How to Survive Middle School

by Donna Gephart

  As he’s being led away, Elliott glowers at me, food splattered on his collared shirt and a fat red mark on his cheek. I look down, knowing I ruined Elliott’s first day of school, too.

  Tommy stands nearby, grinning.

  “Let’s go,” the bald man says, tightening his grip on my already sore arm.

  It turns out Mr. Carp (aka Bald Guy) is the assistant principal for sixth grade.

  I know this because there is a sign on his desk that reads MR. CARP, SIXTH-GRADE ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr….” He runs his hand over the freckled skin on his scalp.

  “Greenberg.”

  “What do you have to say, Mr. Greenberg?”

  “Uh, I’m really sorry.”

  Mr. Carp nods. “I’ll bet you are, son.” And he picks up the phone.

  Actually, I’m not that sorry. Because I, David Todd Greenberg, biggest fraidy cat ever, was in my first fight. And I think I might have won!

  I’ll never tell Mr. Carp this, but I feel a little proud of myself.

  Until Dad shows up.

  Dad skids into Mr. Carp’s office, breathing hard.

  I sink low in my chair, feeling smaller than ever.

  “Mr. Greenberg?” Mr. Carp says to him.

  Dad shakes Mr. Carp’s hand but looks at me. “What’s this about a fight, David?”

  I can tell by the look in Dad’s eyes that he’s hoping it’s a mistake, that some other David Greenberg was dumb enough to get into a fight the first day of school.

  “It’s j-just—” I stammer.

  “And why are you wearing that?” Dad points to my T-shirt. “I thought I made it clear—”

  “Mr. Greenberg?” Mr. Carp points to the chair next to mine.

  Dad sits and runs his hand through his hair.

  “I’ve looked into David’s file,” Mr. Carp says. “It’s obvious he’s a good kid. A really good kid.”

  Dad’s face softens a little.

  “Sometimes, starting middle school can be rough.”

  “You can say that again,” I mutter.

  They both glare at me, and my cheeks get warm.

  Mr. Carp continues. “But David made a mistake.”

  “A big mistake!” Dad says, looking directly into my eyes.

  I sink lower in my chair.

  Mr. Carp puts both palms on his desk. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Mr. Greenberg, you’re going to take David home. We’ll call it a one-day suspension.”

  The word “suspension” kicks my heart into overdrive.

  “Okay,” Dad says, the vein on the side of his head pulsing.

  “And he’s going to come to school tomorrow wearing a collared shirt.”

  “Of course,” Dad says, giving me a look.

  “And he’s going to stay out of trouble all year.” Mr. Carp looks at me. “Isn’t that right, David?”

  “That’s right,” I say.

  Mr. Carp offers me his hand, and I shake it even though my palm is sweaty. Then he shakes Dad’s hand and picks up the phone. “Send the other boy in now.”

  As Dad and I walk out of Mr. Carp’s office, Elliott walks in.

  His shirt is soaked and covered with food stains.

  I know that’s probably the only new shirt Elliott got this year. His mom rarely has money for extras like school clothes. And whatever he gets has to last all year, even if he outgrows it. Even if his former best friend ruins it with a tray full of gloppy joe and sliced carrots. I have the word “sorry” on my lips, but Elliott glares at me. If he had death-ray vision, I’d be vaporized. Then, secretly, he nods toward his hand, which is curled into a fist.

  He lifts his middle finger. At me!

  I don’t care that I ruined his stupid shirt anymore.

  In Dad’s car in the parking lot, my shoulders relax a little, until I look over at him. There’s a deep crease above his eyebrows, and he’s gripping the steering wheel even though he hasn’t started the car yet.

  Dad turns to me, glances at my T-shirt, then looks up at my eyes and says six soft words that pierce my heart.

  “David, I’m so disappointed in you.”

  When we walk into the house, I say, “Dad, Elliott tricked me into wearing a T-shirt today.”

