The School Story Read online

  Riding into the city on Monday morning, her mom said, “We didn’t get to spend much time together this weekend, Nat. And you look so tired. Is it my imagination, or do you have a lot more homework lately?”

  Natalie smiled and said, “Yeah, there’s more homework, but I’m also doing some creative writing. That’s why I’ve been so busy.”

  “Creative writing for your English class?”

  Natalie paused and then said, “Well, sort of.”

  “Sometimes I think your English teacher goes overboard with the work. I mean, she’s good, and her comments on your assignments are excellent. But still, kids shouldn’t have to slave every second. I’m sorry I didn’t get to your open house so I could have met her. I have half a mind to call her and tell her to lay off every once in a while.”

  Natalie shook her head. “No, it’s not like that, Mom. This writing, it’s mostly something I’ve been working on—on my own.”

  Her mom smiled. “Well, I’m glad you enjoy writing, but you really need to get enough rest. And if you have enough time to go shopping with me or go to the movies now and then, that’d be nice too.”

  Natalie smiled back. “Sorry, Mom. Next weekend will be different, I promise.”

  • • • • •

  When the Publishing Club met in the Linden Room on Monday afternoon, Natalie gave a finished manuscript to Zoe and another one to Ms. Clayton. Blushing a little, she said, “I finished the book. You’ll have to read it and see if the ending’s any good.”

  Zoe hugged the stack of paper and said, “I can’t wait!”

  Ms. Clayton beamed and said, “Neither can I. I’m sure it’s going to be great, Natalie.”

  And when they met again early Tuesday morning, everyone agreed that the ending was perfect. The book was done. It was time to send it to a publisher.

  Now that the manuscript was ready, Zoe put her plan into high gear. At the end of English class on Tuesday afternoon Zoe handed Ms. Clayton a big brown envelope. During her free period Ms. Clayton opened it. There was a neatly typed letter from Zoe, and when she opened a separate, smaller envelope, she let out a gasp. The envelope contained five hundred dollars in cash.

  Ms. Clayton began reading Zoe’s letter:

  Dear Ms. Clayton:

  First of all, don’t get scared about the other envelope. I know it’s a lot of money, but it’s all mine from birthdays and holidays, and I can spend it any way I want to. It’s really mine. So don’t worry about that. Here’s what we need to do.

  As Ms. Clayton read Zoe’s detailed instructions her eyes got wider and wider.

  Mr. Archer, the headmaster, happened to walk past the open doorway of the Linden Room as Ms. Clayton was reading the second page of Zoe’s letter. He stopped and took a step into the room.

  “Laura?” he said.

  Ms. Clayton jerked her head up, saw Mr. Archer, and then slapped Zoe’s letter facedown onto the envelope of money.

  Mr. Archer looked concerned. He said, “Is everything all right?”

  “All . . . all right?” stammered Ms. Clayton. “Oh, oh yes, everything’s fine. I’m just . . . I . . . I’m just getting ready for my last class.”

  Mr. Archer smiled. “Sorry to startle you, but you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  Ms. Clayton’s laugh was forced and a little too shrill. “A ghost? Oh, no, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’m fine . . . really. Just fine.”

  “Well, good. I’m glad you’re fine.” Mr. Archer started to turn, and then stopped and said, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to remind you—we need to talk sometime this week to set up another classroom observation. I’ll put a note in your mailbox, all right?”

  Ms. Clayton nodded. “That’ll be fine. Thanks, Arthur.”

  Mr. Archer left, and Ms. Clayton turned the letter over and finished reading it. Then she went to the intercom by the door and called the office.

  “Yes, what is it?” The tinny speaker made the secretary’s voice sound even more nasal and harsh than it did in person. Mrs. Fratchi had been at the Deary School since the days when all the letters were typed on a manual typewriter and all the grade reports were written by hand. Of all the staff at the school, Mrs. Fratchi was the only one that Ms. Clayton hadn’t learned to call by her first name, which was Edna.

  “Mrs. Fratchi? This is Laura Clayton.”

  “I already know that. What is it, Miss Clayton?” Mrs. Fratchi didn’t believe in calling anyone “Ms.” To her, a woman was either a “Miss” or a “Mrs.”

