Tabloidology (19 page)

Outside the school, Trixi couldn't contain herself.

“That was great! No, it wasn't! It was more than great! It was terrific! No, it wasn't! It was more than terrific! It was fantastic! No, it wasn't! It was more than fantastic!” she shouted, pirouetting along the sidewalk. “It was…it was… an A-plus, A-okay, super-colossal, mega-gnarly, not-half-bad, like-wow, peacherina, knock-out, rip-snortin', hunky-dory, killer-diller, bees-knees HUUUUMDINGER!”

But Martin trudged along the walkway like he was wearing lead underwear.

“I agree that the Fall Fair Fundraiser was a success,” he said. “And I suppose we achieved what we set out to accomplish, but…”

“But what?” Trixi said. She grabbed Martin by the chin and pulled his head up so they were eye to eye. “Can't you get it through that goopy gunky brain of yours that we are now heroes? Everything happened tonight because of us! We did it!

Before she went to Photocopy Heaven, Gwennie came through for us big time!”

“Yeah, but…”

“Yeah, but WHAT?” Trixi said.

“Maybe
you
know we're heroes, and
I
know we're heroes, but does Ms. Baumgartner know we're heroes? If she still thinks you're a troublemaking pain and my newspaper is a doomed money-loser, it doesn't matter what we think. You'll still be washing school buses on Saturday mornings, and I still won't have my newspaper back.”

“Don't you worry your little head, Marty!” Trixi said. “It's mission accomplished!”

Martin wasn't so sure.

SEVENTEEN

A
At school the next morning, Martin arrived early and headed straight for his locker. In spite of last night's wild Fall Fair Fundraiser, everything looked normal. There was no evidence of stampeding Bingo players, pulverized cakes or water-logged mayors, and the stacks of money had been safely stashed away in the school's safe. When the bell rang for the start of the day, everything seemed perfectly ho-hum.

Moments after Martin settled into his seat in class, Ms. Baumgartner came on the pa. Her voice sounded louder and more harsh than normal. “Trixi Wilder and Martin Wettmore! To my office. Immediately!”

This didn't sound good. Martin slumped over in his desk, his forehead resting on his math book. Now what? he thought. Maybe she found out about the extra special edition of the newspaper. Maybe she didn't care that it helped the school raise thousands of dollars for the library. Maybe Ms. Baumgartner was being her usual unfair self.

“Martin!” his teacher said. “You heard the announcement. Down to the office. Immediately!”

When Trixi heard the announcement, she walked to the nearest wall and thumped her forehead three times. Then, she looked toward the ceiling and shouted, “I don't believe it! I really don't believe it! I knew I never should have listened to that Martin Wettmore! Doing good never pays!”

“Trixi!” her teacher said. “You heard the announcement. Down to the office. Immediately!”

Trixi and Martin arrived at the principal's office at the same time and sat in their usual small, yellow, plastic chairs. Trixi looked at the ceiling, while Martin looked at the floor. Ms. Baumgartner was out in the office talking to Mrs. Sledge.

“
She's probably keeping us waiting on purpose just to torture us,” Trixi whispered.

“Mr. Pen phoned today,” Mrs. Sledge was saying. “He has a new job, so he'll be unable to service our new photocopier.”

“Maybe she found out about our late night visit to the photocopy room, and now she'll blame us for destroying the photocopier,” Martin whispered.

“A new job?” Ms. Baumgartner said. “Wherever did Mr.

Pen get a new job?”

“He told me he was going to be repairing photocopiers at the offices of the Science Fiction Writers of Canada.”

The principal whirled about and marched into her office. She was all business, handing Martin and Trixi each a sheet of paper, then walking behind her desk and sitting down.

“Ms. Baumgartner! I can explain everything!” Martin said. “We were only trying to help! Honest!”

“It was all Martin's idea!” Trixi said.

“It wasn't just me!” Martin said. “You helped!”

“Forget it! It was your idea all along!” Trixi stood up, and Martin stood to face her.

“You're nothing but a big pain, Trixi!”

“Oh yeah? What about you? You are the most…”

“ENOUGH! SIT! BOTH OF YOU!” Ms. Baumgartner said. “I don't want to hear any more arguing. As far as I'm concerned, you're both equally responsible.”

There was a long, awkward silence, with Ms. Baumgartner's eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them. “Well? Aren't you going to read what I've given you?” she said finally.

They looked down at the sheets of paper Ms. Baumgartner had handed them. Across the top were the words, the
All New
Upland Green Examiner.
In the top corner was today's date. Below that was a great big headline:

FALL FAIR FUNDRAISER RAKES IN RECORD
AMOUNT OF CASH!
TWO STUDENTS BECOME INSTANT HEROES!

