Middle-School Cool Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Margaret Verrone

  Jacket art and interior illustrations copyright © 2014 by Karl Edwards

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Williams, Maiya.

  Middle-School Cool / Maiya Williams. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-385-74349-5 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-375-99115-8 (glb) —

  ISBN 978-0-449-81614-1 (ebook)

  Summary: Reporters for an experimental middle school’s student newspaper face an ethical dilemma when they uncover a shocking secret about their eccentric principal that could tarnish the reputation of their beloved Kaboom Academy if revealed.

  [1. Newspapers—Fiction. 2. Journalism—Fiction. 3. Ethics—Fiction. 4. Middle schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Eccentrics and eccentricities—Fiction. 7. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W66687Mid 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012027816

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Patric, Marianne, and Teddy, my muses

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: Journalism 1A

  2: Lesson 1: What Makes A Good Story?

  3: Victoria’s Story

  4: Lesson 2: The Five Ws

  5: Ruben’s Story

  6: Aliya and Taliya’s Story

  7: Leo’s Story

  8: Lesson 3: Interviews

  9: Edie’s Story–Part One

  10: Margo’s Story

  11: Snack Time

  12: Field Trip

  13: Research

  14: Sam’s Story

  15: Edie’s Story–Part Two

  16: The Story of the Century

  Epilogue: Jory’s Editorial

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  On the first day of July the following flyer appeared under a windshield wiper of every car in the modest town of Horsemouth, New Hampshire.

  The first question that popped into the heads of those who found the flyers was “What the heck is Kaboom Academy?” A fair number wondered, “How did this flyer get under my windshield wiper when I parked inside my garage?” A smaller group contemplated what the light refreshments might be—how light, how refreshing, and so forth. This group didn’t have children and had little interest in the topic of schools but were interested in free food. The people who did have children mostly wondered why a private school would come to a place like Horsemouth.

  As mentioned earlier, Horsemouth was a modest town. There was nothing remarkable about it except that it was perhaps unique in its unremarkableness. No historically important events had occurred there. It had no college or university, no tourist attractions, no nature preserves. Nobody famous had ever been born or died there, or even visited there. In fact, no one visited Horsemouth unless they knew somebody who lived there, because there was nothing to see or do. During the Revolutionary War a battle was almost fought in Horsemouth, but it didn’t happen. The American general and the British general scanned the unremarkable countryside, said “Meh,” then moved the battle to Bravington, about seventy-five miles south. Many exciting battles were fought and many acts of valor were committed in Bravington; that is how it got its name. This story is not about Bravington.

  Horsemouth had a perfectly unremarkable public school system that all the children of the town attended. There was an elementary school that went from kindergarten to fifth grade and a middle school that covered sixth through eighth. From there students continued on to Horsemouth High, home of the Fighting Fleas. A flea might not seem like a cool school mascot, but fleas can be very determined and downright vicious. Just ask any dog. So it was actually a pretty good choice. Most of the students at Horsemouth High were proud of their mascot and their school, but it could be that everyone was just making the best of it. Aptly, the school motto was “You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” and the students embraced those wise words.

  Most of the parents whose children attended the Horsemouth public schools were baffled by the flyer. But for some, it was exactly what they had been looking for. These were the parents who quietly filed into the community center that muggy July evening, slightly embarrassed, darting gazes about to see if they recognized anyone before quickly sliding into a seat as close to the back of the room as possible. These parents had come to the awful conclusion that their children were not thriving in the Horsemouth schools; their children did not fit in and needed something else. They hoped that whoever posted this flyer could deliver that something else, and deliver it quickly.

  At exactly seven-thirty a very tall man with silver hair, a silver mustache, and a gaunt, handsome face marred only by an extraordinary overbite glided onto the stage. “HELLO!” he shouted. The resulting feedback from the microphone filled the hall with an earsplitting clamor that dissipated only after he adjusted the volume. “Sorry about that! Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have your attention! I am Dr. Marcel Kaboom, president and headmaster of Kaboom Academy Middle School. Welcome!”

  Everyone straightened up a bit. Not many people in Horsemouth could call themselves “Doctor.” The title in front of his name gave them hope.

  “I am thrilled you were all able to come to this meeting on such short notice,” Dr. Marcel Kaboom continued, adjusting his glasses. “Never have I seen such a wonderfully desperate group of people … sorry, I meant disparate group of people. I jumble my words a little when I get excited, and believe me, tonight I am very excited. Tonight I will change the life of every person in this room!” People in the crowd exchanged nervous glances. “For the butter! Bladder! I mean, better!” Dr. Kaboom added quickly, and there was a collective exhale of relief.

