“Very well. Let me tell it to you straight,” Mr. Porter said. “We don’t have the funds, nor do we have the manpower, to take the eighth grade on a class trip this year.”
Mr. Porter tried to come off as upset, but he is a bad actor. It was grossly apparent to me that the bad news was in fact music to his ears. Mr. Porter sponsored the student council to pad his unearned paycheck, not because he cared to spend an extra minute with the students of Penn Valley.
I was shaken to the core, for I was very much looking forward to this day away from Penn Valley. Mr. Porter, however, did not notice, for unlike him, I can act.
“I see,” I said.
“As student council president, you’re going to have to tell the student council tomorrow,” Mr. Lichtensteiner said.
“This will come as quite a shock to the students, Mr. Lichtensteiner,” I informed him.
“It most certainly will. I’m happy you’re the one to tell them,” Mr. Lichtensteiner said.
“What, exactly, am I expected to say?” I asked.
Mr. Porter looked up at me and handed me a paper. “Here’s the e-mail from the school board. This details the reasons. Okay?”
I took the paper and scowled at it. Then I scowled at Mr. Lichtensteiner. I have never cared for this man, who has spent the last three years avoiding me like the plague, ignoring my warnings as the ship of Penn Valley Middle School was sinking.
“Good day, Mr. Samagura,” Mr. Lichtensteiner said, picking up his phone.
But if he thought he was going to get rid of me quickly, he was sorely mistaken.
“I’d like to speak with someone higher up,” I said.
Mr. Lichtensteiner looked at Mr. Porter, who shrugged his shoulders.
“I am as high up as this goes,” Mr. Lichtensteiner said.
I heard the bell for class ring. And suddenly I knew I had missed Sharon. Since she’s in the seventh grade, we don’t have any classes together, and I really wanted to walk her to class.
“All right,” I said. “Good day, sir.”
I left Mr. Lichtensteiner’s office thoroughly disappointed, but then it struck me like a bolt of lightning. Before Sharon entered my life, just about all I could think about was the class trip to New York City. But since Sharon is in the seventh grade and wouldn’t be going on the class trip, I suddenly couldn’t care less. We could go to the Big Apple by train and visit the Met4 this summer. It was a relief knowing I wouldn’t have to travel on a class trip to a cultural mecca like New York City with my uncouth classmates.
So it was with a careless, mirthful gait that I left the office that morning. In fact, I was close to skipping. I could hardly wait to see Sharon after school, especially since I would be taking the liberty of secretly decorating her locker to celebrate our one-week anniversary. Oh, to see the surprise in her lively blue eyes!
2
All Is Not Well
DUKE
“SLOW DOWN,” SHE said. Those were her exact words. Slow down.
I don’t know “slow down.” I don’t do “slow down.” It’s not in my vocabulary.
And here I was expecting a big smile and a big hug and maybe even a little kiss. But instead, Sharon was embarrassed. Oh, I could tell. You don’t go looking over your shoulders and searching for others’ reactions if you’re happy about something. No, you look right at the person who surprised you on your one-week anniversary as if that is the only person who exists. You don’t care about anyone or anything else.
“You don’t like balloons?” was all I could muster as a reply.
Sharon’s initial shock left her face and her kind, empathetic smile returned.
“Oh, no, Duke, the balloons are sweet. It’s just, perhaps, a bit too much.”
There were only seven balloons tied to her locker. Seven. Was there a dearth5 of balloons in the world of which I was unaware?
I was hurt, and though I pride myself on the ability to mask my feelings (practice for when I’m a lawyer and/or diplomat), Sharon, who is extraordinarily perceptive (she sees and she observes, don’t forget6), could tell that I was taken aback. She put her hand on mine.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all. We only got together a week ago. And . . .” She stopped there.
“And what?” I am by nature curious.
“It’s just not something people do here at Penn Valley. Honestly, I’m just a little bit embarrassed, okay?”
This was the nightmarish memory that I could not rid from my mind as I sat down to dinner with my parents, Neal and Cassandra. If you don’t know my parents, you’re not missing much. They’re both sociologists (hardly an intellectually invigorating field) and allegedly teach at the town's poor excuse for a college, Penn Valley College, and write useless books together. They recently completed a book, Ethel’s Story,7 which I perused and had no choice but to give two thumbs down. They do stay busy and usually don’t have time for me, which is fine. Recently they’ve been rallying their students to protest at Penn Valley College.About what, your guess is as good as mine.
Anyway, here’s an example of our tedious dinner conversation:
SCENE ONE8
LIGHTS UP
THE DINING ROOM of the Samagura residence in Penn Valley, a suburb of Philadelphia. DUKE, fourteen, handsome, sits at the table between his parents, NEAL and CASSANDRA. The stage is well lit, bright on the table.
(They eat in silence.)
Cassandra
How is your little friend?
Duke
She’s not my “little friend.” She is the same size as any average seventh-grader.
Cassandra
How is your friend?
Duke
Quite well, thank you. I trust she had a relaxing spring break and is refreshed for the final ten weeks of the school year.
