How would you get a gross, stained piece of paper out of a broken vending machine? I came up with three ideas:
1. Break the glass
2. Drill a hole in the back
3. Flip the machine upside down and hope the paper comes loose
Of course, Nathan says I can get the paper out without taking the machine apart or smashing anything. He promised. And I can’t exactly turn the whole thing on its head since I am not, last time I checked, the Hulk. Or the Thing. Or the Hulking Thing Who Hulks Things. I’m me, and I can barely lift my algebra textbook.
Madison’s come up with a few suggestions of his own:
4. Fix the machine and pay for the paper to come out
5. Ask Principal Dorset to open the machine for you
6. Get one of the Shrubs to flip the machine upside down and hope the paper comes loose
Problem is, I wouldn’t even know where to start when it comes to fixing a vending machine, and with all my time outside of school pretty much taken up with fitness consultations, I don’t have any way to learn. I guess I could follow Madison’s train of thought and ask someone else for help, but I don’t want to involve any more people than I already have. And there’s no way Principal Dorset would help me, Mr. Where-Do-Babies-Come-From, and even if we could get somebody else to open it or even if someone else asked him instead of me, he’d still find out, and he’d put a stop to it before it could ever happen.
That leaves Zack’s suggestions:
7. Take a paper towel roll, stick it into the bottom of the machine, and blow really hard
8. Play loud music on the floor; the bass will create vibrations that will dislodge the paper
9. Dump pool balls onto the bottom, then do shots with a cue stick until one of the balls goes flying onto the paper, dislodging it
10. Let a mouse loose in the machine and wait for him to return with the paper
11. Make “paper magnets” by taping bits of paper to the ends of magnets
12. Key in the secret code that automatically opens up all the rings, even when the machine is turned off
I shouldn’t have to tell you why none of those would work.
And there’s also this bonus problem of not only finding a solution that works, but finding one I can pull off while there’s a zillion people around. The vending machine is in the middle of a main hall, after all, and I can’t exactly go messing around with wiring or dumping mice in the bin in the middle of a school day. After school doesn’t work either—like I said, all my free time is basically going to be spent in the pool, trying kickboard-free strokes. But is that me making an excuse for not being smart enough?
Here I am, Alan Cole, the boy who got beat by a vending machine.
“Coming, Alan?” Miss Richter calls from her room. Sighing, I stop staring at the machine and walk into Miss Richter’s room. The three-sided square of desks is empty now, and Miss Richter lords over papers as she sips her coffee thermos. “Don’t be late for detention, please,” she says.
Detention. The word conjures up scary images of being locked in a jail cell, forced to write I shall be a good, obedient child four hundred times or until your wrist falls off, whichever comes first. They say your first one’s the hardest. After that, it gets easier, and before you know it, you have a criminal rap sheet the size of Discovering America, and you’re setting off stink bombs in the teachers’ lounge.
“Where’s Talia?” I ask, taking my usual seat.
“She took her detention this morning with Mrs. Ront,” Miss Richter says. “It’s just you and me.”
“What do we do in detention?”
“We don’t do anything,” she says, finally looking at me. “You sit quietly and do your homework, and I sit quietly and grade things. It’s an exhilarating time, really.”
I nod. I open up my science homework, ready to memorize more elements on the periodic table, but before I get very far, Miss Richter says, “Or I could give you a special project.”
A special project? “What is it?”
“I could use some help cleaning and sorting things. If you want to work on your homework though, that’s fine.”
Doing mindless work like this might free up my brain to think about the vending machine more. “I’ll help you,” I say.
I kind of hope I get to use Miss Richter’s extendable pointer, but instead she sets me up with some whiteboard cleaner and a rag. When I squeeze the spray nozzle, I gag a little. “This smells horrible.”
“I never said the job was glamorous,” Miss Richter says. “Make sure to mention all the abuse I’ve put you through at your parent-teacher conference tomorrow.”
The bottle of cleaner makes a dull thud as I drop it on the floor. “Parent-teacher conference? T-Tomorrow?”
