“I’m so over that.”
“Really?” I can’t believe Elliott’s forgiven me so easily. “But I am sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever. By the way, Tommy Murphy spent the day at my place yesterday, and he let me in on something important.”
My heart hammers. “Tommy Murphy?” A couple of years ago, he threw pinecones at us while we walked home from school. When Elliott turned to tell him to quit, Tommy nailed him in the head with a rock. Elliott’s forehead bled like crazy, so his mom called a doctor friend. She told Elliott’s mom to stick Elliott’s skin back together with Krazy Glue. Krazy Glue! And it worked, except Elliott still has a scar. “The Tommy Murphy?”
“Yeah,” Elliott says.
“The one who lives in your apartment building?”
“Duh. What other Tommy Murphy is there, David?”
“But I thought—”
I hear muffled laughter.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” Elliott coughs.
I don’t hear anything else. “So what did Tommy let you in on?”
“Okay,” Elliott says. “You know that whole dress code thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Tommy told me all the kids are purposely breaking it today.”
“Breaking it?” My voice cracks. “All the kids?”
“You know, the seventh and eighth graders and the cool sixth graders.”
I remember Mom’s letter. Don’t break any rules, especially on the first day. “But—”
“I’m definitely wearing a T-shirt,” Elliott says. “You should, too.”
“Really?” I whisper, as though the Dress Code Police can hear me.
“David, if you don’t wear a T-shirt today, the eighth graders are going to target you for the rest of the year.”
“No!” Everything Jack said rushes back. “I don’t want to be a target.”
“Exactly,” Elliott says. “That’s why I’m looking out for you, buddy.”
“Thanks, but do you really think …?” I bite my bottom lip.
“Yeah,” Elliott says. “Everyone’s doing it.”
“But I thought—”
“Relax, David. This is a no-brainer. You don’t want to be labeled a dork your first day, do you?”
“No, but—”
“So you’ll wear a T-shirt today?”
I swallow hard and push Jack’s and Mom’s words from my mind. “Yeah. I’ll wear one.” I slide out of bed, wondering how I’ll sneak past Dad. “So, Elliott, you coming to my house or you want me to walk to yours?”
“Uh, I promised Tommy I’d walk with him.”
My stomach squeezes, but since Elliott’s being such a good guy about everything, I make a concession. “I can meet both of you at your place, then.” Silence. “I mean, if that’s okay.” Why wouldn’t it be?
“Look, David, how about we meet you in the school’s courtyard?”
“But—”
“Just wear your T-shirt and meet us in the courtyard.”
Before I click off the phone, I know exactly which T-shirt I’ll wear.
In Dad’s office, the computer casts a ghostly blue glow on his face.
“Poor woman,” Dad says. “Wants to keep homeschooling her daughter because she’s afraid if she goes to school, she’ll be lonely at home without her. Can you imagine?”
“Um, not really,” I say.
Dad pushes away from his computer. “I’m suggesting she find activities during the day with people of her own age. Maybe get a job. Or volunteer somewhere.”
“Um, great advice,” I say, wishing I hadn’t interrupted Dad’s work on his advice column.
“Oh my gosh.” Dad looks at his watch. “I didn’t realize …”
“Yup.” I bob from foot to foot.
“First day of middle school!” Dad comes around his desk and examines me from head to toe.
I hold my breath. Please don’t notice.
“Looking good,” Dad says, even though it’s obvious my hair is sticking out in weird ways.
I let my breath out. “Thanks.”
“Want a ride to Elliott’s?” Dad nods toward his computer. “My column can wait. Or is he coming here?”
I take a step back. “We’re meeting at school.”
“Too big to meet at each other’s houses,” Dad says, as though he understands some great truth.
He doesn’t.
“For lunch.” Dad hands me a five. “Now, go forth and conquer.”
I back up and reach for the doorknob. “Going forth.” I swallow hard. “And conquering.”