(There is a distinct pause here. Then Neal coughs and begins.)
Neal
Is there nutmeg in the soup?
Cassandra
There shouldn’t be nutmeg.
Neal
I distinctly taste nutmeg.
(They return to their soups.)
Cassandra
Duke, do you taste nutmeg?
Duke
Maybe.
Cassandra
That’s curious. There shouldn’t be any nutmeg.
Neal
I could be wrong.
Cassandra
No, if you say you taste it, there must be some in there. Perhaps I made a mistake. I’ll have to reorganize the spice rack.
Neal
I’ll help you.
Cassandra
Thank you, dear.
(Cassandra and Neal mouth I love you.)
Duke
May I be excused?
Cassandra
Already? Pourquoi?9
Duke
I’m going to vomit.
FADE TO BLACK
Do you see what I have to work with? Oh, what I would give to witness my parents have a little tiff or kerfuffle. I blame them for my balloon faux pas.
Sitting at my desk with a spot of tea, I did all I could to concentrate on my duties as a student and leader in the school. The next ten weeks will be the busiest of my life, and it’s going to take a great deal of skill to juggle my relationship with Sharon with my many responsibilities. As president of the student council, it falls upon me to plan almost every activity my thankless peers will enjoy as their middle-school years come to an end. In fact, I’m probably busier than the president of the United States.10
I moved over to my coziest chair and settled in with Shakespeare’s sonnets. It helped put my mind at ease.
SAM
“How’s your future ex-girlfriend?”
“Huh?” I say, looking over at my sister Maureen’s boyfriend, John Lutz. He’s a sophomore at Penn Valley High and an all-around
jerk. Who needs an older brother picking on you when you have a guy like Lutz hanging around the house?
“I asked,” he repeats, and much slower, like I’m an idiot or something, “how’s your future ex-girlfriend, Erica?” Lutz laughs like he just made a joke, but I certainly don’t think it’s funny.
I don’t bother answering Lutz. First of all, what’s he even doing at our dinner table? My mom doesn’t ask if he’s staying anymore, she just sets an extra space at the table.
“Leave him alone,” Maureen says, sticking up for me for the first time ever. “I think it’s cute our little Sammy has a girlfriend.”
So much for sticking up for me. Even though she’s only a year older, she makes me feel like a little kid and I don’t like it. And then there’s my younger sister, Sharon, who treats me the same way, even though she’s in the seventh grade.
Mom puts a plate of food in front of Lutz (can you believe he gets served first?—my dad notices), but at least that shuts him up.
Everyone starts eating and talking, but I just can’t get my mind off of how annoying Foxxy was today. He talked to Erica all through lunch and then after school. When I walked up to them, Erica was giving Foxxy relationship advice. He talked to her more than I did!
And I’m in my own world, I really am, until we’re done with dinner. I look at my plate and it’s empty, though I don’t remember eating. Then my mom serves us ice cream for dessert and that’s when Lutz farts.
“Jesus, Sam, what was that?” he asks.
I’m too shocked to say anything. I mean, who farts at the dinner table and then blames someone else? Lutz, that’s who. And you'd think my mom would know it was Lutz and wouldn’t tolerate him swearing (sort of) at the dinner table, but God forbid someone takes my side. Here’s how it plays out:
Sharon: Oh my gosh, you’re so gross!
Maureen: I’m so ashamed and embarrassed!
Mom: Excuse yourself, Sam.
Dad: Is there more chocolate ice cream?
Even though I feel the way my dad does, I just get up from the table and go to my room. And anyway, I have to figure out what to do about Foxxy.
As I stare at my fish tank it occurs to me that Lutz, who's a total idiot, might just be right about something. Erica is going to be my future ex-girlfriend if I don’t play my cards right. I’ll start high school girlfriendless, spending Friday nights at the movies sharing popcorn with Foxxy.
CHOLLIE
I can’t sleep.
I’m lying in bed and I’m wide-awake. Every time I close my eyes I see it, just sitting there in Coach’s office. A light blue envelope with “Miranda” written on the front. I just can’t get the picture of the letter I wrote for Miranda out of my head.
The worst part of forgetting the letter in Coach’s office is that Miranda remembered it was our one-week anniversary.
Here’s what happens. I meet Miranda at the library during lunch. She likes to go there a lot, and when we were working on our report on the Brazilian tapir (before we were boyfriend and girlfriend), we had “working lunches” three times a week. So of course I can’t wait for lunch today, not only because I’m pretty much starving by lunchtime, but also because it’s the first chance I get to really talk to Miranda all day.
I’m waiting and waiting, but she’s not there, so I figure she’s probably talking to a teacher or something, and this gives me a chance to eat my awesome turkey sandwich. No one can make a sandwich like my mom. And all I think about is how great the sandwich is and how great it will be to see Miranda, especially when I give her the letter I wrote.
Miranda arrives and I can tell right away she’s upset about something. It almost looks like she’s been crying.
“Charlie,” she says, “you’ll never believe what has happened.”
