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       Dedication For my teachers, who always brought something surprising and unexpected to class.    Contents Cover Title Page Dedication 1. Oliver Zahn 2. Rosalie Arnette 3. Nathan Popova 4. Oliver Zahn Chapter 5 6. Steinke Newhouse 7. Principal Candiotti 8. Rosalie Arnette Chapter 9 10. Nathan Popova 11. Oliver Zahn 12. Nathan Popova 13. Rosalie Arnette Chapter 14 15. Steinke Newhouse 16. Oliver Zahn 17. Nathan Popova 18. Principal Candiotti 19. Rosalie Arnette Chapter 20 21. Paul Perkins, PE 22. Oliver Zahn 23. Nathan Popova 24. Rosalie Arnette Chapter 25 26. Principal Candiotti Chapter 27 28. Oliver Zahn 29. Rosalie Arnette 30. Nathan Popova 31. Rosalie Arnette 32. Oliver Zahn 33. Principal Candiotti 34. Nathan Popova 35. Oliver Zahn Chapter 36 37. Rosalie Arnette Epilogue About the Author Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher    1 Oliver Zahn Consider the spitball. Not the baseball kind. That’s something different. I mean the school kind. I’ve heard all the arguments: nobody shoots spitballs anymore; they’re extinct, like the dinosaurs; these days, nobody does anything without high-speed internet and an eight-terabyte hard drive. No way. Spitballs are more than mushy pellets of chewed paper. They’re our heritage. Our parents shot spitballs. Our grandparents shot spitballs. The minute the ancient Chinese invented paper, I’ll bet some smart aleck tore off a corner, wadded it up in his mouth, and chucked it at somebody. Spitballs are an art form. Over the centuries, millions of kids have made them, shot them, spit them, flicked them, and thrown them without ever knowing they were doing it all wrong. It goes without saying that spitballs are against the rules. That’s the biggest part of their appeal. Rules aren’t just made to be broken; they’re made to be wrecked. And I, Oliver Zahn, happen to be Brightling Middle School’s number one rule-wrecker. My best friend, Nathan Popova, is a rule-wrecker too, but he isn’t close to my level. So as I prepare my spitball in homeroom, I do everything slowly and carefully, so Nathan can see all the steps. For example, I always chew the paper with my back teeth because that encourages the action of the tongue, which naturally forms it into a near-perfect sphere. Amateur spitballers think that’s enough. We professionals prefer a larger projectile. I always use a two-layered warhead, by forming a second paper around the first one. Same process, though—back teeth, tongue. The delivery system is important. Most people use a straw as a blowgun to launch a spitball, but I prefer the empty shell of an old ballpoint pen. It won’t bend or get squashed. And it produces higher velocity, greater distance, and better aim. From my pocket, I take out a Bic pen that I’ve saved since elementary school. Nathan casts me a look of respect. This launcher has a lot of glorious history. Two years ago, I used it to deliver the famous Cadillac spitball, which I dropped in through the sunroof of the superintendent’s car as he drove away after fifth-grade graduation. Choosing the target is important. My eyes first turn to Kevin Krumlich, who’s easily the most annoying kid in the seventh grade. He thinks he’s a genius, when he’s obviously not. Accordingly, he treats the rest of us like we’re gerbils. A bright white spitball would look magnificent strategically placed in his curly brown hair. He’s perfect, right? Wrong. You don’t pick on someone like that, because everybody else does. Annoying or not, you give the kid a break. No, your target should be: (a) someone with enough of a sense of humor to laugh it off, (b) someone popular, who can handle a little embarrassment, or (c)— The new teacher walks to the front of the room. “Good morning, pupils. I’m Mr. Aidact.” Nathan and I exchange a look of pure joy. There’s no more perfect spitball target than a new teacher—especially one with a funny name. AIDACT—he types it onto the Smart Board in foot-high letters. And what’s up with “pupils”? What is this—1870? Does he commute to school by covered wagon? No one has ever deserved a spitball more. A buzz of anticipation goes up in the room as I raise the hollow pen to my lips and fire my spitball, the first of the new school year. My aim is true, like I knew it would be. The soggy white projectile sails through the air, almost in slow motion. I savor every millisecond. It arcs in toward the light brown hair at the back of Mr. Aidact’s head. It happens so fast that I almost miss it. The teacher’s left hand flashes out and catches my spitball between the thumb and forefinger. I have the presence of mind to fumble the launcher into my desk. Otherwise, I’m frozen with shock. Mr. Aidact turns and fixes me with a blue-eyed stare. But he doesn’t seem mad. He doesn’t seem anything. Just then this older guy carrying a big briefcase scrambles up to him. Mr. Aidact shows him the spitball and points a long finger at me. “It came from that pupil.” There it is again—pupil! And how did he know it was me? Has he got eyes in the back of his head? The older guy glares at me. “That’s no way to start the year.” There are a few chuckles around the room. Someone mumbles, “It’s Oliver’s way.” I think it was Kevin. That’s what I get for sparing him. I look back and forth between the two adults. “Is he your father?” I ask Mr. Aidact. He looks young enough to be the older guy’s kid. But what kind of teacher brings his dad to his first day on the job? “This is Mr. Perkins, my student teacher,” Mr. Aidact informs me. That gets a reaction. Student teachers are normally college kids, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. This guy Perkins seems more like a boomer. I’m already the center of attention, which is