Two for Arnie. And two for Ryan Horner.
I stopped dead in my tracks and peered into the back of the bleachers just in time to see Arnie’s fingers punch something in his phone. Then he passed the phone over to Ryan.
Ryan smiled.
There was only one thing on Arnie’s phone that Ryan would want to read. Our secret. The series of movements Susie must do after she gets the scythe.
“Fair trade?” I heard Ryan say to Arnie.
“Fair,” Arnie answered.
As Arnie started to walk away, he almost stepped on my feet. “What exactly are you trading, Arn?” I asked.
“Hal, I was just about to come find you. I traded . . .”
“Save it. I know what you traded. The only thing we have over Ryan. The one thing. Our secret. It’s good to know whose side you’re on.”
“But I gave him—”
“Forget it, Arnie. You’re a traitor. I’ll get to the next level by myself.”
“You better watch who you’re calling a traitor!” I heard Arnie shout as I stormed out of the dance and into the freezing cold night. I walked home by myself, and my clothes didn’t make me feel so great anymore.
As I’m writing this, I can’t help but wonder if in the future times you live in people have BFs or BFFs. Maybe you have BFs to the nth degree because you probably figured out what infinity is by now.
I hope in the times you live in, that when it comes to friends, kids spread themselves out instead of having just one.
That’s what I recommend.
Because when you don’t, it just leads to trouble.
Hand-Me-Downs Over Time
Volunteering
Dear Harry/Bob/Sally/Josh/Zringldorp/Kirzbop:
These days, schools like to organize volunteer programs. The sixth grade science teacher, Mrs. Weiss, runs ours and it’s called Kids Pitchin’ In. Everyone has to participate. It’s part of our grade.
“When it comes to giving your time to a good cause, it’s important to choose something close to your heart,” Mrs. Weiss said.
My former best friend, Arnie, immediately raised his hand. “I’ll supervise the girls’ locker room.” (The place where girls get changed for gym. Gross.)
Mrs. Weiss ignored Arnie’s remark and pointed to Hilary Valentine.
“I’ll help take care of dogs at the shelter,” she said.
The shelter is where animals try to look cute so you’ll adopt them.
“Very good, Hilary! Who’s next?”
The rest of the kids offered to pick up litter on the sides of highways and nearby beaches and parks and stuff like that. I guess a lot of volunteer projects with kids involve cleaning up other people’s messes.
Before I knew it, everyone had picked something except me. I thought about it a lot on the way home from school, and at dinner I told my parents my idea. “I will nobly volunteer to test video games,” I said. “Someone has to do it.”
They shot that idea down in about four seconds.
Which was annoying because I had no other ideas. Something from my heart? What else could that be?
The day after the assignment, I walked to school and saw lots of kids cleaning the parks and playgrounds and sides of the roads. It freaked me out even more that I still hadn’t picked a project.
I was feeling especially lousy when I got to Mr. Tupkin’s class, but then I noticed a flyer sitting on his desk.
STOWFIELD
HISTORICAL
SOCIETY
Youth Volunteers
Wanted for
History Night
And that was when the lightbulb went on in my head. Couldn’t something from my heart also be something that would land me a good grade? Pass history? Get me my own room?
Couldn’t they be one and the same thing?
While Mr. Tupkin was writing on the blackboard, I scribbled the phone number from the brochure on the back of my hand. As soon as I got home, I called.
“Stowfield Historical Society,” said a woman who sounded about a hundred and fifty years old.
“Hi. My name is Hal Rifkind. I’m calling about volunteering.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Would you like to be part of this week’s History Night?”
“Sure! I just love history!”
I figured, how hard could it be to scrub down a couple of colonial butter churners, or shine a few Indian arrowheads?
“What’s your specialty?” asked Grandma Moses.
“Well, my mom says to dust first and then vacuum, and I pretty much agree with that.”
There was a lot of silence at the end of the line, but eventually the lady said, “Well, here’s how it works. You will get ten minutes. And you can do whatever you want. Whatever interests you most. Please read the guidelines in the flyer, and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to call.”
“Sounds great.”
“See you at eight o’clock Thursday night. Oh, and one last thing. Bring your own materials, please.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what materials they needed, but just to be on the safe side, I grabbed a mop, a bucket, and some furniture polish called Lemon Pledge. According to the commercials, “You can dust, clean, and shine all at once.”
I thought about reading the instructions in the brochure, but I figured, why bother? Cleaning is cleaning, right?
On Thursday night, I loaded up the cart with my supplies and walked across town toward the Historical Society. When I got there, I was surprised to see how full the parking lot was. But then I realized, with a crowd this size, they were probably going to need a good scrub-down. Maybe history buffs were secretly party animals, and there would be broken lamps and stuff.
No one was in the reception area when I walked in, so I just kind of stood there and looked around. The place was filled with old, dusty stuff, that’s for sure. There were maps and compasses and bear skins everywhere.
This one looks like my dad when he sees my report card.
