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  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE: Not Appropriate

  CHAPTER TWO: On Purpose

  CHAPTER THREE: To See and Be Seen

  CHAPTER FOUR: The Folder

  CHAPTER FIVE: Mitch

  CHAPTER SIX: Wake-Up Call

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Trust

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Long Morning

  CHAPTER NINE: The Two Musketeers

  CHAPTER TEN: Lunch Eats Boy

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Surprises

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Chicken or Something

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Haters

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Big List

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: No Trick, No Treat

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: And a Mustache

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Evidence

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Fun

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: Almost Free

  CHAPTER TWENTY: Scene of the Crime

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Battle to the End

  Epilogue

  Reading Group Guide

  About Average Excerpt

  About Andrew Clements

  For Robert Alexander Hanna,

  one of my first friends

  —A. C.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to acknowledge with deepest gratitude the fine work of all my friends and collaborators at Simon & Schuster and Atheneum Books for Young Readers, with a special thanks to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOT APPROPRIATE

  Clay Hensley frowned at the paper on the table. It wasn’t a very good drawing. He’d made tons of better ones . . . like that picture he’d made of the old man sitting on the bridge? Now, that was good—even won a prize. This drawing? It was okay, just a simple portrait. It wasn’t going to win any prizes—but then, it wasn’t supposed to. It was supposed to do something else. Soon.

  Out of the corner of his eye Clay saw Mr. Dash get up from his desk. The class period was almost over, so the art teacher was beginning his inspections, same as always.

  Clay squinted and kept working on the portrait, shading a little here, erasing a little there, trying to get the expression on the face just right—actually, trying to get the whole head to look right. It wasn’t easy.

  Ears were hard to draw. The nose, too. And eyes? Forget about it. Not like drawing a tree. Or a piece of fruit.

  Mr. Dash was at the back of the art room now, talking softly, moving from table to table.

  “You see there, where the mountains meet the sky? Your lines need to be thinner and lighter there—it’ll make everything seem farther away. Good detail work on that tree in the foreground.”

  Mr. Dash had to be talking to Marcia. She was the only kid in sixth grade good enough at drawing to get advice like that. Except for him.

  Clay kept working on his drawing, but his hand was so tense he was squeezing the pencil. He picked up his eraser and made a correction . . . then he had an idea. He took his big brother’s cell phone from the pocket of his jeans, carefully, so no one would notice—Mitch would not be happy if some teacher took it away from him. One-handed, he clicked to the camera function and took a photo of his drawing, then another. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and picked up his pencil again.

  Mr. Dash was working his way along the tables in Clay’s row now.

  “Good improvement there, James.”

  The teacher shuffled a few steps closer.

  “Those shadows? Don’t push on your pencil—makes ’em look muddy.”

  “But I want them really dark.”

  That was BriAnne talking, two tables away.

  “Then just use a pencil with softer lead—4B, or even 6B.”

  Clay pretended to be busy with his work, but he knew Mr. Dash was right behind him now, looking over his shoulder. He heard the teacher suck in a quick breath, and then hold it.

  Clay began counting. One thousand one, one thousand two . . . The art teacher let his breath out slowly.

  Then he spoke, his voice low and strained.

  “Clay . . .”

  Clay kept working.

  “Clay, stop it. Stop drawing.”

  He turned around and looked up at Mr. Dash. “Why?”

  “You know why, Clay. That’s . . . not appropriate. Your drawing’s not appropriate.”

  Clay put a confused look on his face. “You said we could draw anything today. And I wanted to draw a jackass.”

  Several kids laughed. The whole class tuned in, and the kids sitting close tried to get a look at his drawing.

  Clay had a hard time not smiling. He was already imagining how fun it was going to be to tell his brother, Mitch, about this.

  Mr. Dash raised his voice a little. “Please don’t say ‘jackass.’ ”

  Clay rolled his eyes. “Fine. I wanted to draw a donkey. A stupid-looking donkey, that’s all. And I think it’s good. Don’t you think this is a really dumb-looking donkey?”

  More kids started laughing.

  Mr. Dash swiveled his head and glared around the room. “Class,” he growled, “be quiet.”

  The room went dead silent. The art teacher was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, huge hands, and a bright red beard that covered most of his face. No student ever disobeyed an order from Mr. Dash.

  With one exception. Because Clay kept talking.

  “I mean, c’mon, Mr. Dash. If you’d said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t draw a donkey wearing glasses today,’ then I wouldn’t have. But you didn’t say that. So I drew a donkey wearing glasses. Who has a mustache.”

  Then Clay held up his drawing so everyone else in the class could see he was telling the truth.

  It was all true. He had made a picture of a donkey with a mustache who was wearing a sport coat and a striped necktie and dark-rimmed glasses—a donkey that looked remarkably stupid. And funny.

  But not a single kid laughed.

  Because that long-faced donkey looked like someone, a real person—a man every kid in the room was scared of. Except for one.