Dad returns to his desk. “All right, Perplexed in Pennsylvania,” he says, positioning his fingers on the keyboard. “Alan’s answer is on its way, but you probably won’t like it.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He glances up. “Hey, that shirt looks good on you. Your old man has decent taste, huh?”
I gulp down guilt. “Yup.” Easing out of Dad’s office, I close the door and run upstairs. After stripping off my collared shirt, I throw it onto the bed and head back downstairs, wearing the T-shirt Dad gave me.
I feel sorry for the dorky sixth graders who won’t know about the T-shirt thing. I’m lucky Elliott gave me the heads-up. Still, as I walk toward Harman, I feel sort of naked.
Two guys run past me and shove each other. They’re wearing collared shirts. I squint. They don’t look like dorky sixth graders.
The closer I get to Harman, the more kids I see and the heavier my feet feel. By the time I reach the crossing guard at the intersection before school, my feet are fifteen-pound bowling balls.
Breathe, David. Breathe!
When the crossing guard blows her whistle and motions me to walk, I force my bowling-ball feet to carry me across the intersection, even though what I want to do is run home.
Harman’s courtyard is flooded with kids, some hugging each other, some shoving and some standing alone. Everyone is wearing a collared shirt.
Correction: one really heavy guy, who is definitely not a sixth grader, wears a T-shirt that reads “I may be fat, but you’re ugly and I can diet.” Definitely not dress code.
As I search for Elliott, a girl points at me—or, more specifically, at my T-shirt—and whispers to a girl beside her. Then they both giggle.
Elliott Berger, I’m going to KILL you for making me wear this stupid T-shirt!
A loud buzzer sounds, and everyone funnels toward two open doors. I’m being pushed along, my heart pounding because I don’t want to be one of only two kids to enter Harman Middle School the first day wearing a T-shirt.
That’s when I see Elliott’s face next to Tommy’s. I let out a breath, because I know that Elliott will be wearing his “It’s not my fault” T-shirt, and we can stick together today. The girl in front of Elliott moves out of the way, so I have a good view of him and Tommy.
They’re both wearing collared shirts.
The cafeteria smells like mold. I try not to breathe, but that makes me dizzy.
Kids form lines in front of tables along one wall. There are signs behind the tables with letters: A–G, H–P and Q–Z.
A bald guy walks around with a megaphone and bellows, “Line up in front of the letter that starts your last name. When you receive your schedule, head directly to your first-period class. You’ll find maps along the walls.”
I’m supposed to stand in the “A–G” line.
So is Elliott.
Instead, I stand near a bulletin board with a poster that reads
Harman students are …
Always prepared, positive and proud
Responsible and respectful
Making excellent choices
Academically astonishing
Neat, careful and considerate citizens.
I pretend to study the poster but am secretly spying on Elliott. When there are seven kids behind him, I decide it’s safe to get in line.
I shoot vaporizing rays at the back of Elliott’s head. I hope you aren’t
in any of my classes. I hope you make out with some eighth-grade girl and get suspended. Or beaten up. Or both!
“Nice shirt,” Elliott says as he walks past, holding his schedule.
I watch Elliott catch up with Tommy. They compare schedules and walk out of the cafeteria. Together.
When it’s my turn at the table, the lady says, “Name?”
“David.”
“Last?”
I look behind me. There is no one else.
“Last?” she says more loudly.
“Um, yes, I am.”
She closes her eyelids. When she opens them again, she tilts her head and says, “Last name?”
I want to say Moron because that’s what I feel like.
“Greenberg. My last name is Greenberg. And my middle name is Todd, after—”
“Here you go,” she says, handing me the schedule. “You have Ms. Lovely first period.”
“Ms. Lovely?”
“Yes.” The lady looks tired. Of me.
I turn to go just as the man with the megaphone says something near my ear. “Please go immediately to your first-period class.”
I check the room number on my schedule and run out of the cafeteria.
A teacher stops me. “Whoa. No running.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m late.”
“That’s okay. It’s the first day.”