  “Mrs. Fratchi, will you please ask Zoe Reisman to stop in and see me after school today?”

  “Do you have her schedule?”

  “N-no, but I know she’s in the gym this period.”

  “Very well. I’ll try to get the message to her.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fratchi.”

  There was no response. Mrs. Fratchi didn’t believe in saying “You’re welcome,” either.

  • • • • •

  When Zoe showed up at the Linden Room after school, Ms. Clayton didn’t mince words. She held up Zoe’s letter and the envelope of money and said, “Listen, Zoe. I just don’t feel right about this. You’re asking me to go and spend a lot of money. You want me to rent an office and hire a receptionist and everything else, and I . . . I . . . I just don’t know. Where will all of this end up?”

  Zoe was unmoved. “Where will it end up? With Natalie’s book getting published, that’s where. And we’re not really renting an office. Did you read my whole letter? We’re just going to one of those instant office places. We pay three hundred fifty dollars, and for that we get to use their mailing address, and we get our own phone number and a fax number and an answering machine, and if someone calls during business hours, the reception lady answers the phone and says, ‘Sherry Clutch Literary Agency, may I help you?’ We only have to pay for a month at a time, and none of this is wrong. People do this all the time when they want to go into business. If I was old enough, I could do it myself—but I’m not, so that’s the part that you have to do.”

  Ms. Clayton felt trapped. She imagined herself having to explain all this to Mr. Archer. She saw herself sitting in a heavy chair in the oak-paneled boardroom on the fifth floor, facing all the sober, frowning trustees of the Deary School. She imagined being charged with unprofessional behavior and never being able to teach again.

  She gave a little smile and said, “I know what you’re asking me to do, Zoe, but I’d feel so much better if I could talk to your parents about it. In fact, don’t you think you should ask them to help you do all this? Why not get them involved?”

  Zoe pressed her lips together. “I’m not getting my parents involved, because when you get parents involved, they take over—at least that’s what mine would do. This is something that Natalie and I want to do on our own. If we got my dad or my mom into it, then it wouldn’t be like doing it ourselves, that’s all. It just wouldn’t be. And we came to you because, well . . . because you’re nice. And smart.”

  Zoe paused for about five seconds, and then she said, “But if you don’t want to be our adviser, that’s okay. I mean, Natalie thought you would be the best one, and so did I. But if you don’t think you can help us, then I guess we’ll have to ask someone else.” Zoe paused again and then said, “I think Mr. Karswell might help us, don’t you?”

  Ms. Clayton saw what Zoe was doing. Zoe was calling her a coward, and she was saying that Mr. Karswell wouldn’t be. And Zoe was probably right. Mr. Karswell taught social studies. He had been at the school for about five years, and he had a reputation for being sort of a rebel. He was the editor of the school newspaper, and he coached the varsity soccer team. He was always bursting with energy, and he ran in the New York Marathon every fall, and last summer he had paddled his kayak up the Hudson River all the way to the Adirondack Mountains. And on top of all that, he was good looking. Sooner or later almost every girl at the Deary School got a crush on Mr. Karswell. Even Ms. Clayton.

  Ms. Clayto
n blushed. Zoe had cut off every possible escape. If she backed out now, she would brand herself a coward. And she was not a coward. Even if she had never run a marathon.

  Ms. Clayton was learning the same lesson that Zoe’s older sisters had learned years ago: to argue is to lose.

  • • • • •

  Forty-five minutes later Laura Clayton was sitting at a small desk in the reception area of Offices Unlimited, filling out paperwork.

  Name of Business: Sherry Clutch Literary Agency

  Nature of Business: author representation

  Renter’s Name: Laura S. Clayton

  Term of Rental: x monthly _____year

  That part of the form was simple. It was all simple, just like Zoe had said it would be. Zoe had done her research well.