Isn’t it cool how Miranda calls me Charlie? Everyone else calls me Chollie because I couldn’t say Charlie in kindergarten. Isn’t that stupid? But I like that everyone calls me Chollie and only Miranda calls me Charlie.
“What happened?” I ask.
“We’re not going to have our eighth-grade class trip.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t raise enough money and the school board is making cuts.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. I think about reaching out and touching her hand but decide against it. “What’s the big deal about a class trip anyway?” I ask, trying to make her feel better.
“Don’t you want to go to New York?” she asks.
“Sure, I guess, but I always get a little carsick on the bus. And whenever we’re on class trips, it always feels like we’re rushing around just so we can get back on time.”
“I feel, I don’t know, like I failed when I was the student council president. I should have never resigned after the toilet paper incident.”
“You did a great job,” I tell her, and I still think about holding her hand, but I don’t.
“I guess we’ll figure out something else,” she says, and even though she smiles, she doesn’t seem totally convinced. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
She digs into her backpack and takes out a card. “Happy one-week anniversary,” she says.
It all happens so fast. I open the card and it’s a picture from the book Goodnight Moon, which was my favorite book as a kid. I can’t believe she remembered! Inside is written “Happy one-week anniversary! XOXO Miranda.”
I look at Miranda and give her a big, huge smile.
“I know it’s corny,” she says, “but I couldn’t resist. My ex-boyfriend, Tom, and I used to do stuff like this. I thought it was fun to remember the little things.”
“Oh, sure, yeah, it’s great,” I say. And before I know it, I have my book bag up on the table and I’m searching for the letter.
“I have a letter for you in here somewhere,” I say.
I’m really frantic, looking for that letter.
“It’s okay, Charlie, really it is.”
“I didn’t forget it,” I say. “I swear.”
And now I’m sweating and I have everything out of my bag.
“I believe you,” she says.
Thankfully, the bell rings, and I can tell Miranda is happy to get out of the library.
I watch her leave, and then the image of that dumb letter comes into my head.
And it’s still in my head now, and every time I close my eyes to go to sleep I see it, just sitting there on Coach’s office floor, with “Miranda” written on it.
3
What’s on Deck
DUKE
EVERY HERO HAS an enemy. Othello had Iago; Hamlet had Fate; Sherlock Holmes had Professor Moriarty.11 Yours truly has Ralph Waldo.
He was waiting for me in the lobby of the auditorium, swaying on the crutches he has been carrying about ever since his skiing accident.
“Hello, Duke,” Ralph Waldo said. “What say you?”
“Ralph,” I said. “I hope your leg is healing.”
“It is indeed, Duke. Thank you for asking. And how are things with the charming Sharon Dolan?”
“Splendid, Ralph. Thank you for asking.” I really enjoyed saying this. I was happy to rub it in Ralph’s face. And knowing Knuckles and Moose12 were cracking their knuckles in their pinstripe suits and homburgs,13 waiting to inflict pain on Ralph, made me even happier.
“Quite the catch you reeled in, Duke.”
Ralph returned my blissful smile with an evil grin. I knew instantly I was no longer dealing with your run-of-the-mill eighth-grader but instead beheld my Iago, my Fate, my Professor Moriarty. Not just a competitor, like the now-vanquished Sam and Chollie, but a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
“Ta-ta,” I said, touching his shoulder in a most condescending way as I entered the empty auditorium to prepare for my duties.
I quickly put Ralph
Waldo out of my mind, for I had more important things with which to deal. Not only was the student council going to get the bad news that there would be no class trip, but the meeting was to be more crowded than usual, since we needed volunteers to serve on committees for the various end-of-the-year activities, the most important being the eighth-grade dance.
And to make matters worse, I was terribly worried about Sharon. She should not be wallowing in the seventh grade, working on simple algebra, reading whatever tripe the school district is forcing students to read, wasting her time overall. I wouldn’t be able to see her angelic face all day.
Mr. Porter was the first to enter the auditorium and called my name upon seeing me. He was especially nervous, and although I wasn’t as worried as he, I really didn’t want to tell the eighth-graders the bad news. Still, it was my job, so I would do it.
I assuaged Mr. Porter’s fears. “As we discussed, I’ll handle this.”
The good thing about an incompetent nincompoop like Mr. Porter is that he listens to me. He took a seat and began a crossword, which he could never possibly finish.
The auditorium filled up quickly. I was so happy to see Sharon enter, her eyes focusing upon mine as she walked down the aisle. She was a ray of light in the dark hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “I have some disappointing news. There will be no eighth-grade class trip.”
I must admit I was not expecting the student council to take the bad news the way they did. But after years of constant disappointment, a below-average faculty with low expectations, and dispiriting losses in sports to Cedarbrook, I suppose the student body at Penn Valley has come to expect the worst. In fact, after an initial groan of disappointment, the students, led by Miranda Mullaly and seconded by the pulchritudinous14 Sharon Dolan, began planning an alternate activity.
My Future Ex-Girlfriend Page 2