There was even a life-size statue of a famous American Indian lady called Sacagawea. She was wearing an animal pelt and had a baby in a pouch. A plaque said she was sixteen when she led Lewis and Clark on their expedition, and that without her translating for them, they probably wouldn’t have made it. I looked at Sacagawea’s face and at the arrowheads and tomahawks all over the place, and a strange thing happened. For the first time, I thought this stuff looked kind of, sort of, almost interesting.
I was standing there thinking about history and how some of the people you learn about were actually pretty brave, and how they had to survive a lot of hardships, when suddenly my mop slipped and banged against a tepee by the reception desk.
I bent over to pick it up, and that’s when I noticed the sign.
TONIGHT’S SPEAKERS
HAL RIFKIND STEFFANI AARONS ANNA BACKER
Tonight’s what?
The receptionist walked in and put out her hand. “Hi, you must be Hal,” she said.
“I think there’s been some confusion. . . .” I tried to tell her.
“Thanks so much for volunteering tonight. You’re on first,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, if you could keep the speech down to ten minutes, that would be great.”
Ten minutes? I was supposed to speak about history for ten minutes to a packed house at the Historical Society? What was I thinking? Why didn’t I read that brochure?
I was about to run out the front door, but then wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Tupkin appeared in front of me.
“Quite a shock to see you here, Mr. Rifkind.” He straightened his bow tie and gave me a hard look. “Somehow this is the last place I thought you would volunteer.” He let out a big sigh, like he knew he was wasting his breath. “I’ll lead you to the podium.”
As it turns out, just about every important person who lives in Stowfield is a member of the Historical Society. Mayor Sheffield. The entire police department. Mr. Tupkin and about half the teachers at Stowfield Middle S
chool.
From the back of the room, Grampa Janson gave me a salute.
Mr. Tupkin cleared his throat, faced the crowd, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce to night’s first youth volunteer, my student Hal Rifkind.”
There was a loud round of applause. When it died down, I grabbed on to my mop for life support.
Silence.
“Um. Ahhh. History is . . . the unconscious attempt to bring the past to the future and learn, um . . .”
More silence.
“Or . . . I should say . . . the man who does not learn from the past is self-conscious about the future.”
Fourteen minutes and forty seconds to go.
“I mean, if you look at history, especially early history, it goes way back. In time.”
Mr. Tupkin gave me a look that said he might run up there and strangle me right in front of the mayor.
I held up the can of Lemon Pledge for all the crowd to see. “To a time before you could dust, clean, and shine all at once.”
Before I was asked to leave the podium, I managed to kill about five minutes talking about the sponge mop and the bucket—two of man’s most highly evolved tools. I did get a few claps from a couple of ladies in the audience who probably had neat homes and appreciated the visual aids.
You can avoid buying a mop if you have the right kind of dog.
Out in the parking lot I started to load up the cart with my cleaning supplies, when I looked up to see Mr. Tupkin standing right next to me. “That was a disgrace,” he said.
“I know. It was a mistake. I was confused . . .”
“What is your problem with history, anyway, Mr. Rifkind?”
I must have been tired or embarrassed or just plain mad, because I’m not sure what came over me next. I looked Mr. Tupkin right in the eyes, and said, “My problem with history is that it’s boring. And you make it even more boring than it already is. Which is practically impossible. Because history is the most boring thing on the planet!”
“I’m lowering your grade one letter for that little outburst.”
“Go ahead! What difference does it make anyway?” I shouted.
I grabbed the cart and yanked the handles so hard the last little bits of rubber popped off. As I squeaked across the parking lot, away from Mr. Tupkin, away from that horrible Historical Society, the squeaking got so loud I could barely hear myself think. Stupid cart. What good was it? Lugging all those books around for most of sixth grade and what did it get me? I had a failing grade. No best friend. And a nickname I wouldn’t shake for a hundred years.
I squeaked my way across town, and with every block I got closer to my house, the more I wished things were different. The more I wished I had a dad who didn’t care so much about history. Who would just let it go, cut me a break. If I did have a dad like that, none of this would have happened.
After what seemed like forever, I made it to my street. I pulled up to my driveway and was about to go inside. But then I pictured the look on my dad’s face when he found out my new grade, and a thought occurred to me. Maybe, instead of going home, I would swing by Arnie’s first. Whatever Arnie had done, I figured, we had stuck with each other since we were two. I was sure we could work it out. Besides, I was probably wrong about Susie and the scythe. The whole thing had to be some big misunderstanding. Arnie wouldn’t trade our secret without telling me.
The main thing though, I have to admit, was that after getting chewed out by Mr. Tupkin, I could’ve really used a friend.
I went up to Arnie’s house and saw the light on in the basement. Rather than get pummeled by Garth at the front door, I thought I’d peek in the basement window and whisper Arnie’s name.
But I didn’t even get that far. The first thing I saw when I looked through the window was Arnie sitting in front of the television screen. He was playing RavenCave. And he had reached the next level. Susie was holding the scythe.
Arnie had found it by himself. Actually, I take that back. He had help. Ryan was standing near the basement door. He was drinking a Gatorade, watching Arnie play, and laughing.
