Pack of Dorks

by Beth Vrabel

  I stink at listening. I slowly stood up instead of leaving. “Are you okay?” I whispered. “I mean, obviously you’re not okay. But are you hurt anywhere?”

  Sam ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. His shoulders shook super-fast. “I shouldn’t have done that . . . the thing on the bars and then those flips. I’m so stupid. Stupid!”

  Now I was shaking my head. “No,” I said, stepping toward Sam with my hand outstretched but not actually touching him. “No, that was incredible. They’re just jerks, Sam. Jerks!”

  “I know,” he whispered back. But then he sort of growled and the next words came out as yells. “I know that, Lucy! We both know that! But I put myself out there, with like, a big stupid target on my back. For nothing! For nothing. I’m so stupid!”

  “Quit that!” I snapped back. “Quit calling my friend stupid. They’re stupid. We’re going to go to the principal. When we tell him what they did, they’ll get their stupid butts expelled and—”

  “No!” Sam yelled. He jumped to his feet. His hands were in fists now and they slammed into his sides. “No! We’re not telling anyone.” His eyes, red and raw, seared into mine. “We’re not telling anyone ever, Lucy. Ever!”

  “Sam,” I said. “Everyone already knows. They were talking about it at lunch.”

  He turned on his heel and kicked the wall. He whipped back around. “We’re. Not. Telling.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “It’s your call. Even if it’s a stupid decision, it’s your decision. I’m sure kicking locker room walls will also take care of our problem.”

  “We don’t have a problem, Lucy. I do. Now will you get out of the boys’ locker room?”

  I stared at him. I know it’s selfish. I totally get that I was being a selfish person. But here was my honest worry: Is he not going to be my friend anymore? Will he not do dares with me at lunch or sit at my table? Was I on my own again?

  I walked slowly from the locker room, the door slamming shut behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  “Thank you for choosing to rejoin us today, Lucy,” Ms. Drake said as I walked back into the classroom.

  I didn’t bother responding, just marched across the room to my desk. Sam’s seat was empty. Somehow that blank spot in the room seemed to tunnel everyone’s whispers straight to me. Tom, Becky, and Henry’s lowered voices and stupid giggles were loudest, of course, but I also could hear April, Sheldon, Amanda, and everyone else in our class buzzing like gnats. Sam’s name was mentioned a lot.

  The minutes ticked by. Still, no Sam. I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting between the clock on the wall and the classroom door. Where was he? I shouldn’t have left him alone and crying. Should I tell Ms. Drake? Why wasn’t she freaking out about missing one of her students in the middle of the day? Sam’s seat was in the front row for goodness sake! How could she not see that he was missing?

  And then I realized that Sam was easy to overlook, even for our teacher. I mean, I had barely noticed him all year. It wasn’t until I had no one else to talk to and was situated just behind him that I even remembered that Sam Righter was in our class.

  I thought about what he had said in the locker room, about putting himself out there. He was right: He was only picked on after he did something to bring attention to himself. But why? I squeezed my temples with my hands, trying to massage my memory into conjuring up what I knew about Sam prior to this year. I had nothing. How could I be in the same class as someone for five years (counting kindergarten) and not remember anything about him? I thought about how Sam had sat, slouched in his chair. About how he rarely spoke, never volunteered for anything, hung out alone at the library, couldn’t be found at recess. Then I realized: Sam didn’t want to be noticed. He wanted to blend into the background. And stupid me had to go and ruin everything.

  He was a scapegoat, and I had pushed him to fight back. Now life was a million times worse for him.

  “Ms. Drake?” The classroom intercom switched on and the office secretary’s scratchy voice echoed through the suddenly quiet classroom. Henry and Tom looked a little pale and sweaty. I crossed my fingers under the desk and hoped that Sam had changed his mind and went to the principal. I hoped, hoped, hoped that Henry and Tom were going to be called to the office and expelled. Or maybe just hung by their underpants for an hour. That’d be fine with me, too.

  But instead the secretary said, “Just letting you know that one of your students, Sam Righter, isn’t feeling well. He’s in the nurse’s office now, and his parents are on their way.”

  Tom and Henry grinned at each other.

