33 Minutes

by Todd Hasak-Lowy

  But none of this is one tenth as amazing as what I suddenly realize stands less than a foot from my very own hand: a doorknob connected to a door connected to a bathroom containing one, and only one, toilet.

  I step inside, and yes, almost too good to be true, the door has something called a “lock” on it, giving me access to something called “privacy.”

  I try to look at myself in the mirror, only it’s hung at adult height. Thankfully, there’s a tall wooden block under the sink (I should remember to thank Nurse Landen for that), so I grab it and hop on up. Turns out that the lunchtime glop in my hair works like styling gel. My Vikings shirt is size XS, but it’s still too big in the shoulders. I should send Santa a note asking for shoulders this year.

  Which reminds me of something: passing notes. If you’re wondering if I have a rule about passing notes, I do. It’s pretty complicated, so pay attention.

  DON’T EVER PASS NOTES. DON’T EVEN WRITE THEM. JUST DON’T. EVER. EVER!

  Let’s go back to last Friday. Mr. Griegs’s class. Mr. Griegs was trying to take us back to 1758, to that boring social studies unit for some reason named “The French and Indian War.” Class was almost over and pretty much no one was paying attention anymore, so Mr. Griegs called upon his terrifying “Point and Answer or Else” review technique. He goes back a day or two, says some random sentence from then, but leaves out the last word and points at a student, whose job it is to finish the sentence before Mr. Griegs loses patience and points at someone else. The only interesting part of the whole exercise is seeing how mad he gets if he has to point at more than two people to get a correct answer.

  “In Canada the French and Indian War is known as”—arm outstretched—“Kelsey Rackowski!”

  Kelsey Rackowski squirms, looks around the room like the answer might be on a wall somewhere. “Um, the battle of . . .”

  Mr. Griegs bites his mustache and whips his arm to the other side of the room. “Justin Kellerman!”

  Justin Kellerman holds his arms up to protect himself, forgetting he’s also supposed to say something.

  Steam begins coming out of Mr. Griegs’s ears. He won’t be able to last much longer, so it’s me to the rescue.

  “Sam Lewis!”

  I look up from my doodling. “The Seven Years’ War,” I say, sparing us all from a dreaded “Three Strikes and You All Have Extra Homework” situation.

  Of course, Mr. Griegs doesn’t say “good” or anything like that, he just jumps to the next question. Eventually, he gets to Morgan, who gets the easiest question in the history of seventh-grade social studies, because Mr. Griegs is definitely the kind of teacher who favors jocks. “Even though it’s called the French and Indian War, this war was in fact between France and”—arm outstretched—“Morgan Sturtz!”

  I lean to the side to watch the back of Morgan as he tries to answer. Mr. Griegs is actually smiling at him, as if being nice could make Morgan smart again.

  “Uh, France and India?”

  I know brains aren’t muscles, but maybe they do shrink if you don’t use them, because two years ago Morgan would never have said something even a quarter that stupid. I mean, he used to be pretty great at remembering dates and stuff. Who knows what happened to him. All I do know is, at that point, I couldn’t help it. I turned to a blank page in my notebook. I wrote Morgan is so dumb right in the ­middle. I quietly tore out the page and carefully folded it into a paper airplane. Ms. Z taught us how to make about fifteen different kinds of airplanes at the beginning of the year in a unit she called “The Art of Science and the Science of Art.” She even told us we could write a short message down the ­middle, because then you could fly a message to a friend and the message would be hidden until someone unfolded it. So for a while, before he got moved, Morgan and I would pass each other notes this way when Mr. Griegs wasn’t looking.

  I wasn’t even planning on passing this note to anyone, I was just bored. Okay, maybe I was also a little mad at ­Morgan for laughing when Chris (and Jordan and Brandon) made fun of me at lunch (so what if I still use my Spider-Man ­Thermos sometimes?). Maybe I finally got sick of Morgan laughing at me then and at the pep rally and about twenty times in between. Anyway, all I did was finish the airplane and set it on the edge of my desk. Only about ten seconds later Drake Carter, who sits next to me, lifted up and slammed down his social studies book. He was celebrating his “Fort ­Ticonderoga” response, which successfully finished the sentence, “The French called this Fort Carillon, but the British called it . . .” All at once: a loud bam, a strong gust, an airplane taking off from my desk, the end-of-the-period bell, and thirty kids racing out of the classroom. I tried to find the airplane. I looked everywhere. I even got on my hands and knees. But it was gone.