  “Let me tell you a little bit about myself,” Dr. Kaboom continued. “My background is in education, particularly in the development of groundbreaking instruction techniques. I earned my doctorate in learnomology, specializing in thinkonomics and edumechanics.” Nobody in the room had ever heard of those disciplines before, but Dr. Kaboom’s voice was so deep and commanding it didn’t occur to them to question him. It was like receiving information from God, or if you didn’t believe in God, Darth Vader.

  “I have spent years and years—decades, in fact—studying how schools work, or don’t work, as the case may be. I have traveled the world visiting schools in other countries, and I have spent countless hours in classrooms of all types: public schools, magnet schools, charter schools, parochial schools, private schools, military schools, traditional schools, progressive schools, alternative schools, Montessori schools, Waldorf schools, boarding schools, finishing schools, remedial schools, gifted schools, and even home schools. I have come to a most startling conclusion: ladies and gentlemen, children do not like to go to school.”

  “We don’t need an advanced degree in learnomology to know that,” somebody called out. Whoever shouted the snarky remark was
nestled where the doctor couldn’t see him, in the back row, where cowards sit.

  “True,” Dr. Kaboom agreed. “But it is worse than that. Not only do children not like to go to school, schools have actually turned them off of learning altogether. I asked students from all walks of life what they thought of school. Let me tell you what they said: Boring! Stupid! Waste of time! Torture! And this was from students at one of the top pirate skulls … I mean, private schools in the country!

  “The question is how do you get children to learn? Most schools seem to think children learn through sheer force. They are forced to arrive at school at a designated time. They are forced to take classes on subjects they didn’t choose. They are forced to move from class to class at the sound of a bell. They are forced to learn a great deal of trivial information that most of them will never use in their day-to-day lives, and if they don’t learn it sufficiently, they are forced to learn it again. They are forced to sit still, without talking. If a student wants to speak he must raise his hand and confine his remarks to the subject matter. If the student breaks any of these rules, he is punished. Ladies and gentlemen, if I were to say that this sounds exactly like prison, I would be offending prison wardens everywhere. This is worse than prison! Much worse!

  “The sad fact is that we are producing unhappy students, producing them in droves. Hundreds of thousands graduate from high school each year. Once they finish serving their twelve or thirteen years of hard, boring labor, are they finally free to do what they want and enjoy life? Of course not. Many go on to college for four more years of tedium, then perhaps to graduate school to face another two to eight years of confinement. Others enter the job market, taking jobs they don’t particularly like so they can begin the drudgery of making a living, supporting a family, and looking forward to the day when they can retire and finally enjoy themselves. But that day never comes, does it? Because there is always some responsibility, some urgent necessity that puts it off year after year, until they look back as old men and women and say, ‘How did I get here? What have I done with my wife?’ ”

  Many people in the audience nodded, for indeed Dr. Kaboom was describing their lives. Most of them assumed he had meant to say “life” instead of “wife,” all except one man, who was inspired right then to take his wife to Tahiti.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, unhappy students become unhappy goof-ups … grown-ups. The good news is that we at Kaboom Academy believe we have the answer. Our philosophy is this: children are born with a love for leering … learning. We don’t have to make learning fun; it already is. Our job is to encourage and foster a child’s natural curiosity in a safe and nurturing environment, without ruining the fun. Now, let me be perfectly clear, this is an experimental school, and by that I mean we are still testing some of our techniques. Though we are confident in the general application of these educational meat-heads … methods … they have not been protected … perfected, and that is why I am making this offer: a full year’s tuition for all participating families. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this school is one hundred percent free! Some private schools charge tens of thousands of dollars a year. We will charge you nothing, not one penny, which is a bargain considering once your children start our program, I think you will see rabid … rapid improvement in their irrelevance … intelligence.”

  At this point most of the crowd had gotten lost in the doctor’s jumbles, but one phrase he uttered had gotten through to them loud and clear: the school was free.

  “We will start at the middle-school level, where students are most impenetrable … impressionable, and once we have perfected the Kaboom method we hope to carry this ideology toward other grade levels.

  “This is my guarantee to you,” Dr. Marcel Kaboom said slowly, trying very hard to keep his words under control. “When your children leave our middle school, they will emerge as dynamic citizens of the world, madly in love with learning!” Dr. Kaboom paused for a moment, proud of himself for not getting tongue-tied. He smoothed his silver hair back with the palm of his hand and smiled. “Any Christians?” A flurry of hands shot into the air. “I’m sorry, I meant questions,” Dr. Kaboom corrected himself, and several of the hands went down just as quickly.

  “How will your teaching methods differ from traditional teaching methods?” one woman asked.

  “I’m sorry, but our methods are confidential. I can’t risk the possibility of spies in this room stealing my ideas and starting their own academies. Rest assured that all of our teachers and other faculty have been thoroughly trained in these techniques.” The audience murmured among themselves. The suggestion that there might be spies in the room had intensified the excitement.