On Wednesday night at 8:58 pm, Trixi Wilder was sprawled across the plush pink carpet next to her pink canopy bed. The TV was off, along with her cell phone, satellite radio, cd, dvd and Mp3 players. Trixi wanted no distractions, for she was writing the best story she had ever written in her entire life.

“Yes! You've definitely outdone yourself this time,” she whispered. “This is definitely the best one yet!” Trixi sprang up off the floor and ran across the room to her computer. She typed in the story, checked it once, checked it twice, then checked it once more, just in case, before e-mailing it away. Seconds after she'd clicked Send, she ran to her bedside table, picked up her cell phone and hit the top name on her speed-dial list.

“Hey, Marty! I sent you the story I did on the juggling club…You got it already? Wow! That was quick. So? How's it look?” Trixi grabbed a pen and pad of paper and held the phone between her shoulder and her cheek.

“Oh, yeah. I always get
R-E-A-D
and
R-E-E-D
mixed up… Yeah, I guess the spell-checker wouldn't pick that up. What else?…Those darn apostrophes! So it comes before the
s
with
people's
. I think I get it. Okay, what else?…That's it? Are you sure? You mean I even spelled
discombobulation
right? I don't think my spell-checker had ever heard of the word, so I just kind of sounded it out. That's amazing. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

On Wednesday night at 9:37 pm, Martin Wettmore rubbed his eyes. Except for a few phone calls, he'd been staring at his computer screen pretty well nonstop since three thirty that afternoon. Beside Martin's keyboard was a stack of thirty pages, each covered in his neat precise handwriting. On the bulletin board above his desk was a pile of fifteen photographs printed off a digital camera.

The door to his room flew open, and Razor barged in, lugging his electric guitar and amp.

“Razor! It's Wednesday night. My night to work on the paper. Remember?” Martin said.

“Is it Wednesday already?” Razor said, picking up his guitar and amp. “You got any aliens in your paper this week?”

“Not so far, but you never know,” Martin said.

“Hope so. You can never go wrong with aliens,” Razor said as he climbed out the window onto the garage roof.

“Martin!” It was his mother. “One of Sissy's dogs just pooped in the hall! It's your turn to clean it up!”

“Remember what we agreed? They're Sissy's dogs, so if they poop in the hall, she has to clean it up.”

“But she's baking dog treats,” his mother said.

“It's Wednesday night. It's my newspaper night. Remember? We talked about this.”

“Right,” his mother said.

“And Mom?”

“What is it, Martin?”

“After the article on your pickles last week, everyone's asking me for your recipe.”

“Sorry, Martin. It's a family secret. But you can have one of Sissy's dog-treat recipes if you want.”

“I'll think about it,” Martin said. “And there's something else, Mom,” Martin said. “Internet's down. I'm trying to send an e-mail and I'm not connecting.”

“I forgot to tell you. Blinky got hold of the modem and chewed it to pieces.”

Martin closed his eyes and sighed. Picking up his stack of papers, he carefully walked down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen and dialed a number from memory.

“Hi, Trixi. It's me. One of Sissy's dogs chewed our modem, and I've got a couple of things I want to clear up. I interviewed the music teacher today, and I'm working on the article. Do you think I should mention her punk-rock band first, or should I talk about her time as the lead bagpipe player in a country and western band?…Yeah, it makes sense. I'll play up the punk-rock thing, for sure…And I'm working on that story about the missing garbage cans. It seems really dull, so I'm looking for a different angle. Any suggestions?…Yeah, alien theft sounds good, but only if I say it's your theory. We have to make that clear…That's good too. I'll check with Ms. Baumgartner to see if she'll put up a reward…Yeah, I'll drop my part off at your place on my way to school. It's your turn to copy it, right?…Sounds good. Talk to you later.”

At 9:23 pm, Trixi tiptoed downstairs to her father's office. The door was closed, so she slipped a piece of paper under his door and then moved down the hall. Her mother's door was also closed, so she did the same. By the time she'd returned to her room, there were two e-mail messages waiting for her.

The first one read:
I am so proud of you, Trixi. In just
the last few weeks, your spelling and grammar has improved
immeasurably. I knew our talk with your principal would
straighten things out. Love, Mom.

The second one said:
You never told me Mrs. Primrose
was a guest writer for your paper. Her recipe for Black Forest
cake looks mouthwatering. I wish she'd bake us one when we're
around. Love, Dad.