A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions by Alan Lawrence Sitomer Page A

Why? We didn’t do anything,” we protested.
    â€œTell that to the principal,” she responded. Like all vice principals, Mrs. Chambliss held a black walkie-talkie in her hand, and used the antenna to point out the direction in which we needed to go. “Now, move.”
    Across the courtyard, Mr. Piddles, the social studies teacher who did double duty as lunchtime monitor, approached the ThreePees and started pointing toward the front office as well. A moment later, they were on the march.
    Kiki and I made eye contact across the courtyard, both of us knowing we were headed to the exact same place: Principal Mazer’s office.
    Well, bring it on, I thought. Bring it on.
    The six of us didn’t make a peep as we entered the principal’s office. Vice Principal Stone was in the room, wearing a striped tie—purple and black—that did not quite match his light peach shirt. He glared from the left-hand corner, looking even more hostile and uptight than usual.
    â€œDid I not tell you that I wanted this to stop? Didn’t I?!” growled Principal Mazer.
    â€œBut…” Brattany said in protest, “we didn’t do anything.”
    â€œOh, yeah?” Principal Mazer barked. “Then how come Mr. Stone looks like he swallowed one of Santa’s elves?”
    Mr. Stone flashed his teeth. They were green and red and frightening.
    â€œEeek!” I yelped.
    â€œPlus,” Principal Mazer continued, “the poor man’s had diarrhea for the past seventy-two hours. Does anyone care to explain what kind of poop potion you put in those cookies?” He glared, practically with steam coming out of his ears. When Oompa Loompas get mad, watch out.
    â€œThey did it!” Kiki shouted, pointing at us.
    â€œHuh? What? We did not,” I replied. “You did it!”
    â€œNo, you did!”
    â€œYou did!”
    â€œAll right, ENOUGH!” Principal Mazer said. “You wanted it, you got it. You are now the official PPWBs of Grover Park Middle School.”
    There was a moment of confused silence.
    â€œThe what?” I said.
    â€œThe PPWBs,” Principal Mazer said. “The Personal Polishing Worker Bees.” He rose from his chair. “You’re going to polish basketballs. You’re going to polish tubas. You’re going to polish doorknobs and desks and toilet-flushing handles and gum-stained carpets.”
    â€œUm, how do you polish a gum-stained carpet?” Brattany asked.
    â€œOn your knees,” Mr. Stone said, with menace in his eyes. “On your knees.”
    I gulped. Boy, those teeth were scary. And they completely clashed with his tie, too.
    â€œBut, honest to goodness, we didn’t do anything,” Kiki said in her best I’m a little angel voice. She even fluttered her eyelashes.
    Barf, I thought.
    â€œSave it, Miss Masters,” the principal said. “I like to think I am a man who keeps his cool and finds productive ways to reach his students, but you girls, well…Just maybe this will polish some dadgum sense into your heads.”
    There was a knock at the door.
    â€œSorry to bother you, sir, but I just need a quick signature to approve the Academic Septathlon flyer,” Principal Mazer’s secretary said.
    â€œCome in, Mrs. Rumpkin, we’re just finishing up here anyway,” the principal told her.
    â€œBut isn’t there some way we can avoid the PPWB, or whatever you call it?” Kiki asked as the secretary passed a sheet of paper to Principal Mazer.
    â€œYeah, polishing isn’t good for my polish,” Brattany said, holding up her fingernails as if to present her manicure to the court as official evidence.
    â€œSure…” Principal Mazer replied absentmindedly as he signed the sheet of paper. “Win the Academic Septathlon and all is forgiven,” he said in an offhand way.
    â€œFine, we’ll do that,” Kiki said.
    â€œNo, we’ll do that,” I