Miss Richter raises both eyebrows. “They’re scheduled to run all week for ASPEN Saplings. You’re supposed to come in with a parent tomorrow night. Tell me you didn’t forget.”
Well, forget is the wrong word. More like, bury it in my brain and hope it went away forever.
“You’ve been acting a little distracted for a few days now, Alan. Is everything okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
She watches me for a few more seconds, then goes back to her papers. Slowly I pick up the cleaner and rag and start wiping again. Dad will want to come. He always wants to put on a good impression. But maybe I can snag Mom instead. Maybe Dad will be so mad at me he won’t want anything to do with me. I did manage to keep my detention, my induction into the Evergreen Troublemakers Hall of Fame, quiet from him. The last thing I need is for Dad to have any more reasons to be disappointed in me.
The fireplace dances in my eyes, the flames searing, ripping, destroying. I shudder and get back to wiping.
After a little while of me spraying and cleaning, Miss Richter asks from her desk, “Who’s your hero, Alan?”
I stop. “My hero?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I want to do a unit on heroes across history. Who do you aspire to be like? Who inspires you?”
“Uh,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“There’s nobody? Nobody you look at and think, this is who I want to become like?”
Is there? I mean, I really admire some artists, like Picasso, but I’ve never thought of them as heroes. I don’t really look up to anyone I know personally. But is it really okay for a twelve-year-old boy to not have a hero? Isn’t it some kind of sacrilege, a sin against the commandments of being a kid?
“Maybe Batman?”
Right when it comes out I turn red. Come on—a comic book character? Miss Richter doesn’t laugh though. Instead she asks, “Why is Batman your hero?”
“I guess he’s really tough, and he’s got lots of cool stuff, and—I don’t know, Miss Richter, I’ve never really thought about this before.”
“Hmmm,” Miss Richter hums, drumming her fingers on her desk. “Could you ever see yourself fighting crime alongside Batman? He has sidekicks, doesn’t he?”
Alan the Robin. I used to fantasize about that, about flying away into the sky and starting a life of spectacular crime-fighting and bright, flashy costumes and gadgets and—
“No,” I say. “I could never do that. I’m not a hero.” I scrub at a patch of grime on the whiteboard.
Miss Richter stops talking for a bit. Then she asks, “Do you know what an introvert is, Alan?”
“An animal without a spine,” I say glumly.
“That’s an invertebrate. An introvert is somebody who gets drained by being around people and energized by being by themselves. If you’re the opposite, you’re an extrovert. Which one do you think you are?”
“Definitely the first one.”
“I’d say so,” my teacher continues. She takes a sip of her coffee. “People often think the only way to be a hero is to be an extrovert, because they work better around people. But introverts can problem solve too. Just because you’re not going out fighting crime in long underwear doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero. You don’t need superpowers to be super. Or a good kid. Remember that, Alan.”
I polish the last bit of grime on the board. “Batman doesn’t have superpowers.”
“Exactly.” Miss Richter sounds like her whole argument was leading up to that point, but I’d be willing to bet my teacher doesn’t even know the difference between the Joker and the Riddler. Still . . .
She walks over to the board as I set the chemical-smelling cleaner on the floor. “Looks like it was bought yesterday,” she says.
I raise my head and she’s looking at me, smiling. She’s young for a teacher, but she’s already got lines by her mouth and eyes, and she barely wears any makeup, and her hair’s kept short, and her eyes . . . her eyes give off this light. I’d probably do that with shading around the bottom of her eyelids to emphasize the brightness inside her eyes, and maybe some focus on the upper half of her face, and I realize right then and there I don’t know Miss Richter’s first name, I don’t know the first thing about her apart from the fact that she’s my homeroom and social studies teacher, but if I look at her face long enough I’ll—I’ll—
“Alan?” she says. “Earth to Alan?”
“You’re right,” I say. “You don’t have to be loud to change the world. You just need to—”
I trail off once I realize I don’t actually know what you need to do. But my half answer seems good enough for Miss Richter, who smiles again and says, “See what happens when you listen to your teachers? You actually learn things. Who knew? Now come on, help me sort these papers. . . .”