The Wizzle War (11 page)

Approaching the school, he was startled to find Miss Scrimmage standing on the front porch dressed in her rain slicker and staring about, wild-eyed.

“Good afternoon, Miss Scrimmage. Is Miss Peabody in?”

“Oh, she’s in the orchard!” shrilled the Headmistress. “Oh, how terrible!” She shivered.

“Uh — is something wrong, Miss Scrimmage?”

She pointed wordlessly to the apple orchard, face contorted with horror.

Mr. Wizzle made his way to the orchard, a trifle bewildered. What was wrong with Miss Scrimmage? And why would anyone be outside in an apple orchard on a miserable day like today?

He surveyed the orchard. It would be hard to find a person in there. The trees were thick, and it was dark and gloomy. Well, he would just have to walk around. Surely he would run into her eventually.

Cathy sat beside the loaded catapult, an intense expression on her face. Suddenly her eyebrows shot up. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered to her troops. “The Red-Green army! Battle stations, everybody! Don’t move till I give the word!”

Cathy sat ready, hands shaking with anticipation, until a dim figure appeared through the trees.

“Fire!”

She fired the catapult.

With an enormous splash, the blue-paint bomb shot up and struck Mr. Wizzle full in the face, spinning him around, dazed.

“Attack!”
Out of nowhere sloshed a bucket of red dye, registering another direct hit on Mr. Wizzle.

The two armies spied each other and pandemonium broke loose. They surged together, meeting in the middle, knocking Mr. Wizzle over. Red and blue dye was everywhere. Streams from water pistols cut the air like laser beams, bombs large and small were splattering all over, and buckets of dye were splashed in all directions. Both armies plowed back and forth through the mud, stepping over the collapsed figure of Mr. Wizzle.

Casualties piled up quickly as the crazed battle progressed, and the very ground and trees began to look solid red and blue. The melee raged on until it became a shoot-out between Cathy, with one of her lieutenants, and five Red-Green soldiers.

Over her shoulder Cathy saw a stream of red dye strike her companion’s back. She was alone. Screaming in defiance, she went up a tree like a monkey and began picking off the enemy, one by one. She caught the last Red-Green with a perfect shot to the centre of the forehead.

Miss Peabody ran onto the scene. “All right! All right! The war’s over! Blue-White wins!”

A crazed expression came over Cathy’s face as she looked down at the Assistant Headmistress. She would never get another opportunity like this.

“The enemy!”
she cried, and squirted Miss Peabody full in the face.

She was out of the tree and disarmed in three seconds.

“All right, everybody!” cried Miss Peabody. “Good workout, all of you! Hit the showers! Burton, I’ll see you in my office!” She looked at the ground. One figure did not stir. It was a man covered in dye, mud and grass, holding a mashed umbrella. She grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet.

Mr. Wizzle’s eyes uncrossed and he stared into Miss Peabody’s blue-dyed face. “Miss Peabody?” he asked feebly.

She laughed. “Boy, Wizzle, did they ever give it to you!”

He was too stunned to argue. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, you’d better come in for a while and recover. If we sent you home, you’d never find the place.”

Mr. Wizzle was still in a daze. “Was that the big earthquake? Am I dead?”

“No,” she laughed, “you’re dyed.”

“Boy, Burton, you sure know how to gum up a good thing once you’ve earned it.”

Cathy looked at Miss Peabody questioningly.

“That was pretty nice shooting you did there. You should be proud. You caught Sophie Lipton right between the eyes.” She frowned. “You caught Gloria Peabody right between the eyes, too. That was stupid.”

Cathy assumed what she hoped was a perfectly innocent expression. “Miss Peabody, I’m terribly sorry about squirting you. You see, I was so caught up in the thrill of battle —”

“Balloonjuice! You saw a way to get even for all those laps I’ve handed you, and you took it! You only made one mistake. When you shot me, you were shooting the referee. That’s something to remember, Burton. Never shoot the referee until
the prize is already handed out. No trip.”

Cathy was horrified. “No trip? But the girls will kill me!”

Miss Peabody grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about that. They’ll have to catch you first. And you’ll be moving pretty fast — on the track.”

Cathy glared her resentment. Well, all right, so there was no prize. But to have given Peabody a faceful of blue dye — it was worth it!

The Committee held a meeting of all major department heads over dinner on Sunday. The dining hall was buzzing with the news that all students were to turn out on the soccer field at 6:30 the next morning for calisthenics.

