3
I think we’d better go along with the Code,” I said.
Julie agreed, tentatively. “I suppose.”
“We haven’t got much choice,” said Toby.
We were walking home along Riverside Drive, where Julie and I are next door neighbours. Toby lives further along on the way out of town.
“We can try to be polite and respectful, right?” I said. “I mean, it’s not as if we behave badly at school and get in trouble all the time.” Toby — who has a habit of running off at the mouth — raised his eyebrows, and I added, “You’ll just have to watch what you say.”
“We’ll help you,” Julie offered.
“How?”
“We’ll tell you to shut up.”
“Great! That’s very polite and respectful,” said Toby.
He’d been plodding heavily a step or two behind us, as usual. Twice already we’d had to wait for him to catch his breath.
“What’s the rush, guys?” Toby complained, stopping again. His hair and forehead were dripping from sweat. He took a few deep breaths, then trudged along, saying, “But even if I manage to keep quiet, my average is nowhere near sixty-five, so I’ll get a demerit for that, anyway. Mr. Justason must think we’re all geniuses.”
“We’ll help you with your work, too,” I said.
“It might be too late,” said Toby. “We get our marks next week.”
“It’s the stuff about how you dress that worries me,” said Julie. She stopped, put her foot on a fire hydrant, and fingered the thin silver chain around her ankle. “I’m not taking this off.”
I’d given it to her for her last birthday. Toby was the only other person who knew this.
“Keep it,” he urged. “It’s really cool.”
“But do you suppose it’s okay?” Julie asked.
“Everyone on the team thinks we should go along with the Code,” I said. “I’ll tell Mr. Justason tomorrow.”
A week later, at the start of social studies class — the same day we were supposed to play Keswick Narrows — Mr. Justason gave us our averages. Magic had ninety-nine. Julie and I were in the eighties, and Brian surprised himself by clearing seventy.
But Toby had fifty-five.
Mr. Justason, who was walking around the class as we looked at our marks, stopped at Toby’s desk and asked, “What sort of a mark is that?”
“Well,” said Toby. “It’s not a prime number …”
“Don’t start,” I warned.
But Toby was on a rant. “… and it’s one more than fifty-four, and one less than fifty-six …”
“That will do,” said Mr. Justason.
“… and it’s eleven times bigger than five, and five times bigger than eleven.”
“Enough!” Mr. Justason snapped.
“It’s forty-five less than a perfect score of one hundred — that’s the bad news — but it’s fifty-five more than zero, and that’s the good news, because zero would be a really embarrassing average, even for me …”
Julie leaned across the aisle, punched Toby on the shoulder, and whispered, “TO-BY! SHUT UP!”
Toby jumped, curling the paper in his hands.
Mr. Justason said, “Thank you for the math lecture, Toby. Your rudeness earns you one demerit. Add that to the demerit you receive for your poor mark, and you’ll be benched for this afternoon’s game.”
While Toby was ranting, Brian had started making drum sounds. I turned around, trying to catch his eye, but he was already in another world.
His eyes were closed and he was leaning back; his chair tilted on two legs, and his arms beat imaginary drums. “Boom-chucka-chucka —”
“Brian!” Mr. Justason suddenly roared.
“Wha …?” Brian stopped, opened his eyes, shook his head as if he was waking up, and looked around, blinking.
Mr. Justason looked grim. “You receive a demerit for disruptive behaviour. You’ll be on the bench for half this afternoon’s game.”
At dismissal, Julie rose from her desk and stretched. As she lifted her arms over her head, her T-shirt rode up and briefly exposed her midriff.
Mr. Justason said, “Your T-shirt is inappropriately short, Julie.”
Julie quickly lowered her arms, pulled her T-shirt over her jeans, and said, “Sorry, sir.”
“That earns you one demerit. You’ll spend half this afternoon’s game on the bench with Toby and Brian.”
“That’s not fair!” Julie threw up her hands in disgust. “I shouldn’t get a demerit because of my T-shirt style. That’s an infringement of personal expression.”
Ironically, Julie had learned this in a unit on human rights we’d done with Justason.
“Your right to personal expression ends where my right not to be offended begins,” Mr. Justason shot back.
“How are we supposed to know where that is?” Julie demanded.
“You just found out,” said Mr. Justason.
Julie opened her mouth as if she was going to answer back.
I whispered, “Leave it.”
Julie waited until the principal had left the room, then roared, “Just because my T-shirt is a bit short, I’m benched for a soccer game?”
She was angry now, pointing her finger at me.“You’re going to have to do something,” she ordered.
“Why me?”
“You’re the captain of the soccer team. Talk some sense into Mr. Justason.”
“Let’s see if things settle down,” I pleaded. “Mr. Justason’s just trying to impress Mrs. Stuart and Ms. Dugalici. Once they calm down, things will be back to normal.”