  “Thank you,” Ms. Drake called out. She frowned and glanced at Sam’s empty desk. “Has anyone seen Sam since lunch?”

  “He wasn’t at lunch!” April called. Meeting with the principal apparently didn’t do too much to curb her outbursts.

  Tom snort laughed.

  “Something amusing you, Tom?” asked Ms. Drake, her frown about to touch her neck.

  Tom shook his head, smile gone, and said, “I think I saw him hanging around the locker room after gym.” Henry cough laughed. And I exploded.

  Without even thinking about it, I jumped to my feet, my arms outstretched like I was about to bolt over three rows of desks and attack Tom and Henry.

  “Shut up!” I screamed. I mean, really screamed. All the notebooks, pencils, and papers on desks between me and the two of them flew into the air around me like a storm cloud. (Okay, that didn’t really happen. But I felt like it could’ve, that’s how loud I screamed.) I screamed so loud that it echoed with an enormous ripping sound.

  Ms. Drake whipped toward me. Her mouth popped open. Tom and Henry looked at me, mouths hanging open, too. And then, they laughed. Soon the whole classroom was giggling and pointing at me. Well, not really me. They were pointing at my lost-and-found skirt. That ripping sound wasn’t an echo. It was the skirt splitting at the seam all the way to the elastic waist when I popped to my feet.

  I gasped and grabbed the fabric in my fist, trying to hold it together, but that just made another rip across the backside, showing everyone in the row behind me my polka-dotted underwear. I gasped again and grabbed fistfuls of fabric in front and behind.

  Ms. Drake rushed to the front of the room, whipped her sweater off the back of her chair and wrapped it around my waist. “Go ahead and get back to the locker room. Then come straight back here.” Her eyes were fierce.

  I spent the rest of the day in a brown T-shirt, the hem crusted with refried beans and creamed corn, and pink unicorn shorts. I slouched down in my desk, wishing I were invisible.

  When the bell rang at last and we headed to the bus line, Ms. Drake wrapped her cool fingers around my wrist to hold me in place. “I’ll be calling your parents this evening, Lucy. Is there anything you’d like to share with me beforehand?” Her face was surprisingly kind, given that she was about to ruin my life even more. I shook my head.

  The smart thing to do would have been to tell Mom immediately after school that Ms. Drake would be calling. I’d tell her that I yelled during class and split my skirt and that I wouldn’t do it again. That way, I could go on with my evening, not worrying that every time the phone rang, I’d be doomed. But a small part of me hoped that Ms. Drake might forget to call. And then I’d be telling on myself. Which would be a not-smart thing to do.

  I still wasn’t sure which part of me I’d listen to when I got to my driveway. Grandma’s car was behind Mom’s van. I quietly opened the screen door. Mom and Grandma were at the kitchen table. Mom was crying, her head on her arms, and Grandma was patting her back. Molly was fast asleep in her car seat, placed in the middle of the table between them.

  “Does this mean we’re done being happy?” I blurted. “Thank goodness.”

  Grandma and Mom’s heads shot up like groundhogs. For a second, they just stared at me in all of my pink unicorn, refried bean-crusted ridiculousness. Then they both burst out laughing. Mom held her arms out to me and I practically ran to the other side of the
table and into her arms. “Oh, baby,” she crooned, her eyes still teary. “What happened to you today? What the heck are you wearing?”

  I shook my head, burying it into her shoulder. Her shirt was soon wet with my tears.

  “Tell us what’s going on with you,” Grandma ordered.

  But just as I was about to figure out how to answer, the phone rang.

  Hours later, Mom and Dad sat at one side of the kitchen table and I slumped in a chair on the other side. Grandma, uncharacteristically quiet, rocked Molly in the living room.

  “So, you yell at your classmates now?” Dad’s voice was grim.

  I stared at the tabletop. There was a sticky glob on the tablecloth that sometimes looked like Pennsylvania, sometimes like Connecticut.

  “Honey,” Mom’s voice was sickly sweet. This is how they do things. One of them is mean so the other can be nice. And then they switch, without warning. “We want to understand so maybe we can help you. What made you yell in class today?”

  Dad crossed his arms and glared at me. “Ms. Drake said she is pretty sure that lunch tray didn’t accidentally spill onto your lap. What did you do to provoke that?”