  Clay had drawn a donkey that looked like Mr. Kelling, the principal of Truman Elementary School.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ON PURPOSE

  Clay knew what he was doing. He’d made the drawing on purpose, he’d let Mr. Dash see it on purpose, and then he’d held it up on purpose so everyone else in the classroom could see it too—and that last action was important.

  Because now Mr. Dash couldn’t just give him a scolding and move on—no way.

  Every student in the class had seen the principal looking like a stupid jackass, and once those kids got out of the art room, they would tell all their friends about the hilarious drawing Clay Hensley had made. And sooner or later, the principal would hear about it—he would. And, when Mr. Kelling did hear about it, he would come stomping down the hall to the art room, his eyes blazing and his mustache twitching, and he would demand to know why Mr. Dash hadn’t done something about that terrible boy and his terrible behavior.

  So Mr. Dash had to do something. Clay was sure about that.

  Would the art teacher keep him after school? Clay didn’t care—as long as he got home in time for dinner. Mitch was going to be there tonight, and in a way, the more stuff that happened now, the better. He’d have that much more of a story to tell his big brother. Detention in the art room? No problem.

  But Cl
ay didn’t think that was going to happen. It was Friday, a warm, sunny October day, and he had seen Mr. Dash ride his big motorcycle into the school parking lot this morning. It was perfect weather for cruising, and the back roads of Belden County were going to be beautiful this afternoon. The art teacher would not be staying late for a detention, not today.

  Clay was pretty sure about that, too.

  “Give me the drawing.”

  Clay handed it over, and Mr. Dash walked to his desk and took a large tan envelope out of a drawer. He slipped the drawing inside and sealed the envelope with tape. Then he picked up a marker and wrote on the front.

  He handed the envelope to Clay and said, “Take this to the office and give it to the secretary. And then wait there until Mr. Kelling talks to you himself. Understand?”

  Clay nodded, his face blank and serious. He didn’t want to be disrespectful toward Mr. Dash. He was a pretty good guy. He was just doing what he had to, that’s all.

  As Clay picked up his backpack and headed for the door, every other kid was watching, studying his face, trying to imagine why he had made that drawing—and trying to imagine what Mr. Kelling was going to do when he saw it.

  BriAnne whispered to James, and in the quiet room everyone heard her.

  “Clay’s really gonna get it this time.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TO SEE AND BE SEEN

  Getting from the art room to the office wasn’t going to take long—maybe a minute. But Clay wasn’t in a hurry.

  He stopped at the water fountain and took a long drink.

  He studied all the artwork in the display cases, including two of his own drawings.

  He went into the boys’ room and stood in front of the big mirror and combed his long black hair into three different styles. Then he combed it all back to his regular look—parted straight down the middle and tucked behind his ears, the same way Mitch wore his. Even though Mitch was seven years older, the two of them looked a lot alike, almost like twins—everybody said so.

  As he came out of the washroom, a voice boomed, “Hey, get to the office now!”

  Mr. Dash was standing outside the art room.

  Clay waved and then ducked around the corner into the front hall. But he didn’t go toward the office, not yet. He waited ten seconds, then peeked back around the corner.

  Mr. Dash was gone, so Clay scooted across the open intersection and trotted halfway down the east hallway to the music room. He knew Hank Bowers had chorus now. He stood in the open doorway, pointing and nodding at other kids until they finally got his friend’s attention. Then he made faces and scratched his armpits like a chimpanzee until Hank laughed out loud and got yelled at by Mrs. Norris.

  Clay hooted, “Woo-wooh!” into the doorway, then ran back across the hallway intersection and arrived at the office just as the bell rang to end fourth period.

  But he didn’t go into the office. He kept away from the wide windows and leaned up against the tiled wall.

  In his mind Clay began composing how he was going to tell Mitch about all of this later on. First was getting the idea for the drawing, then forcing Mr. Dash to send him to the principal with it, then goofing around in the empty halls and taking his own sweet time getting to the office. So far, it was a pretty good story.

  Of course, he might also have to tell the story to his mom and dad, especially if things turned sour with the principal. But as long as he hadn’t been punching kids or breaking windows, his folks weren’t going to get too upset. They never had before—at least, not since second grade or so. And who knows? His dad might even get a good laugh out of it.

  A lot of the sixth graders were heading back from art and music now, and they were going to have to walk right past the office on their way to lunch. Clay had placed himself in the perfect spot to see everyone—and be seen.

  He especially wanted the kids from his art class to see him standing there, to see that he hadn’t even gone into the office yet, to see that the envelope with the drawing was still in his hand, still taped shut. They’d all be talking about his drawing, he knew they would. They’d be talking about what BriAnne had whispered to James: “Clay’s really gonna get it this time.”

  And thinking about that brought the perfect smile to his face, the smile he wanted everyone to see, a smile that said, Yeah, that’s right—I’m doing this my way, same as always.