I shove my schedule at him. “Can you tell me how to get to”—I feel funny saying the name—“Ms. Lovely’s math class?”
“End of that hall.” He points.
“Thanks.” I walk quickly.
Behind me, I’m sure I hear him mutter, “Good luck.”
A harsh buzz sounds as I enter the classroom.
The first thing I see is Tommy Murphy in the back row. I picture Tommy hoisting some scrawny kid over a railing. And the kid falling, his arms and legs flailing. I can almost hear the thump as his honeydew head hits the floor and cracks open.
I scan the room. All the kids look bigger than me, except one girl in the front row, who has red curly hair. I slide into the empty seat beside her.
I knew they were moving me up to seventh-grade math this year because of my standardized test scores, but Tommy Murphy is in eighth grade. Am I in the wrong room?
The red-haired girl smiles at me.
I nod, thinking it’s the cool thing to do.
She nods back and whispers, “I like your T-shirt.”
I sit up taller. Thank you, Elliott Berger.
Ms. Lovely, a petite woman in a dress, turns from the board.
My lower jaw dangles. That can’t be Ms. Lovely.
This woman makes Bubbe look young. Her skin is so tanned and wrinkled that her face looks like the hind quarters of an elephant.
“Welcome to math class,” the woman says in a raspy voice. She sounds like she spent her life working at the Smokin’ and Chokin’ Cigarette Factory. “I’m your teacher, Ms. Lovely.”
The red-haired girl and I exchange panicked glances.
Ms. Lovely parks herself in front of my desk. “You’re in Math II. This class is for seventh-grade students.” She glares at Tommy Murphy. “For the most part.”
I look back and see Tommy sink low in his seat. He must have failed math last year.
Ms. Lovely’s raspy voice invades my thoughts. “We do have two sixth-grade students in our class. They tested exceptionally well.”
I sink low in my seat, too, and notice that the red-haired girl does the same.
Ms. Lovely is beaming, though, which makes her wrinkles even deeper. “We could all learn from their dedication.”
I glance at the red-haired girl. Her eyelids are closed.
A rude noise erupts from the back. I’m sure it came from Tommy.
Ms. Lovely raises one eyebrow, and the room falls silent.
“You,” Ms. Lovely says in her gravelly voice, pointing at my chest.
I put a hand over my heart and look around.
“Yes, you,” she rasps. “Stand.”
When I stand, my legs feel like wet matzo. Maybe she’s going to announce my math test score from last year—99 percent. That will be humiliating.
“This,” she croaks, pointing at my chest, “is a flagrant demonstration of not following school dress code. Come up here.”
Elliott Berger, I hate you!
I step from behind my desk, feeling kids watch me. My cheeks grow so warm I’m sure I’ll spontaneously combust and turn into a pile of ash right in front of the class. At least, I hope so.
Ms. Lovely nods toward my T-shirt. “You’re famous, all right, Mr….,” she croaks in a very unlovely way.
It takes a moment for me to realize she’s waiting for my last name.
“Greenberg.” My voice cracks. Curse my lengthening vocal cords!
“Look around, Mr. Greenberg. Do you see others wearing T-shirts in this classroom?”
I look around but already know what I’ll see. “No.”
“Of course not. In this room and in this school, Mr. Greenberg, we follow the rules.”
I can see Mom’s letter in my mind. Don’t break any rules, especially on the first day.
Ms. Lovely pokes me with her clawlike finger.
I cringe and slide back into my seat.
Elliott Berger, I’m going to kill you!
The noise in the cafeteria is rock-band loud. It smells like sloppy joes and mold.
I’m hungry, and the line to buy food is long. I stand at the end of it, then touch the five-dollar bill from Dad in my pocket. The kid in front of me turns and says, “David!”
It’s Gavin from Longwood El. He and I were in Academic Games together last year.
“Yo, Gavin,” I say, high-fiving him. We both look around to make sure no one saw, in case that’s something you shouldn’t do in middle school.