  “How much parent participation will be required?” another woman asked.

  “None.”

  “But I’d like to help.…”

  “No, no, no. Parents are part of the problem. No offense, but parents are the worst fun-sucker-outers, almost as bad as the schools.” A grumble of protests erupted, and Dr. Kaboom raised his hands in an effort to calm them. “Be honest! Who here has ever given their child a game that would be considered educational?” A majority of the parents raised their hands. “Who here labels the furniture in their house with words in foreign languages or posts a ‘word of the day’ on the refrigerator?” Several people raised their hands. “Who here has baked a pie, then used it to teach fractions?” Every hand went up. “Who here makes sure every family vacation includes hours of time in museums, or eco-tours led by naturalists?” By this time the grumbling had been replaced by a self-conscious silence.

  “Now, now, I know all of you thought you were doing the right thing, trying to cram as much information into your children’s heads as possible, using every single event to gain new knowledge, seeing each activity as a learning experience, but I’m afraid the only thing your children have learned is that Mom and Dad ruin everything. So please, stay away. There will be many opportunities for you to talk with our teachers and tour the facility so that you will be satisfied that I’m not running some sort of cult.”

  “Are you running some sort of cult?” asked a woman who had been waving her hand frantically for so long that she required the help of her other hand to prop it up.

  “No, ma’am. I just said that I wasn’t. You’d know that if you’d been paying attention.”

  “I’m sorry, I came up with my question before you said that, and hadn’t had time to come up with another question when you called on me.”

  “Quite all right.” Dr. Kaboom pointed to a man wearing a denim shirt and glasses with his hand slightly raised and his index finger pointing straight up. “Yes, sir?”

  “I just wanted to say that I am also a Christian. I had forgotten to raise my hand earlier.”

  “Thank you, sir. Are there any other questions about my presentation?”

  A man of considerable girth hitched up his pants, placed one hand squarely on his hip, and pointed a firm finger at the speaker. “Dr. Kaboom, what exactly did you mean in that flyer of yours by ‘light refreshments’?” A murmur of interest ran through the crowd. The presentation was over.

  After the applause died down, everyone headed to the back of the room for water, coffee, tea, and cookies. Within the clusters of conversation, criticisms were raised about the vagaries of Dr. Kaboom’s presentation: he’d had no graphs, charts, photographs, or other useful visual aids to support his assertions. True, he was a compelling speaker, albeit confusing. He looked a little strange, he sounded strange, and he had a strange name. Was this somebody to whom they could entrust their children?

  That was the gist of the discussion, but what the parents weren’t saying was that they had already made up their minds. All of them were in that room because they were at their wits’ end. They had run out of options and ideas. At the end of the evening, after all the people had left, Dr. Kaboom emptied the crumbs from the platter of cookies into the wastebasket, left the extra cups as a donation to the community center, and picked up the clipboard conta
ining fifty-five signatures. Next to those fifty-five signatures were the names of fifty-five children, the new student body of Kaboom Academy.

  JOURNALISM 1A

  It was the last period during the first day of school, and the students were exhausted. The day had started with a long bus ride past hayfields, cornfields, potato fields, and apple orchards, over a creek, under a bridge, around a large pond, into a forest of white birch and spruce, out of a forest of white birch and spruce, finally ending at the school. Once the students disembarked, they had only a short time to stretch their legs, not long enough to fully appreciate the colonial architecture of the gray two-story main building and the surrounding yellow cottages, before they were quickly ushered into the auditorium, which was in fact a repurposed barn. The entire facility reeked of old-fashioned New England simplicity, tranquility, and charm. Most of the students and their parents would never have guessed that it had once been an insane asylum.

  Despite the traditional appearance of the physical facility, things were definitely different at this school. For instance, the bell schedule had been replaced by a blast schedule. Instead of signaling the end of class with an irritating electronic buzzer, Kaboom Academy marked that moment with a tremendous explosion from a cannon in the meadow next to the flagpole. The first time this happened was at the conclusion of the opening assembly. The resounding BOOM rocked the auditorium. All the students dove under their seats, which was difficult since they were theater seats and only an infant would be able to fit under them.

  “We’re being attacked!” several students cried.

  “Yes,” Dr. Kaboom yelled back from the stage. “Attacked by ideas! Invaded by initiative! Assailed by perspiration … that is to say, inspiration! The assembly is over! You are dismissed to fall madly in love with learning!” That phrase, the students were soon to discover, was one that Dr. Kaboom used often. He was madly in love with that phrase. They also came to realize that Dr. Kaboom, who for some reason referred to himself as the “Hot Mustard” of the school, truly embodied his name. He loved everything loud. The beginning of class was signaled by the pounding of a massive Chinese gong placed on the other side of the flagpole. By the onset of ninth period the students had heard the gong rung nine times and the cannon discharged eight.