Anybody who thought Debbie Bartacelli was going to be shy was wrong. Anybody who thought she wasn’t smart was doubly wrong. In two weeks she published the first edition of The Icon, Eli Whitney’s first and probably last newspaper.

There was a page of articles:

“A Comparison of Eighth-Grade Mating Behavior with the Bugling of the American Elk” (a discussion of the characteristics of each), “Asteroid Destroys Dinosaurs” (how a giant asteroid hit the Yucatan peninsula sixty-five million years ago and may have led to the dinosaur extinction), “Chickadee Chokes on Balloon” (on the dangers of releasing masses of helium balloons), and “Do Fingernails Grow after Death?” (insights from a mortician’s journal).

Everybody thought it was pretty weird, especially how underneath the name of the paper Debbie added the quote, “I only gave you an onion, nothing but a tiny little onion, that’s all, that’s all!”

At the very end of the paper she offered a five-dollar reward for the answer to the question: “In what piece of literature would one find the devil in a cube of ice?”

Nobody in Eli Whitney had ever seen anyone quite like Debbie. She had a lot of intelligence and a lot of courage, which made Mr. Huber, our principal, suspicious.

The day after the paper came out, he called her into his office, and she told our whole English class about it.

“The poor man’s scared to death I’m going to stir up the status quo, which of course is exactly what I plan to do. And I need people to help. Volunteers?”

Nobody said a word.

Finally one hand went up.

“Franklin?” Debbie asked. “Can you write?”

“No,” he answered. “I can draw. I’ll be the cartoonist.”

Everybody groaned. But Debbie said, “Good, I’ll take you. Anyone else?”

I stared at my desk. Then Mrs. Noble cleared her throat and said, “Thank you, Jesse. You’re a good writer.”

I looked up. “I didn’t raise my hand!”

“But you will help, won’t you?” Debbie said, staring at me. I couldn’t tell if she was frowning or smiling. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“I’m not afraid,” I said, “it’s not that. I just don’t want to.” Actually, I was afraid—not of Mr. Huber, but of being part of a group made up of Frankenstein and Debbie Bartacelli with the crooked face. It was too much.

“It’s time to start class now,” Mrs. Noble announced. “You can have your newspaper meetings before school.”

When the bell rang, Debbie brushed by my desk. “See you tomorrow at seven-fifteen. Don’t be late,” she said, just as if I'd agreed to come.

The next morning at seven-fifteen Debbie didn’t seem a bit surprised that I showed up. Frankenstein was there, too. The misfits, I thought, ready to begin. Still, it was something to do and I was curious. It might be better than Saturday-night wrestling on TV. Debbie and Frankenstein, Round One.

Debbie stood at the front of the room and spoke loudly, as if the room was full of reporters. “First off, you all should know,” she began, taking off her thick glasses and rubbing the scars around her eyes, “according to Mr. Huber, I can keep the paper as long as I don’t get too controversial. I think that means to leave out God, sex, and four-letter words. Subversive ideas are okay.”

Mrs. Noble, who was working at her desk, chuckled.

“What are subversive ideas?” Frankenstein wanted to know. “The kind perverts have?”

“I was being facetious,” Debbie answered.

“I thought you were just being weird,” Frankenstein said. We hadn’t met five minutes and things were already falling apart.

“For your information,” Debbie began, “the word subversive has to do with ideas that are formed with the intent of overthrowing the government, of which, I’m sure, you are quite capable. And facetious means funny, which you are not.”

“I’m not staying.” Frankenstein stood and headed for the door.

“Sit down,” Debbie commanded. Strangely, he stopped. “You’ve got a lot of talent. I saw that Bride of Cyclops thing. You know, the picture that was supposed to be me? It looked just like me. And it was funny. Now sit down and shut up. You’re the Icon cartoonist and you’re not allowed to quit.”

Frankenstein stood there looking confused. This newspaper idea was going to be more interesting than I had first thought.

“So how are we paying for this paper?” I asked. “It’ll cost money to get it printed.” I thought it was time for an intelligent question.

“My mother,” Debbie answered. She told us how her face had gotten messed up in a car wreck when she was ten and how her mother had been killed in the crash. “My mother was a journalist, and she left a sum of money for my education. I’am using some of it for The Icon.”

Everybody knew Debbie lived with her aunt, who owned the only beauty shop in town. Her father, a professor in language studies, was traveling in Europe. “I’am between surgeries,” she added, “and The Icon gives me a place to focus my nervous energy.”

“What kind of name is Icon?” I asked.

“An icon is a symbol. It works kind of like a window. You look through it to see something more important on the other side.”

“Weird,” Frankenstein said. For once, I had to agree with him.

Later, I told Roxanne about our first meeting and all about Debbie. We were sitting in the tearoom, which is what she called her living room. There wasn’t a couch since she always said furniture tied her down too much. She had on this purple satin robe with a map of Guam embroidered on the back, and we were eating popcorn and drinking hot peppermint tea.

“She knows he wrote the Frog Face note and drew the Bride of Cyclops picture, and she still wants Frankenstein on the paper,” I said.

Roxanne sipped at her tea slowly. She stared past me in deep thought. “Debbie’s turned out so well. What I mean is, in spite of the accident. On top of that, she has to wear her pain all the time for everyone to see.”

“And for creeps like Frankenstein to make fun of,” I added.

“Frankenstein.” Roxanne shook her head. “What kind of name is that?”

“One that fits,” I answered. “We don’t usually call him that to his face, though.”

“It just seems so cruel,” she said softly, tracing her finger around the rim of her teacup.

“What? Debbie or Frankenstein?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Believe me, Roxanne, Frankenstein’s name is perfect for him. And Debbie, she can hold her own.”

“Jesse?” Roxanne’s face knotted into a frown.

“Yeah? Are you sick?”

Roxanne ran her fingers through her hair. “Some things in life just never seem to fit right.”

I didn’t understand her at all, and for once Doris Ray came knocking at the right time.

“It’s my sister. I gotta go.”

Roxanne said she’d see me tomorrow, and when I left she was still sitting on the floor in a patch of light from the window.