I walked away from the window and headed the other direction. There was no place to go but home.
How Kids Have Volunteered Through the Ages
Punishment
Dear Life-Form That’s Way More Advanced Than Me:
It occurred to me that in the time it’s taken you to read this far, you might have gotten access to a time machine. And I was thinking, if you have come across a time machine, and if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind beaming me up to the future sooner rather than later? Because the thing is, I have to get out of here right this second.
If you’re wondering what the emergency is, it’s just that, let me think of how to put this. Oh, yeah. I’m a dead man.
Seriously, if you can get me out of here, you will be saving a boy’s life.
Why is that boy in so much danger, you ask. I’ve got one letter for you.
That’s what my history grade is now.
Mr. Tupkin wasn’t kidding about lowering it a whole grade, and he made sure to call my parents right away. He said there was one month of school left and I was failing.
“Hal, get in the kitchen right now!” yelled my dad.
“Things just got a little out of control, Dad. How about if I make it up to you?” I held up the mop. “I could do some cleaning . . . ?”
“No son of mine will fail history,” he said. “History is who we are and why.”
“Dad, I’ll never pass. Even if there was a miracle and I did okay on the final exam, Mr. Tupkin hates me now. It’s a lost cause. So you can save the dumb quotes.”
“Dumb quotes. Is that what you think they are? Dumb?”
“Yes, dumb!”
“It is history, Hal, that keeps the mistakes of the past from entering the present.”
I guess you could call that one “the quote that broke the camel’s back.” Because I completely lost it and before I knew it, I was screaming at my dad.
“That’s exactly what I mean! You always say stuff like ‘History keeps you from making the same mistakes. Blah blah.’ But look at you! You make the same mistakes over and over. Like, forcing me to take an old-lady cart to school. And being the one dad in the entire town that never ever gets anything new. You act like your only purpose in life is to learn history. But it’s not. It’s to embarrass me! You’re one big, dusty, squeaky, grease monkey of a mistake.”
“That’s it, mister,” my dad yelled. “You will study, and study hard you will. Go to your room and don’t come out until you’ve memorized the entire Declaration of Independence.”
“What?! That thing’s like three hundred pages long!”
“In your room, now! You’re grounded.”
The funny thing is that my dad kept saying, “Your room. Get in your room.” As if!
I ran out of the kitchen, into “my” room, and slammed the door. My hands were shaking, and I was out of breath, so I sat down on my bed between the cribs. That was by far the biggest fight I’ve ever had with my dad, and we’ve had a couple of doozies.
I guess I shouldn’t have slammed the door so hard, because the twins woke up. They looked like they were working themselves up for a good cry, but then for some reason they stayed quiet. It was almost like they knew I was at the end of my rope. Like I said, babies are probably a lot smarter than we think.
But still, they poop and pee in their pants. So I spent the next couple of hours changing diapers and reading the Declaration of Independence at the same time. Okay, I was relieved to see it was only one page long. But memorizing those twelve hundred words is about as fun as getting thrown into Wolfie’s pen by Ryan and Garth.
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary blah de blah blah . . .
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal gluggety blah blaggedy zzzzzz . . .
I did perk up when I got to the part that said, “there shall be no cruel and u
nusual punishment,” because at that moment, Bea spit up on my computer.
Normally, during times like this, when I’m grounded or stuck studying for a hard test, Arnie would sneak up to my window and pass me a chocolate-glazed doughnut with sprinkles. That night, while staring at the Declaration of Independence, I glanced out the window every now and then. Maybe it was out of habit, maybe I was hoping that even though Arnie went behind my back with Ryan, he would still come by.
But he didn’t.
I looked over at the twins with their rattles and blankets and stuffed animals. Their lives seemed so simple. If only there was a simple solution for getting out of the mess I was in.
Any sort of molecule melter, nano-particle transformer, or time-travel contraption will do.
Activities
Dear Person Of The Future Who May Or May Not Speak English, In Which Case This Whole Journal Probably Looks Like This—Xhjoif Nwm OenfWhtzq Wyasfwrewoiulkn Lbgcde Lnieuekenr Mffwf:
I am still here, so thanks anyway about the time machine. I guess that was just wishful thinking on my part, but I do hope they make one someday and that I am around when they do.
By the looks of things, I’m going to be grounded forever. There’s just four weeks left of sixth grade and my dad is mad as ever.
Which totally stinks because summer is almost here and, as I mentioned before, I do not have access to:
RavenCave
Phillies, Flyers, Eagles
Hanging with Arnie
(Even though, technically, since the night of the dance, Arnie and I still haven’t spoken. If we spot each other coming down the hallway, we each pretend to have something stuck in our fingernail, or an itch on our eye, or something like that.)
The worst part of being grounded is that the chance of me getting a room where I don’t have to sleep between two baby girls is now around zero percent. And I don’t see any way out. My dad is so mad he can barely look at me. I’m not sure if he ever will again.
Cartboy and the Time Capsule Page 5