  Dad swivels and levels me with a stare. “Tricked you? Tricked you? First of all, David, you’re smarter than that. Second, I don’t care if Elliott told you to dance naked on Mr. Carp’s bald head. You had no right to do that. Elliott doesn’t have it so easy, you know.”

  Neither do I!

  “What the heck were you thinking?” Dad doesn’t wait for an answer. He shakes his head and stalks toward his office.

  “Thanks for being such a good listener,” I mumble, and trudge upstairs.

  Even though I know that Lindsay’s at school, I get a sinking feeling when I open her door and see that her bed’s made and her room’s empty. Downstairs, Bubbe’s apartment is quiet, and I remember it’s her day to volunteer at the library.

  The person I really feel like talking to is probably still in Mr. Carp’s office. His mom isn’t going to be able to get there as fast as Dad did. Ms. Berger is going to be pissed about having to leave work to get him. I’ve heard her say to Elliott about a million times, “If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I whisper.

  In the living room, I plop onto the couch, take a deep breath and look at Mom’s tuba. It looks lonely. My plastic tub of K’nex pieces sits on the floor next to it. I never put it away after that first day of summer, when Elliott and I went to the dumb mall instead of building something cool.

  I pick up the red tub, and even though I think I’m carrying it upstairs to put back in my closet, I detour to the garage. I don’t turn on the light, so it’s dark, and it’s smelly as I lift the garbage can lid. K’nex pieces cascade against each other into the can. Then I drop the empty tub into the recycling bin and head to my room.

  When I open my bedroom door, the first thing I see is the collared shirt from this morning. I hurl it to the floor, stretch out on my bed, glance at Hammy and remember the day Mom gave him to me. “Someone to love,” she said, handing me a trembling ball of fur. “I popped into Pet Palace for a minute and he looked so … so … lonely.”

  A few days after that, Mom left.

  I wonder if Mom got me Hammy because she knew I’d be lonely soon.

  My throat tightens. I bite my lip, staving off tears, and remind myself that middle schoolers don’t cry over K’nex pieces and ex–best friends. And they definitely don’t cry about missing their moms.

  I drag myself off the bed and take Hammy out of his cage. His whiskers twitch, and he seems happy to see me. At least someone is.

  There’s a knock on the door. I hold my breath and say nothing, because even if Dad is ready to talk to me, I don’t feel like talking to him anymore.

  My door creaks open, and Bubbe pokes her head in. “May I come in, bubelah?”

  I shrug. When she calls me bubelah, it makes me feel safe and babyish at the same time.

  Bubbe sits on the edge of my bed, looks into my eyes and pushes hair off my forehead, like Mom used to. “Bubelah,” she says, squeezing my knee, “your father told me what happened.”

  I open my mouth to explain, but Bubbe isn’t finished.

  “I’m sorry your first day went like that, Davey.”

  Davey. Does she have to call me Davey? The air leaks out of me, and my chest heaves.

  Bubbe takes Hammy from my hands and puts him into his cage. She comes back to the bed and holds me in her arms just as Niagara Falls gushes out of my eyes.

  “It was horrible,” I say into her shirt. “Ms. Lovely’s horrible. Elliott’s …” I blubber against Bubbe’s chest and my nose runs.

  She rocks me and says, “Sha! Sha, bubelah. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  Even though I know that Bubbe is wrong and it won’t be okay, it’s nice to hear those words.

  I ju
st wish they were coming from Mom.

  The next morning, I wake exactly twenty-three minutes before my alarm is set to buzz, because our phone won’t stop ringing.

  “Get the phone!” Lindsay yells.

  “Stop yelling,” Dad yells.

  “Stop yelling at me to stop yelling!”

  I grab the phone and push the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Hey, David.”

  The voice makes my heart pound.

  “David?” Tommy Murphy asks. “That’s you, right?”

  I hold my breath, remembering Jack’s warning about staying away from Tommy. That kid’s crazy mean.

  A familiar voice in the background says, “It’s him.”

  “Okay, then,” Tommy says. “Wanted you to know everyone at Harman’s wearing a bathing suit today. It’s Bathing Suit Day!”

  I hold my breath and press the phone against my ear.

