” He grinned. “We’ll need lots of feedback.”

  Boots groaned. “I hate that word.”

  “Feedback is a very useful term,” said Elmer earnestly. “It refers to the return of the output of a system to the input.”

  Bruno looked at him suspiciously. “I have absolutely no
idea what you just said. But it had better not mean you’re a Wizzle supporter.”

  “No,” said Elmer. “I don’t think Mr. Wizzle is good for Macdonald Hall.”

  “Right,” said Bruno, “and that’s the theme of your article for our newspaper The Macdonald Hall Free Press. As editor, I’m assigning the deadline — tonight.”

  “We have to get ready for classes tomorrow,” Mark pointed out.

  “Naturally we won’t let that get in our way,” said Bruno.

  “You haven’t got time to be a big-shot editor,” said Boots. “You’ve got two hundred lines to write.”

  “Oh,” said Bruno airily, “I’ve already thought of that. Poor Sidney is stuck in the infirmary, dying of boredom. He’ll write my lines for me.”

  “Sidney will just love that!” said Boots sarcastically.

  “Well, he’s bound to see the logic,” replied Bruno. “It helps him pass the time, and it leaves me free to work on the newspaper for the good of us all.”

  Mark looked at Bruno warningly. “If you wreck my printing press …”

  * * *

  “Mildred,” said Mr. Sturgeon, entering the house at lunchtime, “if I were to tell you that someone at this school was giving lines for punishment, who would you say it might be?”

  “Oh, William, not Mr. Wizzle!”

  “Bull’s eye,” said the Headmaster, sitting down at the dining room table. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Look who’s calling Macdonald Hall a dinosaur! Lines! This is the most idiotic, outmoded —”

  “Now, dear,” said his wife soothingly, “I’m sure Mr. Wizzle must have a good reason.”

  “Oh, he certainly does,” said the Headmaster, savagely attacking a stuffed tomato. “It was a bunch of gibberish about young minds and psychic growth, and it meant about as much as everything else he says — nothing. And do you know what he’s done? He’s called a staff meeting without consulting me!” He dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. “Mildred, how are we to get rid of him?”

  “Dear, you’re getting all excited about nothing,” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “Classes haven’t even started yet and you’ve already condemned Mr. Wizzle. Be fair, and I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”

  * * *

  Miss Scrimmage’s girls were assembled in the school gym, awaiting the announcement of the Headmistress’s promised surprise.

  “Lately I’ve been noticing I’m not as young as I used to be,” she was saying. “There is a great deal of work at a school like this, and our Regents have been kind enough to hire an administrative assistant to help me run it.”

  In the seventh row Diane nudged Cathy. “Oh, no! We’re getting a Wizzle, too!”

  “Don’t worry,” Cathy whispered confidently. “Miss Scrimmage probably picked some sweet old thing who’s even more of a pushover than she is.”

  “We’re very fortunate to get Miss Peabody, who has vast experience with young ladies,” the Headmistress went on. “She comes to us from Fort Constitution near Seattle, Washington, which, as you may know, is a Marine training centre. Young ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Peabody.”

  Scattered applause broke the shocked silence. Onto the podium marched former drill sergeant, now Assistant Headmistress, Gloria Peabody. She was a tall, trim young woman dressed in a severe pantsuit. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a tight bun. Black high-heeled shoes with metal reinforcements at toe and heel clicked loudly with every step. She walked up to the microphone and surveyed the girls sternly.

  “Good afternoon. I’m very pleased to be at such a fine institution as Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies.”

  Cathy poked Diane and snickered loudly.

  Miss Peabody pounced on her like a hawk. “All right, you! On your feet!”

  Cathy stood up slowly. “Me?”

  “Of course, you! Now get up here! March!”

  Cathy walked to the front of the group.

  “Straighten that back!” Miss Peabody leaned forward until her face was only a few centimetres away from Cathy’s and stared the girl right in the eye. “Name!” she barked.

  “Cathy Burton, Ma’am.”

  “Burton, you’d better know right now that we do not tolerate any insolence in this outfit!”

  “But, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy innocently, “I have this terrible allergy and I was simply clearing my throat and —”

  “Attention!” bellowed Miss Peabody.

  Everybody jumped. Involuntarily, Cathy straightened her back and slapped her arms to her sides.

  “All right, Burton, that’ll cost you five laps around the track.”

  “But it’s an 800-metre track!” blurted Cathy in protest.

  “Six laps!” snapped Miss Peabody. “Right after afternoon classes.”

  “Yes, Miss Peabody,” said Cathy, who had no intention of running any laps at all.

  Miss Peabody read her mind. “And don’t think you’re going to get away with anything. I’m going to watch you and make sure you run every inch. Okay, sit down!”