  While he was enjoying that thought and nodding at the kids who waved or caught his eye, Hank came up from his left and punched him on the arm.

  “That’s for gettin’ me yelled at in chorus!”

  Clay grinned and turned, then made a quick move like he was going to punch back. But he didn’t. “It was worth it,” he said.

  Hank smiled, agreeing. “What’re you waitin’ here for?” he said. “Let’s go eat.”

  Clay shook his head. “Can’t. Gotta go see the warden.”

  “Yeah? What’d you do now?”

  “I made a little drawing, that’s all.”

  Clay opened the brown envelope—just ripped off the tape, pulled out the picture, and held it up.

  Hank’s eyes bugged out so far that Clay thought they were going to pop and squirt slime everywhere.

  “Oh, man!” he gasped. “You are so dead! Mr. K. seen that yet?”

  Clay snorted. “What do you think?”

  Hank stared at the drawing, then at Clay, and then suddenly seemed terrified, speechless.

  “Yeah,” said Clay with a grin, “after that jackass gets a good look at this jackass, I don’t think I’ll be hangin’ out in the halls much, do you?”

  Hank shook his head, and then kept on shaking it, both eyebrows up as far as they would go.

  Clay started laughing, and when he noticed some other kids looking their way and pointing, he laughed even harder.

  “Please hand that to me.”

  The deep voice was right behind him.

  Clay stopped laughing. He turned around and gave the paper to Mr. Kelling. The principal looked at the drawing—and Hank slid three steps sideways and hurried toward the lunchroom.

  The principal glanced up from the picture straight into Clay’s eyes.

  “My office. Now.”

  Clay nodded and walked toward the doorway, being sure to keep a cool, carefree look on his face.

  But inside, he was actually grinning. This thing was shaping up just right—and he couldn’t wait to tell Mitch all about it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE FOLDER

  Mrs. Ormin loved her job. She and one part-time helper did the work of five people every school day. They dealt with the daily attendance, the substitute teachers, the before- and after-school programs, the PTO activities, the bus schedules, the constant correspondence and record keeping, and a never-ending flow of small and large emergencies. She accounted for every penny that came into or went out of the school. She ordered and tracked all the office and classroom supplies, and she managed the principal’s busy calendar. Mrs. Ormin had been the school secretary for nineteen years, and thanks to her, the office at Truman Elementary School was like a calm harbor, a safe haven of order and efficiency.

  Six years ago, shortly after Mr. Kelling became principal, the state board of education had issued a new rule: “Whenever a pupil is sent to a school officer for discipline, a second adult shall be present to observe and take notes.” And that rule had forced Mrs. Ormin into the least favorite part of her job.

  Since then, she had watched dozens and dozens of little children sit there in front of Mr. Kelling’s desk and burst into tears. He didn’t mean to make them cry—she was sure of that. But she could see why the kids got upset. The principal was a person with a lot of nervous energy, and he was always tapping a pencil or drumming his fingers or shaking his foot. It made him seem impatient. And when he had to discipline children, his voice usually got too loud. That twitchy little mustache of his didn’t help either—she could tell the children always stared at it when he was talking.

  The odd thi
ng was, he was terrific at working with the teachers. Mr. Kelling knew how to keep everything bright and upbeat and friendly—even when he was constantly insisting that everyone had to become better and better at teaching. Most of the staff liked and respected him. And he was also good at working with parents and the school committee and all the other people he had to speak with every day.

  But talking to one child, one young boy or girl? He never seemed to find the right tone. He would perch uncomfortably on the front edge of his chair, leaning forward, staring across his desk. Mr. Kelling blinked a lot, and his dark-rimmed glasses made his eyes seem extra large and bright. And seven times out of ten, a child would start to cry. Or whimper. Or moan and wail. Mrs. Ormin kept a box of tissues handy.

  The students always survived, of course, and they always told their friends how horrible it was to get sent to the principal’s office. Mrs. Ormin agreed. She disliked it almost as much as the kids did . . . except when Clay Hensley showed up.

  And here he was again. Was this his third time this month? Or was it the fourth? She couldn’t recall. What was the school going to do when this boy moved on to the junior high next year? Heave a deep sigh of relief, probably. But she felt pretty sure that she would miss him—secretly, of course. He certainly kept things interesting.

  Mrs. Ormin’s chair was to the right of the principal’s desk, and she sat with Clay’s student file folder on her lap. She also had her notepad and three sharpened pencils. She always brought extra pencils when Clay met with the principal.

  She looked at her watch. The principal had kept the boy waiting four minutes so far. She had seen Mr. Kelling do this before. He kept children waiting so they had time to think about their mistakes, time to realize how sorry they were. It had never worked on Clay before, and it wasn’t working today.

  He sat there in the hard plastic chair in front of the broad desk, perfectly calm, looking around the office as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He almost seemed happy. This child had never shed a tear in the principal’s office, hadn’t even come close. And how many times had he sat there in that chair?