Free The Wizzle War by Gordon Korman Page B

She looked desperately at the sea of red faces and burst into tears herself.
    Miss Peabody remained unmoved. After another five minutes, voices began to grow hoarse and, slowly but surely, the wailing petered out. Cathy kept crying to rally the girls, but finally the last echo of her wailing bounced off the walls and the room fell into total silence.
    Miss Peabody stepped forward and fixed them all with a look that would have melted lead. “Are you quite finished with that blubbering?”
    The only reply was the sound of Miss Scrimmage blowing her nose.
    “I’ll see you all out on the track this afternoon. You wasted ten good minutes! Ten good laps should cover it.
    “Now, I want to tell you about our new program. You girls lack spirit, excitement and initiative. That’s why I’m dividing up the whole school into four squadrons by last names. A to G — Blue Squadron; H to L — Red Squadron; M to R — Green Squadron; S to Z — White Squadron. Now, instead of calisthenics in the morning I’ll be teaching you how to march. Then you’re on your own to practise and get ready for Saturday’s parade.”
    There was an alarmed murmur.
    “Stow it! The squadron that presents the best parade gets an overnight trip somewhere or other with Miss Scrimmage. Okay, that’s all. Dismissed. See you on the track.”
    As the girls began to file out of the gym, Cathy leaned overto Diane. “Did you hear that? A trip with Miss Scrimmage! That means a trip without Peabody!”
    “Overnight!” added Diane wistfully.
    Cathy’s face took on a look of determination. “We’re going to win that parade! I’d do anything for a twenty-four-hour pass!”
    * * *
    Mr. Wizzle ushered Wilbur Hackenschleimer briskly into his office. “Well, Hacken, and how are you today?”
    Wilbur looked at him. “That’s Hackenschleimer, sir.”
    “Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Hackenschleimer — that’s fifteen letters. WizzleWare doesn’t like that. Our programs conserve memory for improved processing speed. Twelve letters is the maximum. I’ve decided to shorten your name down to Hacken.”
    Wilbur was taken aback. “But, sir, we’ve always been Hackenschleimer!”
    “It’s all in the interests of efficiency, Hacken,” said Mr. Wizzle. “Besides, I think it has quite a nice ring to it. Wilbur Hacken. Yes. When you turn eighteen you should seriously consider having it changed permanently. Well, that’s settled then.”
    Wilbur’s face was red. “But, sir —”
    “No buts, Hacken. That’s all. You can go. Try to cut down on the eating, will you? Good day.”
    Big Wilbur Hackenschleimer stormed out of the office. By the time he stepped out of the Faculty Building he was running, and when he reached Dormitory 3 his pounding footsteps wereshaking the ground. He entered the building, stormed down the hall and burst unannounced into room 306. Boots was out. Bruno and Elmer, discussing strategy, looked up questioningly.
    “Bruno,” roared Wilbur, “Wizzle’s got to go!”
    Bruno smiled. “Sit down. We’re having a committee meeting. Welcome to Operation Quake.”
    * * *
    Mr. Wizzle went to bed that night in a state of nervous tension. He had placed a crystal glass carefully on the night table beside his bed and stood a spoon up in the glass. If there was another tremor, this would be his early warning.
    As he climbed into bed, the spoon rattled sharply in the glass. He looked around nervously, trying to calm the beating of his heart. This would never do. He had to be sensible.
    He lay down on his back, closed his eyes and opened them again, noticing that the ceiling light fixture was right over the bed. If it came down, it would kill him. He got up, causing the spoon and glass to rattle again, and pushed the bed all the way up against the far wall, under the window. That was a good idea — an emergency exit. Come on, get a grip on things, he told himself. He climbed back into bed and, after much tossing