  After worrying about it nonstop all day Friday, I woke up Saturday realizing I had nothing to worry about. It’s not like my name was on it. There’s no way it flew all the way to Morgan. Mr. Budds had probably thrown it out already.

  Then on Sunday, after calling Morgan’s house and having his mom say to me, for the tenth time in the last month, “Oh, hi, Sam. Morgan went out for a bike ride,” I decided to go on one myself. I rode by Chris’s house, not because I wanted to go inside, but just to see if Morgan’s bike might be parked in front. Only, my luck, there on the driveway were Morgan, Chris, Jordan, and Brandon. Before if I could decide if going over there was a good idea or not, they saw me. Chris smiled and pumped his fist, which, unless he had finally decided he was ready for some tutoring in algebra, was not a good sign. But it was too late, I couldn’t just turn around. So I biked over.

  I looked at Morgan, who was not happy to see me. Everyone else was silent, but in a Oh boy, when this silence ends, we’re going to have fun! kind of way.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, trying to sound normal. “What’s up?”

  Morgan reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Even though it was just a little ball, I knew.

  I tried pretending I didn’t know what it was for a few ­seconds, but even if I really didn’t know, Morgan’s face would still have made me feel guilty. He didn’t look very mad, just a little. But the rest of him looked super calm, meaning he looked mostly calm and a little mad, which told me, I could see it in his eyes, that he had already decided what was about to happen. And it wasn’t going to be good.

  Still, I did my best to talk like I didn’t know what was happening. “What’s that?” I said, pretending I couldn’t see it in his expression.

  “You’re dead, man,” Morgan answered, while the others said things like “Yeah,” “Cool,” and “Finally.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked innocently.

  He opened up the paper and walked over to me and my bike. I was holding on to the handlebars, my bike still under me. He held it up to my face. “Don’t tell me that’s not your writing.”

  I tried to smile. “That’s not—”

  “Now you’re gonna lie about it too, man,” Morgan said, shaking his head, which had started turning red.

  At which point I started slowly walking my bike backward, trying to figure out how far I needed to go before I could escape.

  “If you think I’m dumb, why don’t you just say it to my face?” he continued, his face getting more and more red. “C’mon.”

  “I don’t. I don’t think you’re dumb,” I tried, but I’ve never been good at lying. So maybe I really do think he is dumb, or something else not so nice. Whatever, it was time to get out of there, so I pushed off and started biking away as fast as I could.

  At which point Morgan screamed, still holding up the paper, “Go ahead, Sam, run away. Doesn’t matter, because I am totally going to kick your butt tomorrow at recess. I’m serious!”

  And that’s why you shouldn’t even write notes, ever.

  “Samuel?” It’s Nurse Landen, knocking softly on the bottom third of th
e door. “Samuel, are you in there?”

  I pretend I’m not, because maybe I could be somewhere else, like, oh, I don’t know, Australia.

  “Samuel, I know you’re in there. I can hear the water running. Samuel, Principal Benson is waiting for you.”

  So I give up, because I always give up.

  12:28

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Nurse Landen is a liar!

  Let the record show that Nurse Landen specifically said (twice!), “Principal Benson is waiting for you.”

  Let the record show that she did not say, “Principal ­Benson is waiting for you in his office, where you’ll also find Morgan Sturtz and Chris Tripadero.”

  I rest my case.

  Because that’s a way different thing to prepare yourself for, especially when you’re not you, but me. Because if I knew I’d be walking into this particular four-person get-together, I’d be hiding at the bottom of a trash can in a nearby bathroom right now, trying to figure out how to live off whatever nutrients could be wrung out of the outfit in this plastic bag. Instead, I’m standing in my PE uniform, looking at ­Morgan and Chris in their PE uniforms, looking at Morgan and Chris looking at me, and looking for a place to sit.

