Ethan Marcus Stands Up

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  “Just, something. Whatever.”

  I take a cleansing breath. “Is this going to be on your permanent record?”

  “I don’t know! It’s not like I stole the answers to a test or punched someone!”

  Brian Kowalski saunters over in his annoying I-think-I’m-so-cool way. “Dude,” he says, and slaps Ethan on the back. “You’re my hero.”

  “Really?” I open my locker and start putting folders and books into my backpack, arranging them by height and width so the load is evenly balanced.

  “Erin McBarren,” Brian says in a taunting kind of voice. “Always a pleasure.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you are barren of any humor whatsoever,” he cracks.

  “Very funny. And you are barren of any . . .”

  “What?”

  “Sincerity.” That ought to stump him. His vocabulary skills need work, to put it gently. I offered to help him study for a vocab test last year—I mean, he is Ethan’s best friend and I was trying to be nice—but he just laughed. Everything’s one big joke to Brian Kowalski.

  He gives me his trademark smirk. “Thank you.”

  I turn to Ethan. “Did you at least apologize?”

  “To who?”

  “Mrs. D’Antonio! After you said whatever you said.”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you want my advice, go back into Mrs. D’s office, say you’re sorry, admit you lost it for a second, then do the Reflection and put this whole incident behind you.”

  Brian shuts my locker door with his foot. “He doesn’t want your advice.”

  I pretend Brian’s not there. “Ethan? Did you hear me?”

  He sighs. “Yes, I heard you.”

  Some red-haired boy walks by and high-fives Ethan, and then his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, looks at it, shows Brian. “Jamie Pappas wants to know if I can hang out sometime. Maybe I should do protests more often.”

  Brian bobs his head idiotically, grins, and knocks Ethan’s shoulder with his fist. “Awesome. Can I come?”

  I groan, but they don’t even notice. I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head toward the back door. Zoe rushes toward me, waving a piece of paper.

  “Erin! I got the Invention Day form from Ms. Gilardi!” Zoe twirls, then hooks her arm through mine. “We’re going to win this time, I just know it!”

  “Absolutely.” I narrow my eyes. “This year, we’re taking Marlon Romanov down.”

  She pulls her arm away and gives me a thumbs-up, but then her face drops. “Wait, you’re leaving? Aren’t you coming to the Be Green Club meeting?”

  “Zoe, I’m really sorry, but I need to get home. My brother’s going to get in so much trouble. My parents will probably want to ask me what happened. Ethan doesn’t explain things too thoroughly.”

  She bites her lip. “Oh, okay. I don’t know if anyone else is coming, though. . . .”

  “I’ll be there next week, I promise.”

  “Well, I should go, I guess, in case someone shows up. If no one does, I’ll start researching ideas for our Invention Day project.” She taps a finger on her chin. “I’m thinking something with invasive plants. You know how much of a problem they are here in Illinois. All throughout the Midwest. Everywhere, really. If we could come up with a solution, that would be our first prize right there. What do you think?”

  “For sure. Good idea. We’ll talk later!”

  I rush out the doors and get in line at bus 4. Ethan and Brian aren’t there, of course. They only take the bus in the morning. Unfortunately, Brian lives on the block behind ours, so he’s on my bus. They walk home every day even though it’s one and three-quarters miles to our house. If it’s freezing, if it’s hot, snowing, lightning, whatever. Doesn’t bother them. Which I don’t understand. I mean, weather conditions should not be taken lightly.

  I slide into the first seat behind the driver. Mom and Dad have never grounded or even really punished me or Ethan before. But as they say, there’s a first time for everything. Not like Ethan’s a terrible brother or anything, but let’s just say he knows how to get out of things. Turn a situation to his advantage. Everyone thinks he’s so nice and polite and friendly, but I know the whole story. I live with him. I see what no one else sees.

  Let me just say this: waffles.