  Now I glared back. Of course they would think I did something to provoke it. When really, when it comes down to it, it’s their fault. If Dad would’ve just taken me back to the hospital for my diamond ring, none of this would’ve happened. None of it!

  But that’s not true, that quiet, annoying voice in my head whispered. Everything started to fall apart behind the ball shed. Or even earlier. When did I first notice that Tom wasn’t exactly a nice person? When he would make fun of April at recess? When he would push Sheldon as he walked by in the hall? When he would ignore me if no one was looking?

  When did I notice that Becky wasn’t really a good friend? Because her offer to “pretend” not to like me wasn’t as shocking as it probably should’ve been. The clues had been there all along.

  And, that quiet voice whispered even softer, when did I realize that I wasn’t a good friend? I laughed as hard as anyone when Tom made fun of April. I made fun of her, too. I just rolled my eyes when he pushed Sheldon. And—honesty alert here—I liked being Becky’s friend more than I liked Becky. Wasn’t I just as guilty of doing anything it took to be popular? If Becky was the one whose kiss was lame, would I be the one who was pretending to be her friend right now? I rubbed at my face, trying to mash my thoughts away. I didn’t know the answers to these questions. But I did know one thing: I wasn’t willing to do anything it took to be popular. Not anymore.

  “Ms. Drake also told us about your skirt splitting,” Mom said softly. “That must’ve been really embarrassing.”

  I stared at the glob, but nodded a little. It was embarrassing, but nothing compared to what happened to Sam.

  “How can we help you?” Dad asked. Uh-oh. Looks like they’re switching off to him being nice and Mom being mean. But when I looked up, neither seemed angry any more.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  “Being your age is tough,” Dad said. “I get it. I went through it, too. But it will get better. People grow up. They realize how they can hurt others. They change, and it gets better.”

  “Will it?” I whispered.

  “Of course it does, honey,” Mom said.

  “Then why were you crying today?” I crossed my arms. “If things get easier—if people figure out how to be nice—why is everyone so upset about Molly? It’s because she’s going to get picked on, isn’t it?”

  Picked on by jerks like Tom and Henry. Laughed at by jerks like me. Ignored by everyone else, especially those who were just trying not to be noticed themselves, like Sam. Everything—everyone—seemed so bleak.

  “You were crying today? Again?” Dad turned on Mom. Her face flushed. I squirmed in my seat. What did I do now?

  Grandma to the rescue. She waddled in on her thick, sandaled feet and sat at the table.

  “We’re trying to keep this a family discussion,” Mom said to Grandma, an edge to her voice.

  Grandma’s voice matched it. “Well, you’re doing a crap job of it.” She turned toward me, her mouth a firm straight line and her eyes blurry beads behind her smudged-up glasses. “Molly’s going to get picked on. You’re already getting picked on. Everyone in this world gets picked on at some point—some people more than others, some people less. A few protect themselves by being bullies. Some are able to ignore the bullies and embrace who they are. Those folks are rare. Everyone else struggles.”

  “Well, that stinks,” I muttered.

  Grandma’s round face wobbled as she nodded. “It does. I suggest you embrace who you are.”

  “That’s a bit easier said than done,” Dad said. I didn’t think he was talking about me anymore.

  Grandma lowered herself into a chair. “What you need is a distraction. You all need a distraction.” She turned her beady eyes on her own daughter. “And you need a hobby.”

  “Molly is only a few months old!” Mom snapped. “I hardly have time to shower between feedings and diaper changes, let alone take up crochet.”

  Grandma huffed. “No one’s talking about crochet. But you need some time to yourself. I have an idea.” She turned back to me. “You need to learn how to stick up for yourself without making yourself out to be an idiot.”

  “Mom!” “Grandma!” Mom and I both shouted at once. Dad laughed.

  Grandma continued like we hadn’t spoken at all. “I’m signing you up for karate.”

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “I’m not giving you a choice,” Grandma replied. “I’ll bring Molly along when I take Lucy to lessons. That’ll give you two hours a week to yourself, to do whatever. Shower, maybe.” Her beady eyes raked up Mom’s sweatpants and pajama-top combo and her frizzy ponytail.