  Chris’s always-stomach-turning mouth has that caged-rat look to it, if this caged rat thought his cage was a fun place to hang out. Morgan’s expression is a little harder to read, because he’s much better than Chris at hiding whatever hides behind it. His jaw muscles are clenched, his eyebrows are lowered, and his eyes can’t find a single thing to settle on. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s mad (at me), scared (of Principal Benson), and confused (by being mad and scared at the same time).

  “Hello, Samuel.” Oh, right, Principal Benson and his deep, deep voice are also here. The other thing you should know about Principal Benson is that he has super huge ­sideburns. The kind that everyone has in movies about the Civil War. I wonder if he rides to school on a horse.

  “Hi, Principal Benson.” Please offer to get me a chair. Or, better yet, please invite me to go find a chair myself so that I can calm down or, more likely, run straight for the Canadian border. Please, please, please.

  Principal Benson slowly looks around the room and, it appears for the first time, does the chairs-minus-people math. “I hope you don’t mind standing, Samuel. We seem to be fresh out of seats.”

  “No, sir, that’s fine.” Standing might put me at some sort of physical advantage, if Morgan weren’t, sitting down, my height. Not to mention me in my PE uniform versus Morgan in his, since he looks ready to star in the photo shoot for the PE uniform catalog.

  Either Chris cackles or I just remember him cackling.

  Principal Benson rests his hands on his massive wooden desk, his fingers interwoven for maximum “what I’m about to say to you is of great importance” effect.

  He clears his throat. “Gentlemen, would one of you like to tell me what that is on the wall behind me?”

  “A picture of a bunch of people parachuting?” I answer. “It says ‘Teamwork’ underneath.”

  “Well, yes.” Principal Benson begins to turn around, but decides against it. “But next to that, what do you see?”

  “The Viking Code, sir,” Morgan says quietly.

  “Correct, Morgan”—Principal Benson nods—“the Viking Code. And what is the Viking Code?”

  Chris begins to make some sort of sound, and not a smart one, but magically catches himself first.

  “Uh, it’s a list of words that start with the letters in ‘Viking,’ ” Morgan answers.

  “Indeed, it is,” Principal Benson tells us. “Indeed, it is. But that tells us only the outlines of the code, its contours.” He pauses and looks at each one of us separately. “It does not tell us its contents. Which are?”

  A long, awkward silence, until I ask, “Do you want us to tell you the words?”

  “Yes”—long, dramatic exhale—“would you be so kind, Samuel?”

  “Okay, well, ‘Virtue’—”

  “Yes, virtue.” Principal Benson turns his head a bit. “Though V is not the most common letter, you might be surprised to know how many fine candidates there were that begin with V. ‘Valor,’ ‘vigor,’ ‘victory.’ I initially supported ‘victory,’ but Assistant Principal Hart persuaded me of, well”—Principal Benson chuckles for a second—“the virtues of ‘virtue.’ ” After running a thumb along one of his chops, he says to himself, “I still think ‘victory’ would have made a fine choice.” Then he moves his hand to his chin and says, “You may continue.”

  “‘Integrity,’” I respond.

  “Yes, yes, integrity,” Principal Benson responds. “The easiest decision of that evening. Everyone instantly recognized ‘integrity’ to be a winner. Next?”

  “ ‘Knowledge.’ ”

  “Correct. Now, here I had to take issue.” Principal ­Benson points at Morgan. “Because the first two words, clearly, refer to qualities we would like to see in our students here at Wagner Middle School. A Viking acts with virtue. A Viking acts with”—Principal Benson closes his fist for emphasis—“integrity. But can a Viking act with knowledge? This was my question, until Carolyn Brewer, the esteemed head of our PTA, said, ‘Otis, perhaps these are things our students ­pursue. A Viking pursues virtue, integrity, and knowledge.’ We’re lucky to have Carolyn on board, we truly are. Continue, gentlemen.”

  “ ‘Intelligence,’ ” Morgan reads.

  “Yes, intelligence. There was quick consensus on ‘integrity,’ but this second I, gentlemen, was a challenge. A large parent bloc advocated for ‘incorruptibility,’ while a number of teachers rallied around ‘inquisitiveness,’ but I helped everyone see the value of something a little more, how should I say, intelligible.” Principal Benson chuckles, and I try to join in, but can’t. “Samuel, why don’t you give us the rest?”