  That’s right. Waffles.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Quality Time with the Fam

  ETHAN

  Here’s the scene at home. Mom and Dad come in from work and rush around the kitchen making dinner. Dad, a salad. Mom, chicken that’s somehow already been cooking in the oven in a lumpy white mystery sauce.

  She opens the oven door, pokes the chicken with a fork, then closes it and puts two packages of rice in the microwave. She keeps eyeing me weirdly, so I know she knows. You just get a sense for those looks. I’m convinced mothers learn how to do them right after their baby’s born. While we’re asleep in those little hospital infant beds on wheels, they get MLT. Mom Look Training.

  When dinner’s ready and we’re all at the table, she does the concerned/confused look. “So I got a phone call this afternoon from Mrs. D’Antonio. She said you received two Reflection days? For defying authority and being disrespectful? That doesn’t sound like you, Ethan. Is it true?”

  “It’s true,” my sister answers, maniacally cutting her chicken into uniform, square, bite-size pieces. She does that every night with whatever we’re eating. Cuts the whole thing first, then eats. She’s completely OCD about food. About everything.

  “Erin,” Dad says, “this doesn’t concern you.”

  “I can tell you exactly what happened in LA if you want,” she offers. “I’m in that class too.”

  Mom shakes her head, then gives me the questioning look. “Ethan?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s true.”

  Erin pours ranch dressing onto her salad, covering every leaf. “Mr. Delman got really mad.”

  “Explain the situation to us, honey,” Mom says, leaning forward and clasping her hands. “What led to your feeling defiant? Share your thoughts and we can help you work through them. Come up with some strategies for dealing with your emotions.”

  Mom and Dad are very into empowerment and learning from mistakes. They took a parenting class on positive discipline, so they always say things like that.

  “Okay, you know those McNutt rules?” I ask.

  Dad nods. “I think they sent them home at the beginning of the year, yes.”

  “You remember number seven?”

  They shake their heads.

  “Sit at your own desk. Feet and chair legs on the floor at all times.”

  Dad laughs and Mom gives him the concerned/confused look. “What’s the matter with that?” she asks me.

  I leap from my chair. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH THAT? Do you even know your own son?”

  Mom smiles, says yes, she knows her own son.

  I pace around the kitchen. “Mom. Dad. I snapped, okay? That’s the only way to describe it. I sit for so long in school my feet and legs fall asleep and my butt gets numb. Not to mention my brain clouding over in some sort of Kryptonic haze!”

  “Kryptonic?” Erin interrupts. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

  I ignore her.

  “Let me ask you,” Mom says, “I’m merely suggesting here, but could that be a bit of an exaggeration?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Why don’t you try to calm down, okay? Take a deep breath. Let’s talk about this.”

  I plunk into my chair, the instrument of torture that it is.

  Dad shrugs. “Listen, I was the same way, Eth. And I hear you. I get it. But it’s school, what can you do? Not much, unfortunately.”

  Mom scoops a spoonful of rice onto her plate. “So do you want to tell us what happened?”

  “Nothing, Mom! All I did was stand up by my desk and say I was protesting how much we have to sit. Delman told me to sit. I didn’t. So Mrs. D gave me the two Re
flection days. End of story.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow and does a mega-serious look. It’s worse than if she actually yelled. I’m sure that’s part of the training—the advanced session on how to intimidate your kid and make him crack. She’s got it down.

  I swallow. “Well, uh, yeah, also, I told Mrs. D she should sit for seven hours and see how it feels.”

  “Hmm,” Mom says.

  “Okay,” Dad adds. “Wow.”

  Erin’s chewing her little chicken pieces with wide eyes like she’s watching a movie. Do you know she chews each bite exactly five times? I’ve counted. And she thinks I’m the insane one.

  “Well, I sympathize with your predicament,” Mom says, “but you’ll have to do the Reflection days. You did do something wrong. You can’t disrespect your teacher or principal, even if you feel the conditions are unfair.”

  Dad scratches his beard. “I have to say, I applaud your reason but perhaps not your method.”

  Erin stops chewing and glances back and forth from Mom to Dad. “I don’t understand what is happening here. You’re, like, supporting him?”