  As Cathy fled back to her seat, Miss Peabody surveyed the girls again. She smiled kindly. “We are all going to have a wonderful year here at Miss Scrimmage’s.”

  And that’s an order! thought Cathy bitterly.

  * * *

  “Okay.” Bruno sat cross-legged on his bed, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Here are the articles for the Free Press. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He handed half the papers to Boots.

  The two boys read in silence for a few minutes.

  “These are really lousy!” said Bruno. “Listen to this: I think Macdonald Hall was a swell school until Mr. Wizzle came along and ruined it. Now everyone has to wear a tie and it’s no good and awful. What kind of journalism is that?”

  “Better than this.” Boots laughed. “I hate Mr. Wizzle because he is dumb and stupid and makes you wear ties. Or this one: If a certain somebody doesn’t stop calling Macdonald Hall a dinosaur and go elsewhere immediately, he will be fed to his software program post-haste!”

  “That one’s great,” approved Bruno. “We’ll use it.”

  “Bruno, freedom of the press doesn’t extend to threats.”

  “How about this?” suggested Bruno. “Wearing a tie and a stiff shirt impedes the most important kind of processing of all, the intake of food, and thus is conducive to starvation. So let’s all come to our senses and think back to how great things used to be when we could eat properly. Guess who?”

  Boots was hysterical with laughter. “We can’t print that! Everyone in the world would know it’s Wilbur! Get a load of this: While I personally am in favour of emerging technologies, and while I personally have nothing against a dress code, I am rather dubious about the effectiveness of the new systems proposed. Statistically speaking, Macdonald Hall has been academically successful with traditional teaching methods. Since this academic success is largely attributable to a traditional approach, it is highly unlikely that such changes will operate for the benefit of the school.”

  “Good old Elmer,” said Bruno.

  “We can’t print that either!” exclaimed Boots. “They’d spot Elmer a block away. And listen to this garbage: The dress code is interfering with our freedom of expression. It’s ruining morale. How can we sit back and watch as the very spirit of Macdonald Hall is crushed by reams of computer code with no feeling for our great tradition? At the hands of this cyber-monster, our world is crumbling around us …” His voice trailed off as sudden recognition struck him.

  “Right,” said Bruno proudly. “That’s mine. No one could ever guess it came from me.”

  “I did.”

  “Hey,” said Bruno, “Pete Anderson thinks we should have a jokes and riddles section. Listen: What rhymes with drizzle and is ruining Macdonald Hall?”

  “That’s idiotic!” cried Boots. “You can’t print that!”

  “Well, it’s better than this wishy-washy stuff,” said Bruno. “With all due respect to Mr. Wizzle, he may be
the right man, but he is at the wrong school. We realize that he is a genius when it comes to education … I mean, what’s all that? He isn’t a genius at education! He’s a jerk at everything!”

  “I wrote that,” said Boots. “Listen, if we fill the paper with a whole lot of articles saying that Mr. Wizzle is an idiot, the Board isn’t going to listen to us. We’ve got to be sensible and reasonable.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Hey, someone’s entered a crossword puzzle. What’s a six-letter word for: Dumb guy who just arrived at Macdonald Hall?”

  “We can’t use that!”

  “Here’s a little touch I thought of myself — letters to the editor. Listen: Dear Sir, In your May edition …”

  “We didn’t have a May edition.”

  “I’m just trying to add a little colour,” said Bruno. “Okay, no letters to the editor. How about some constructive advertising? Out-of-date school? Need to be brought up to date? Want to be the school of the future? Walter C. Wizzle will have you centuries ahead of the pack. Apply Macdonald Hall. Fullest co-operation promised. Maybe someone will take him off our hands!”

  “Well, maybe,” said Boots grudgingly. “Actually, there’s no way we can print any of this without making Mr. Wizzle mad. And The Fish too, I’ll bet.”

  “Oh, well,” said Bruno, “we’ll water it down a bit. How about an advice column? Dear Sir, I am a student at Macdonald Hall and I used to be happy, but now I’m not anymore. What shall I do? Signed, Wearing a Tie. Answer: Dear Wearing a Tie, Get rid of Wizzle.’’

  Boots had to laugh. “Bruno, we’re going to be expelled!”

  * * *

  At five-thirty that afternoon Mr. Sturgeon made his way into his house, slipped off his shoes and sat down heavily on the living room sofa.

  His wife entered the room. “Hurry up, dear. You just have time for a quick shower and shave. I’ve invited Mr. Wizzle to dinner.”

  Mr. Sturgeon’s face assumed a pained expression. “I’m tired, Mildred. I had an exhausting day, and the most exhausting thing about it was Wizzle. Why should I have to meet the man socially?”

  “Now, dear,” said Mrs. Sturgeon, “where’s your human kindness?”

  “I reserve it for humans.”