  “So, make sure you wear the one with penguins all over it.”

  Before I can find the off button in the dark, I hear Elliott and Tommy cracking up.

  I hurl the phone across my room and pull my knees to my chest.

  Hammy startles.

  “Sorry, Ham,” I say, my voice catching.

  Elliott was here when Mom gave me that bathing suit. He saw how excited she was to find one covered with her favorite animal—penguins. Penguins skiing, penguins sledding and penguins building snowmen … on swim trunks. I thought they were funny until I wore them to Aunt Sherry’s pool party. Elliott came with us that year. He stood next to me when Jack said, “Cute suit, David. Does it come with a swim diaper?”

  When we got home, I shoved the bathing suit to the very back of my underwear drawer and made Elliott promise—promise!—he wouldn’t tell another human being about those stupid trunks. Granted, Tommy Murphy is not exactly a human being, but still …

  After that, Mom started buying penguin everything. She gave me penguin earmuffs. Lindsay got penguin earrings, penguin school folders and seven pairs of penguin pajamas. Dad got penguin boxer shorts in six different colors, and tiny penguin statues began appearing all over the place. Mom bought a dozen copies of Mr. Popper’s Penguins and scattered them throughout the house.

  Once, during dinner, Mom left the table and called the Philadelphia Zoo. When I heard her ask about buying a real penguin, I got excited. I thought it would be fun to have a penguin, except we’d probably have to keep the air conditioner blasting, even in winter. Dad got up so fast his chair fell over. He grabbed the phone from Mom’s hand, hung up and started screaming about responsibility and reality. Lindsay kept eating.

  I yank the blanket over my head and moan. “Elliott, you lousy, stinkin’, rotten …!”

  What if Tommy Murphy tells everyone at school about my penguin bathing suit? What if the red-haired girl finds out? What if Tommy throws me over a railing?

  I pull the blanket off my head and watch light stream through the window.

  “I should tell everyone that Elliott slept with Boo-Boo Bear until he was ten and a half,” I say to Hammy. “But I am too nice to do something like that!”

  Before I leave for school, Dad checks underneath my collared shirt.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, pulling away. “I’m not going to do that again.”

  “I know.” Dad ruffles my hair. “You’re a good kid, David. You just had a bad day.”

  On the way to school, something hits me between the shoulder blades.

  I whirl around, expecting to see Tommy Murphy holding a rock in one hand and my penguin bathing suit in the other, which is ridiculous, because the suit is still stashed in my underwear drawer. I know this because after the phone call, I checked. Didn’t want to find it flying on the flagpole at school this morning.

  “Sorry,” a kid says, and runs past. “I was aiming for him.” He scoops up a pinecone and chucks it at some guy.

  “Not even close!” the guy screams, and runs off.

  Watching them makes me miss walking to school with Elliott. He used to tell the lamest jokes, like “What’s the difference between middle school and a loony bin? Nothing.” Even when Tommy Murphy chucked pinecones at us, at least Elliott and I were together—a team—fighting the forces of evil. Now Elliott is a force of evil, and all I’m left with is a big empty space in my stomach that feels like it will never be filled.

  In the courtyard, I’m relieved about two things.

  Thing One: I’m dressed like everyone else, in a collared shirt.

  Thing Two: I don’t see Elliott or Tommy anywhere.

  I bump into a boy and say, “Excuse me.”

  “No sweat,” he says, and hoists his backpack onto his shoulder.

  I look around. Everyone seems to have gotten the backpack memo. What other vital information have I missed? Maybe backpack info was given out Tuesday afternoon, after Mr. Carp sent me home. What if there was homework assigned in some of my classes, and I’ll be marked as unprepared?

  “Hey!”

  I whirl around and stumble.

  The red-haired girl covers her mouth and giggles. “New feet?”

  My cheeks burn. “No, um …” Ask her name.

  “We’re in math together. Remember?” she says. “The only sixth graders.”

  “Yeah.”

  She bobs from foot to foot. “So, how’s it going?”