  Mom passes the plate of mystery chicken to Dad, who weirdly seems to want a second helping. “Erin, please,” Mom says. “This doesn’t affect you.”

  “But it does. Everyone was talking about what happened. People are texting him like he did some great accomplishment or something.”

  Dad sits back and grins. “Really?”

  Erin’s mouth drops open. “When all he did was disrupt class for absolutely no reason—”

  I stamp my foot. “Weren’t you listening? There was a reason.”

  “Ethan,” she says. “ESD was funny and cute when you were little, but now? It’s just embarrassing. Have you thought about getting some help?”

  There’s my sister, with a direct punch to the gut. I pity her future boyfriend, if there ever is one. “Maybe you’re the one who needs help, Miss OCD. Go to food-cutting detox or something.”

  “Okay, okay.” Mom holds up her hands. “Enough.” She turns to me. “How did it make you feel when Mrs. D’Antonio gave you the Reflection days?”

  Back to Parenting 101.

  “I don’t know, mad?”

  “All right, sure. Completely understandable.” Mom nods. “After dinner and homework, let’s explore that feeling more.”

  Erin puts her fork down. “Wait. Just a second. You’re not going to ground him? Take away Netflix or something?”

  “No,” Mom says. “Dad and I don’t do that. It’s not effective. We talk. Work it out. Get to a better place.”

  Erin frowns, and my shoulders slump way down. To my knees.

  The only thing worse than sitting at a desk is talking about my feelings with Mom. I actually think, given the choice, I’d take hours in a chair over that.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the Madhouse

  ETHAN

  This is how the rest of the night goes. We help clean up the kitchen, and then Erin proceeds to study/wail for the next two hours.

  She rereads the chapter in the book five times. Looks over her notes ten times.

  Wails: “The LA test is WEDNESDAY!”

  She repeats the definitions of figures of speech aloud. Fifteen times. (Notice a pattern of fives here? Yep, more OCD.)

  Wails: “These can be SO confusing!”

  Then she makes INDEX CARDS with key points and examples.

  And wails: “I’m going to FAIL this test!”

  Which she most certainly will not. Always says, never does.

  Dad paces around the kitchen and catches up on his e-mails while I have therapy in the family room with Mom.

  She asks me questions like: “What would’ve been a better way to handle your frustration?” And, “If you aren’t able to change the situation, how could you change your response?” And finally, “What are some better choices you can make in the future?”

  I often wonder how different a night at my house is from a night at a mental institution.

  My replies generally fall into the “I don’t know” category, so Mom ends up feeding me the answers: I should stop and breathe deeply. Define and analyze the problem. Put it into perspective. Think of a viable solution. The only person I can control, she says, is myself.

  Thankfully, after close to an hour, Mom’s satisfied with her answers and signs the bottom of the Reflection slip, then goes upstairs to check on Erin.

  Released at last. I run up to my room, shoot some baskets at the net on the back of my door, then flip through my LA spiral. Most of what I wrote down about figures of speech, I can’t even read. My phone keeps buzzing with texts from people, basically saying they hate sitting all the time in school too and we should do something.

  They range from: McNutt is a jail to At least I can catch up on my sleep.

  Brian’s all over my spontaneous protest: So cool today. Still can’t believe YOU did that.

  Yeah, well. Thank my butt. I didn’t plan it.

  Ha-ha. What’re u gonna do tomorrow? Ur fans wanna know. Repeat performance? Or something bigger?

  No, going to Reflection. Not having another therapy session with my mom.

  Man, u try to make a statement, all they do is give u detention.

  Yep.

  Sucks.

  This whole time, by the way, Erin and Mom are in her room, TALKING. Their nightly talkathon. After Mom finishes quizzing her (at Erin’s request), they discuss what they’re reading for their mother-daughter book club, how some girl dyed her hair pink and Erin thinks it’s so ridiculous, and this boy who might like Erin but she isn’t sure, and why the pimple on her chin won’t go away. Then they launch into a fifteen-minute comparison of different acne creams!