“I don’t see how The Fish could have given Wizzle permission to do this to us!” exclaimed Pete Anderson.

“I don’t believe in morning calisthenics,” put in Elmer.

“And it leaves so little time for breakfast,” mourned Wilbur.

“The last time I tried to do jumping jacks I sprained both ankles,” announced Sidney. “I was in a wheelchair for weeks.”

Everybody laughed.

“The worst part,” put in Larry, “is this: I overheard at the office that Miss Peabody is coming over from Scrimmage’s to help out!”

“Oh, no!” moaned Sidney.

“Wait a minute!” said Bruno. “I’ve got an idea. This could be a really big thing for us. Tomorrow morning we’ll all go out and do Wizzle’s calisthenics.”

“What’s so good about that?” asked Boots. “Do we have a choice?”

“We do the calisthenics,” explained Bruno, “and then we ask to do more. Then we all request that we repeat our
personal
favourite exercises. We just keep asking to do more and more
exercises …”

* * *

Morning calisthenics began at 6:30 with Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody standing up at the front of the Macdonald Hall student body. They began with jumping jacks, jogging in place, push-ups and sit-ups. At 6:40, Mr. Wizzle announced, “That’s enough for today. You can go.”

Bruno’s hand shot up. “Mr. Wizzle, sir, let’s do that again.”

“All of it?” asked Mr. Wizzle incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” said Bruno enthusiastically. There were cheers from the assembled students.

Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody led them through the ten-minute routine again.

Boots’s hand shot up. “Mr. Wizzle, sir, let’s have a morning run.”

“Well,” said Mr. Wizzle, breathing heavily, “we don’t want to overdo it the first day and —”

“Come on, Wizzle,” said Miss Peabody, “if they’re enthusiastic, so much the better.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want to run?”

“Around the campus,” called Pete Anderson. The other boys cheered their approval.

Mr. Wizzle was horrified. “But it’s a big campus and — uh —” He withered under Miss Peabody’s gaze. “Okay, let’s run around the campus.”

“Three times!” called Chris Talbot. More approving cheers came from the boys.

With Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody in the lead, the boys began running around the perimeter of the campus. By the
time they had finished three circuits, it was 7:20.

Mr. Wizzle was hyperventilating. “Okay, now I guess we can all go and —”

“Mr. Wizzle,” piped Larry Wilson, “we didn’t do enough jumping jacks. That’s my favourite.”

A number of boys called out in agreement.

“Well, we really have been at this a while and —”

“If they want to do them, Wizzle —” began Miss Peabody sternly.

“Okay,” puffed Mr. Wizzle. “More jumping jacks.”

They did jumping jacks until 7:30.

“Okay,” called Mr. Wizzle, gasping for breath, “we’ve done a lot so — uh” — he looked at them hopefully — “if there are no more requests —”

“Sit-ups!” called Bruno.

“Push-ups!” added Boots.

“Knee-bends!” piped Wilbur.

“Toe touches!”

“Side-bends!”

“Leg lifts!”

At quarter to eight the group was still doing push-ups. At eight they were doing stretching exercises. At 8:15 they were on their backs bicycling, and at 8:20 Mr. Wizzle collapsed in a heap.

“I can’t do any more!” he croaked at Miss Peabody, his voice a rasp.

“Dismissed!” she bellowed. “Come on now, Wizzle. Get up.”

“I can’t!”

“All right,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “Let’s go. Say, I was pretty impressed with those boys. They must be in better
shape than I thought. One thing’s sure — they’re in better shape than you are.”

He was too weak to reply.

Bruno and Boots staggered into their room and fell onto their beds.

“Heart attack!” breathed Bruno. “My aching bones!”

“I’m definitely dying!” gasped Boots.

“Well, at least we have the consolation of knowing that Wizzle is, too.”

“Leg cramp!” howled Boots.

“Me, too!” said Bruno in a strained voice. “But I’ll bet Wizzle’s are worse.”

Boots snorted. “And it didn’t help matters much to stay up all night shaking Wizzle’s house. While we were seeing to it that he got no sleep, we didn’t get any either. And we’ve got to go to class in half an hour.”

“Oh,” moaned Bruno. “But at least Wizzle won’t be sitting in on any classes today.”

* * *

Cathy and Diane sat huddled in blankets in their room, their feet in a large basin of hot water. After the war games, the entire student body of Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies had come down with colds.

Diane sneezed violently and reached for a tissue. “I still don’t understand how you could have blown our trip! If the girls ever get well, they’re going to kill you!”

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 Macdonald 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.