  Then Ms. Clayton checked off the services Zoe had asked for:

  REQUIRED SERVICES:

  x phone answering x voice-mail service x beeper x fax receiving ___E-mail x postal service ___stenographic service ___messenger service ___Federal Express service ___desktop computer ___laptop computer ___Internet access ___office space, furnished ___office space, unfurnished

  There was a lot of fine print at the bottom of the form, and then a line for a signature. Laura paused, then took a deep breath, signed the sheet, and stood up to hand it across the counter to the office manager. The young woman calculated the first month’s rent, then looked up and said, “That’ll be three hundred forty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. How will you be paying today?”

  Laura opened her purse and started to reach for Zoe’s cash, then had a flash of inspiration. Instead of Zoe’s money she grabbed her own billfold, opened it, and pulled out her MasterCard. She handed it to the lady. “I’ll be using this, thanks.”

  Instantly Ms. Clayton felt so much better. Maybe helping the girls was a crazy idea, and maybe she shouldn’t be doing it at all, but at least she could keep every bit of Zoe’s cash safe and sound. No one would be able to accuse her of wasting the money of a poor, defenseless child. Thinking of Zoe as “a poor, defenseless child” almost made Ms. Clayton burst out laughing.

  Three minutes later the office manager handed Ms. Clayton four things: a small black beeper; a sheet that listed the new phone number, the new fax number, and the mailing address; a separate sheet that told “How to Record Your Company’s Outgoing Voice-Mail Message,” “How to Call and Retrieve Your Voice-Mail,” and “How to Use Your Beeper.” The fourth thing she gave Ms. Clayton was a receipt for the payment.

  Offices Unlimited was on upper Broadway, only about five blocks from Ms. Clayton’s apartment. So on her way home she stopped at her bank and opened a new savings account. She deposited $347.75 of Zoe’s cash. Ms. Clayton tucked the new passbook into the bottom of her purse. Then she put the receipt for the office in the envelope with the leftover money. That way, when she gave Zoe the envelope, it would look like she had used the cash to pay for the office.

  Walking up Broadway with a spring in her step, Ms. Clayton felt alive, energized. The smell of pizza mixed with the exhaust from the 104 bus, and the streetlights seemed bright and cheery in the gathering dusk. As she turned right onto Ninety-eighth Street, Ms. Clayton thought about what she’d just done—the office, the money, the beeper, the new savings account. And she smiled. She was glad she hadn’t sent Zoe and Natalie looking for another adviser. She thought, I did it! The Sherry Clutch Literary Agency is ready for action. I am Ms. Clayton the Fearless, Ms. Clayton the Bold!

  Then after another ten steps she thought, Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I’m the slightly wacky Ms. Clayton, that’s who I am. But whatever happens, I’m going to be right in the middle of it—and it’s going to be an adventure!

  CHAPTER 13

  Open for Business

  By Friday afternoon everything was set.

  Zoe had put all the right numbers on the Sherry Clutch stationery, and she had had fifty sheets printed up on good-quality paper at a Kwik Kopy shop on Lexington Avenue. She’d also had twenty-five large self-stick address labels printed.

  Natalie made some last-minute changes to her novel and then printed two double-spaced copies of the manuscript, one for the publisher and one to keep for herself. The manuscript was ninety-seven pages, and the title page said:

  The Cheater

  by Cassandra Day

  Looking at it gave Natalie goose bumps.

  The first phone call to Hannah Nelson would be important, and Zoe was worried.

  Zoe and Natalie were in gym class on Friday afternoon. Zoe said, “So, when I call your mom today, she’s got to say it’s okay for me to send her the manuscript, and then when she gets it, she’s got to want to read it.” Zoe was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “My dad told me that when you want a person to agree with you, never ask a question they can answer by saying no. But I don’t get how to do that, do you?”

  Natalie shook her head and shrugged. They were both quiet, sitting on a rolled-up tumbling mat, waiting for their turn on the balance beam.

  Then Natalie had an idea. She said, “How about if you don’t talk to her at all?”

  Zoe said, “What do you mean?”

  And when Natalie told her, Zoe nodded and said, “Of course! That’s it! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Natalie grinned and said, “Because sometimes brilliant writers have to help their stupid agents, that’s why.”

  • • • • •

  By 3:10 the Deary School had gotten pretty quiet. At exactly 3:15 Natalie called her mom from the pay phone on the wall outside the office.

  “Hannah Nelson.”