  Mom flushed. “That’d be nice,” she murmured.

  “We don’t have the money for karate lessons right now,” Dad mumbled. He shoved his hands through his hair.

  “Lucy’s birthday is next month,” Grandma said. “Let’s consider this her gift from me.”

  “Do I get any say in this?” I snapped. I had plans for my birthday; it was the one day I figured it’d be all right to break my don’t-ask-for-anything vow. Some new shoes, a couple new outfits, maybe some make up. Karate lessons were definitely not on the list.

  Grandma got up from the table. “No,” she answered. Dad and Mom got up, too.

  “Grrr!” I growled.

  “Hi-yah!” Dad replied, karate chopping the air with his hand.

  My life stinks.

  Chapter Eleven

  I stormed from the house, whipping open the screen door and getting ready to run to the creek until dinnertime. Maybe even bedtime. But instead I ran full force into April.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I wanted to tell you something! But I heard you get in trouble! So I just waited!”

  “Were you listening?”

  April nodded. “Karate! I want to take karate, too! Mom says I need an activity!”

  “Great,” Grandma called out, who also seemed to be an expert at eavesdropping. “I’ll take you to class, too. We’re going to Miss Betsy’s Marital Arts.”

  “Miss Betsy’s?” My confidence-boosting, life-salvaging karate teacher was named Miss Betsy? “How do you know Miss Betsy?”

  Grandma, not moving any closer to the door, shouted, “Remember me telling you I wasn’t so nice when I was kid? Betsy was one of those kids I wasn’t so nice to. And then she started taking karate. Wouldn’t take any crap after that.”

  “But doesn’t that mean that Miss Betsy is . . . old?” I asked.

  That got Grandma moving. Her steps thundered toward the door. “What was that, dearie? I couldn’t hear you. Must’ve forgotten my hearing aids, given how much an oldy moldy I am.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Grandma!” I snapped.

  “Lucy!” she snapped back.

  “Yay!” April clapped her hands. “Let’s s
tart next week!”

  “Classes are Wednesdays and Fridays. I’ll pick you up at five o’clock,” Grandma called as she walked back into the house.

  “Grrr!” I growled but no one listened. “Why are you here?” I asked April again.

  “Wolves!” she chirped.

  “What about wolves?” I asked. Fighting to keep my tone so she wouldn’t see how annoyed I was, I added, “You don’t need to shout it. Just tell me. I’ll listen until you’re done.”

  April’s eyes widened for a second. It was like she didn’t know how to speak with someone actively listening. Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy fish. Finally she said, “I wanted to let you know that my mom’s sister, Aunt Shelly, works at a wolf sanctuary. She actually lives there, too, like a caretaker. Mom says that’s why she’s so strange, living by herself with just wolves.”

  She paused and looked at me. I nodded, and she continued, “If you want to go there sometime, Aunt Shelly said she’d give you and Sam a tour. So you could see real wolves.” She grinned. “It’s a couple hours’ drive from here.”

  I grinned back. “That’s great, April! Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome!”

  “All right!”

  “All right!”

  “Want to play?” I asked her. “At the creek?”

  “Sure!” she said. “We can find frogs!”

  Yelling was kind of a fun way of talking.

  “Hold on a sec!” I called and ran back inside. I grabbed a travel pack of tissues from the bathroom closet. When I got back to the porch, I handed it to April. “Look, I like hanging out with you. But the nose picking thing—”

  “I have allergies!”

  “I know. But use tissues, April. Really. Our friendship depends on it.”

  From the way she smiled at me, I knew her mind had caught on the word “friendship.” It made me remember when Sam first called me his friend that time in the library. I smiled back at April, and we ran to the creek.

  Sam wasn’t in school the next day. I was itching to tell him about April’s aunt’s wolf sanctuary. Just thinking about it made me momentarily forget the whole splitting-my-skirt-and-yelling-at-everyone episode. Sadly, Tom and Henry did not forget. Neither did Amanda, who laughed hysterically and kept trying to give me fist bumps. (Side note: It took a long time for me to figure out that she was trying to do that and not punch me. I almost peed myself the first time her hand shot out toward me.) Henry made ripping noises as I sat down in my seat. Becky laughed her stupid girly laugh the whole time.