“What’s up?” Gavin asks.
I think of the humiliating T-shirt incident in Ms. Lovely’s class, cross my arms over my chest and say, “Not much. What’s up with you?”
He shrugs. “Nothing much.”
We stare at each other and nod; then Gavin turns back around and I feel alone again. It takes forever for me to move up to the front of the line.
“Ewww. Gloppy joe,” a kid behind me says.
I stare at the silver pans full of sloppy—um, gloppy—joe and something that I think is spinach. There’s also a tray of sliced carrots. My stomach makes an embarrassing noise.
“Before tomorrow,” the lunch lady says, brandishing her long metal spoon.
“Carrots and sloppy joe, please.” This lady won’t be slipping me free ice cream on Fridays.
I grip my red plastic tray and scan the cafeteria. Other than Gavin, I don’t recognize anyone. That’s why Elliott and I were supposed to stick together—because there weren’t going to be a lot of us coming from Longwood El. Most of the kids at Harman come from Trailside El because of the dumb boundary rules. Gavin is already talking and laughing with a bunch of guys I don’t know, so I sit at a table near the door and dig my plastic spork into the gloppy joe.
My mouth is full when I see Elliott walking toward me. Even though I hate what he did to me this morning, I feel a tiny spark of hope that he’ll sit with me. We could work this whole thing out and be friends again by next period.
I notice Tommy beside Elliott, and the spark dims. What is he doing with that Neanderthal?
“Yo, David,” Elliott says, as though we’re still best buds.
“Yo, Dave,” Tommy says, like a brain-damaged parrot.
Elliott rests his tray on my table. He chose the same food I did; we both hate spinach. “So, how’s the T-shirt thing working out for you?” Elliott asks. Tommy laughs so hard he snorts.
The memory of Ms. Lovely embarrassing me in front of the class, in front of the red-haired girl, crashes back.
It’s all your fault.
I turn and laser-focus on Elliott, who has picked up his tray and has this innocent who me? look on his face.
It
’s all your fault!
Elliott’s eyes open wide.
I realize that his eyes look panicked because I’m off my seat and in his face. Kids from other tables swivel around to watch.
Tommy steps forward.
Elliott tugs on his shirt collar—his shirt collar!—and says, “What?”
“You’re a jerk,” I say, and shove Elliott’s tray so hard it smashes onto the front of his shirt and knocks him backward.
“What the—”
Elliott’s sitting on the floor, looking up and blinking while globs of food cling to the front of his shirt. A sliced carrot slips down his neck. Elliott’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
I back up, every muscle tense. “I’m sorry. I—”
Elliott scrambles off the floor. He charges toward me, slips on something and slams into me.
I fall backward and land hard on my butt.
“Jerk!” I scream, rocketing up toward Elliott.
He hits me hard on the side of the head.
I swing, landing a fist square on his cheek. “I hate you!” I yell, but it’s drowned out by chanting.
“Fight. Fight. Fight.”
Could they be talking about me? David “Please Don’t Hit Me” Greenberg?
Elliott lands one hard on my chin.
I blink a few times and am pulling my fist back just as someone grabs my arms and yanks.
I’m still trying to swing when I look over my shoulder and see that the person holding me is the police officer. The police officer is holding me!
“I’m sorry … i-it’s just …,” I stammer.
Her grip tightens.
Elliott struggles against the man holding him, and I can’t believe how much he looks like he wants to kill me.
The cafeteria falls whisper-quiet as the bald guy who had the megaphone this morning charges over. He nods at the police officer. “I’ll take it from here.”
When the officer loosens her grip, the bald guy grabs my arm. It hurts.
Elliott breathes through flaring nostrils, like a bull ready to charge.
I glance around at kids staring at me and bite my lower lip.
“Take him to the nurse,” the bald guy says to the man holding Elliott. “Then make sure he gets to my office. I’ll have to call his parents.”
Parent, I want to say. Elliott has one parent.
How to Survive Middle School Page 4