  “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I’m still at school, so I’m going to be a little late. How’s your day going?”

  As soon as her mom answered, Natalie turned and gave a thumbs-up to Ms. Clayton, who was watching from down the hall. Ms. Clayton walked briskly to the Linden Room, stuck her head inside the door, and said, “Okay, Zoe. Natalie’s talking to her mom.”

  Zoe sat down at Ms. Clayton’s desk and quickly dialed seven numbers on her cell phone, then pushed the Send button. Ten seconds later she heard Natalie’s mom’s voice: “You’ve reached Hannah Nelson at Shipley Junior Books. I’m on another call or away from my desk right now. Please leave your name and number after the tone and I’ll call you back.”

  Zoe had practiced her agent voice for the past two days, driving Natalie nuts with it. Zoe always talked fast anyway, but Zee Zee talked even faster. Zee Zee’s voice was also deeper, but most of all it was louder. Zoe had decided that Zee Zee should be loud.

  So after the beep on the voice mail Zee Zee jumped right into her prepared message. Ms. Clayton stood guard in the hallway outside the Linden Room, and she could hear Zoe’s performance right through the door: “Hannah—this is Zee Zee Reisman from the Sherry Clutch Agency? Listen, I’ve got this terrific manuscript by an author named Cassandra Day. You’ve got to read this. I’ve got a messenger bringing it to your office this afternoon. You really have to read this. Even though this is her first novel, I know a lot of editors will be interested, but Cassandra wanted Shipley to see it first because she likes a lot of the other books you’ve done there. I’m in and out a lot, but you can phone me at 212-555-8878. If I’m not in, the office will beep me. Let me know what you think as soon as you can, ’cause like I said, this is a hot one. Thanks a lot—bye.”

  Zoe’s heart was racing as she hung up the phone.

  Ms. Clayton walked back to the corner of the hallway and waved to Natalie. Natalie ended her talk with her mom by saying, “Well, I’ll be leaving in a few minutes, so I’ll be there in about half an hour or so.”

  Her mom said, “No need to hurry. I’d like to get out of here early this afternoon, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. Letha’s on the warpath, and my phone’s been ringing all day long. So bring your homework, honey. See you soon.”

  • • • • •

  Natalie got off the elevator at Shipley Junior Books at 4:25. She walked to the desk and handed a thick br
own envelope to the receptionist. Natalie smiled and said, “A messenger brought this—it’s for my mom. Do you need to check it in, or can I take it right back to her?”

  He looked at the address label and said, “All it needs is a date stamp and my initials.” The stamp made a mechanical ca-chonk sound as he pressed it onto the front of the envelope, and then he scribbled his initials below the date. Now the package looked official. “Here you go.” He handed the envelope back to Natalie, then pushed the security button to open the door for her.

  Natalie wound her way through the maze to her mom’s office. Her mouth was dry. Even though she’d been here a hundred times, she felt like a spy sneaking into a strange building.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  As her mom swung her chair around and smiled, Natalie glanced at the phone console on the desk beside the computer screen. The Message Waiting light was dark. That meant her mom had already listened to Zee Zee’s message.

  “Here,” Natalie said, and she handed the envelope to her mom. “This is for you.”

  Hannah Nelson looked at the envelope. The large address label was printed in bright green ink. She read the return address aloud. “‘The Sherry Clutch Literary Agency’? I just had a message from this agent, but I don’t think I know her. . . . Oh, well.” And she dropped the envelope onto the papers beside her computer. “Could you get me a juice or something, Natalie? I didn’t even stop for lunch today.”

  Natalie returned with two bottles of apple juice and some shortbread cookies. Her mom held up her bottle for a toast, and when Natalie clinked it, her mom said, “Here’s to our weekend!”

  And at that moment Letha walked in. She stepped across the space carefully and leaned over to look at Hannah’s computer screen. Natalie caught the sharp scent of Letha’s perfume and took a step backward.

  With a strained smile Letha said, “I love the weekend too, but I don’t think it’s quite here yet. Have you double-checked all those revisions, Hannah? The production manager is calling me for that text every half hour, and we can’t get out of here until it’s released.”