“They’d better be.”
“Anyway, you can’t just ignore rules.”
“You can stupid ones,” said Julie. “What do you say, Toby?”
Toby was eating his recess snack. “Whatever,” he shrugged.
“Don’t get too worked up,” said Julie, and flounced out of the classroom.
By the time school ended, I’d decided how to face Keswick Narrows with some of our top players missing. Julie would play the first half, and Brian the second. I’d start in goal.
Just before the game, however, I had to reorganize all over again because the twins both received demerits for giggling in the hallway.
“What was so funny?” Miss Little asked.
They looked at each other and started laughing again.
“Jessica sneezed and farted,” said Jillian.
They stood in front of us like naughty children, hands behind their backs and chins down. Then they collapsed in giggles again.
“Sorry,” they spluttered together.
Miss Little sighed. “Jessica, you stay out for the first half, and Jillian for the second. We’ll have to manage with only eight players.”
“What am I supposed to do — just sit and watch?” asked Toby.
“You can be our cheerleader,” suggested Brian.
“You better give me something to cheer about, then,” said Toby.
But there wasn’t anything to cheer about. Despite good defense work, we lost 5–0.
After the game, Toby and Brian put away the benches, while Julie and I collected the soccer shirts for Miss Little to take home and wash. By the time we’d changed, everyone else had gone.
When Brian came out of the change room and saw the long empty hallway in front of him, he ran with his arms out, making a loud, nasal “Nnnyeeeeaaar” sound, like a plane.
Julie took off after him, shooting at him with an imaginary cannon.
Toby let out a low roar, warning, “Here comes the Big Bomber.”
Brian wheeled around and faced Julie. At the same time Mr. Justason appeared from his office. Unable to stop, Julie crashed into Brian. Toby, lumbering down the hallway behind them, skidded on the tile and tumbled over, too. The three of them lay in a heap on the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Mr. Justason icily.
“Having a crash landing,” suggested Brian.
“Sorry,” said Toby.
Julie and Brian added quickly, “Sorry, Mr. Justason.”
“It’s too late for sorry. You each receive two demerits, one for irresponsible behaviour and another for disrespectful conduct.”
He marched back into his office.
Outside school, Toby said suddenly, “I’ve got four demerits! I’m finished soccer for the year.”
Julie gasped, “I’ve got three. I’m finished, too.”
“And me,” Brian groaned.
“This is ridiculous,” Julie fumed. “We have three players on the bench and we’re supposed to play Westfield Ridge next week. Who knows how many will be suspended by then?”
She looked expectantly at me.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Justason tomorrow,” I promised.
Before I confronted Mr. Justason the next day, I decided to talk to Miss Little. I got the chance when Julie and I went to the library for Book Club, where we help little kids with their reading. My reading buddy was absent, so while Julie read with her partner, I went in search of Miss Little.
Brunswick Valley School is small. The primary wing and the elementary wing meet in an L-shape, with the playground between them. It’s an old, two-storey school made of brick, and looks like a prison, with several windows bricked in to save heat. The remaining windows are painted drab yellow. I walked through the pink and green hallways — painted those colours to cheer the place up — to the primary wing, and found Miss Little in her classroom, sitting among the kindergarten kids’ little chairs and tables. At first I thought she was working, but then realized she was just sitting there thinking.
She looked up and said, “Hello, Shay, dear. What can I do for you?”
Miss Little always calls us “dear.” It’s another of her kindergarten habits.
I was going to ask her to come with me to speak to Mr. Justason, but she looked so troubled I decided not to bother her.
“Nothing, Miss Little. Thanks.”
She looked at me over the top of her big glasses. “Something must be wrong, dear, or you wouldn’t be standing there so awkwardly.”
“Julie, Toby and Brian are all suspended from soccer,” I blurted out.
“Mr. Justason told me.”
“So the team is down to eight players.”
Miss Little shook her head. “Seven. Linh-Mai received a demerit this morning.”
“We can’t play Westfield Ridge with only seven on the team,” I said. “Can’t we bring in some new players?”
“League rules say that if the school suspends a student from soccer, that player cannot be replaced.”
“Could we talk to Mr. Justason, and ask him to ease up on the Code of Conduct?” I said desperately.
“We can try. Let’s go now.”
As we approached Mr. Justason’s office, we heard voices through the half-closed door.
“How is the Drive for Discipline going?”
I recognized Mrs. Stuart’s voice.
“I’ve started by making an example of the soccer players,” Mr. Justason answered. “They’re popular in the school; once word gets around that they are being disciplined, all the other students will fall into line.”
“Excellent,” said Mrs. Stuart.
“We can’t eavesdrop,” Miss Little whispered, leading me away. “Besides, I don’t think there’s much point in talking to Mr. Justason right now, do you? I’ll try another day.”