  “Okay.” My legs are getting tired. “ ‘Never give up’ and ‘greatness.’ ”

  Principal Benson chuckles yet again for a second. “Now, you’d think, ‘N, there must be a million winning terms that begin with N.’ Well, you’d be surprised. ‘Niceness,’ that was about all we could find, even after poring over our library’s ­thesaurus. Made me wish I had thrown my hat in the ring for the job over at Nichols. ‘Raider’ would give you ‘­responsibility’ and ‘discipline.’ But we carried on, and I think you’ll agree with me when I say that we ended on a high note.”

  A few moments of awkward silence.

  “So, gentlemen”—Principal Benson returns his hands to their original “I’m a man of great wisdom” position—“that is the what of the Viking Code. But can anyone explain to us the why of the code?”

  I turn to Morgan for a moment. He notices and nods his head at me quickly, like I better help out here.

  “It is how we’re supposed to behave, sir,” I say.

  “Exactly!” Principal Benson responds with a big smile of satisfaction, like this might explain the last three minutes. “Who is a Viking? Who should a Viking aspire to be? Virtue. Integrity. Knowledge. Intelligence. Never give up. Greatness.” Principal Benson’s face goes blank for a moment, and he says under his breath, “Can’t believe that’s all we could get for N.” But he recovers quickly, suddenly stands up, and begins pacing behind his desk. “Now, I ask you, gentlemen, did the acts committed in our cafeteria just moments ago measure up to the Viking Code?”

  “No, sir,” we answer together. Or at least Morgan and I answer together.

  “No, no they did not,” Principal Benson reminds us. “They absolutely did not. There is no integrity in ­throwing applesauce. There is no greatness to be had in pelting a fellow Viking with a tater tot. And knocking out a fellow Viking with a reinforced, heavy-duty salad bowl made from eighty-­percent postconsumer recycled plastics is not—I repeat, not—an act of intelligence. Thankfully, our very own Mr. Griegs, who was recently transported to Glen H
ills ­General for posttraumatic counseling, spearheaded our investigation aimed at reconstructing the final moments leading up to that last, dastardly act. According to the testimony of no fewer than three eyewitnesses, one of these two young men”—­Principal Benson points across his desk and glares accusingly at Morgan and Chris—“is responsible for your injury, Samuel.”

  Arm still extended, Principal Benson turns back to me. “Unfortunately, neither has yet admitted guilt. We have been waiting for you to regain consciousness with the hopes that you yourself could identify your assailant, who, you can be sure”—eyes back on Morgan and Chris—“shall pay a very stiff price for such a wanton violation of the Viking Code. A very stiff price indeed.” Principal Benson pauses and crosses his arms.

  I’ve got to admit the suspense is killing me (which would be easier to wait through if I had a chair). “Expulsion from Wagner Middle School and a possible criminal investigation.” Principal Benson sits back down, relaces his fingers, and waits for me to pick out the guilty party.

  I look over at Morgan and Chris, whose fates now rest in my sweaty hands. Chris snarls and rolls his eyes, his face a little more green than usual. I almost feel pity for him. Almost. Okay, I don’t. Not at all.

  But Morgan’s face makes more sense. Mouth shut tight, eyes wide with shame and regret. Maybe a little guilt, too. Or more than a little bit.

  12:33

  Okay, so maybe by this point you doubt that Morgan and I were really friends at all by the start of this school year. Sure, you say, kickball in first grade. Sand castles and slushies at the beach in second grade. LEGO blocks and skateboards in third grade. A trip to Chicago with his family in fourth grade. SpongeBob and sleepovers in fifth grade. Fine.

  But middle school? What do you guys have in common at this point? Nothing, you say. He’s popular; you’re not. He couldn’t care less about studying; you like hanging out at bookstores. He’s tall enough to ride the Millennium Force roller coaster at Cedar Point; you wish booster seats were considered cool and made available in the cafeteria. Maybe you were still friendly in sixth grade. Maybe you were the final kid added to his birthday list last year (someone else canceled and the bowling alley needed at least ten). Maybe you got assigned to do a science project together this year, which got you one final Sunday afternoon at his house. Maybe he’s been that kind of friend lately. But a best friend? Sam Lewis, you say, c’mon, who are you kidding?