  My door is shut, but her room is next to mine so you can hear everything through the vent. Dad’s stretched out on the sofa, holding the remote and snoring. He leaves for work at five a.m. every weekday, so he sleeps through a lot around here at night.

  I’m telling you, mental institution.

  ERIN

  Okay, I think I’m almost there. I’ll review more tomorrow, and then I should be good to go. I bombed the first LA test with an 89.2, so I really need to ace this one. No, I’m not grade-obsessed. But preparing thoroughly, doing well, what can I say? It makes me feel proud and happy and accomplished.

  You know what I don’t get? Why that C-minus in social studies last year didn’t upset Ethan at all. His explanation to Mom and Dad was that he’s not “good” at social studies. So I’m not exceptionally good at punctuation and spelling, but I view that as a challenge to work harder in those areas. Understanding the use of semicolons is going to take me a while.

  I’m about to start the shower when I see Ethan’s closed door. Did he even study? How could he? He missed half the review session today when Mrs. D’Antonio escorted him out, and besides, have you seen his notes? A chimpanzee could’ve written them.

  Maybe he’d like to borrow my index cards. I rubber-band them together, then knock on his door.

  “Yeah?”

  When I open the door, he’s lying on his beanbag, tossing a ball into the air and catching it. There’s a pile of dirty socks in a corner. And some—yuck—underwear.

  “Hi. I wanted to offer you my index cards in case you’d like to use them to review for the test.”

  He squints at me. “You’re offering me your index cards? I could get food on them. Or crumple the paper.”

  “So don’t eat while you’re looking them over. And be careful. The thing is, you left halfway through Mr. Delman’s review, so you missed a lot, and well, you know . . .”

  “You know, what?”

  “I just thought it’d help if you read over my notes.” I hold up the cards. “I have one for every figure of speech, with several examples—”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “No, really, I’m going to take a shower, so I don’t need them for the next twenty minutes.”

  He sighs. “You’re not gonna tape a few cards to
the shower door?”

  I laugh. I’ve done that on occasion, sure. “No, not tonight. I’m sure it would help you—”

  He throws the ball at me and it hits my leg. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m good! Go take your shower.”

  I slam the door. See, even when I’m nice and considerate to him, he’s rude back to me. That’s what I mean about Ethan. What really goes on.

  Last summer we went to Dad’s company picnic, and the people in his office were all over Ethan. It was Ethan this, Ethan that. They made him the pitcher in the softball game! He tried to recruit me to play the outfield, but he knows I can’t catch, so I felt like that was just to put me on the spot and embarrass me. On top of it, Mr. Fun and Games kept striking people out.

  During the game, I collected empty cups and helped organize the dessert table. Somehow a bowl of chocolate mousse tipped over and splattered on my white shorts. I tried to wipe it off, but that made it worse. Then everyone kept asking, what happened to your shorts? It was terrible.

  On the way home, Ethan and Mom and Dad were saying what a fun day it was, but me? I didn’t say a word, just looked out the window. Nobody in this family ever sees my side of the story. They think I get too stressed out over little things, but I ask you, without people like me, how would garbage make it to the can and dessert tables get set up? Not to mention the zillion other things that need getting done.

  Just once, I’d like them to see it my way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Meanwhile, Back in LA

  BRIAN

  Tuesday. LA. People are watching. And waiting.

  Actual hope was sighted. You could feel the electricity in the stale McNutt air all day. Everyone was talking about Ethan’s little act of defiance like it was gonna be the answer to all our problems.

  Well, not all. There’s still homework, getting up early, cranky teachers, gym class (never a walk in the park for a short, nonathletic joker like me), and the cafeteria food, which goes without saying, but still, had to mention.

  We’re discussing the symbolism in a short story we were supposed to read, but everyone keeps looking at Ethan. Is something else gonna happen? Will he stand up again? Continue his “protest”? Is Delman gonna say anything to him?