  “’Kay,” I say. “’Kay”? Way to impress her with your one-syllable response, David!

  “So …,” she says, biting her bottom lip.

  Say something, David! Say something or she’ll walk away, and you’ll be standing by yourself again. “No backpack, huh?” I want to smash myself in the forehead. No backpack, huh? Way to point out the girl’s deficiencies.

  “Guess we missed the memo,” she says.

  “Guess so.” I rock back on my heels. Ask her name, you idiot! “By the way, what’s—”

  The buzzer sounds so sharply it cuts through my words.

  She clutches her notebook to her chest with her left arm, bends forward and covers her ear with her right hand. “That’s sooooo loud.”

  I cover one ear, too, to show solidarity. “Yeah,” I say in yet another brilliant demonstration of my use of one-syllable words.

  The red-haired girl doesn’t seem to notice my extreme dorkiness, because she says, “Want to walk to math together?”

  Do I want to walk to math together? “Oh, yeah!” I say, a little too enthusiastically.

  As we funnel toward the doors with the crowd, I smell pepper mint on her skin and get goose bumps all over my arms.

  She smiles.

  “You’re not from Longwood El, um, Elementary, are you?” I ask as we’re jostled through the doors and into the building. I know she’s not from Longwood El, because I would have noticed her.

  “Nope.” She shakes her head, which makes her curls swing near my face.

  They look so soft and … Snap out of it, David! “Trailside El?”

  She shakes her head again.

  We’re in the hall now, walking toward Ms. Lovely’s class.

  “Private school?”

  “Nope.”

  I bite my lip and think. “You just moved here?”

  “Nope.” She giggles and covers her mouth. “Guess again.”

  Before we enter Ms. Lovely’s room, I step closer to the girl and hope Elliott’s in the area and sees me. If he notices me standing this close to a girl who’s actually talking to me, he’ll be so impressed.

  “Hmm,” I say so she’ll know I’m thinking about my next guess.

  In the crush to get into Ms. Lovely’s room, someone steps on the back of my sneaker. I turn around to say sorry, even though it’s not my fault, but only a strangled sound comes out.

  Tommy Murphy towers over me like Mount Kilimanjaro towers over an anthill.

  My stomach cramps violently, and it takes all my willpower not to double over, vomit and faint. But I can’t vomit or faint, because the red-haired girl is standing in front of me, and she probably wou
ldn’t appreciate either of those things happening in her general vicinity.

  Tommy whispers two words—“Penguin Boy”—near my ear, then slides into his seat at the back of the room.

  I shiver and take my seat in the front row, next to the red-haired girl.

  “Guess again,” she says.

  What were we talking about? I glance behind me. Tommy glares at me.

  I face front and grip the sides of my desk.

  “Hello?” the girl says. “Do you give up?”

  “What?”

  She presses her lips together, like she’s thinking hard about something, then whispers, “Okay, I’ll tell you. I was homeschooled.”

  “Homeschooled?” I say, more loudly than I meant to.

  Panic in her eyes, she puts her finger to her lips and sinks low.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  I glance back, and Tommy is quietly facing front. The chatter in the room has stopped. There’s only the sound of one pencil tapping. It’s my pencil.

  Standing in front of my desk is Ms. Lovely. I meet her eyes. If it’s possible, she looks even more tanned, wrinkled and menacing than yesterday.

  And she’s glaring. At me.

  I’m wearing a collared shirt. I offer a weak smile. She must teach lots of classes. Maybe she won’t remember me.

  “Mr. Greenberg,” she says in her gravelly voice, “no talking in my classroom unless you’re answering a question.”

  I nod.

  “And one more thing.”

  Oh, please strike me dead.

  “Nice shirt.”

  Did she just wink at me?

  Ms. Lovely turns on a TV suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room.

  I remember to breathe.

  On the screen, a series of images appear—the front of the school, kids eating in the cafeteria, a student crossing a finish line, rows of bookshelves, a trophy case—while upbeat music plays in the background. The final image is the school’s sign: HARMAN MIDDLE SCHOOL—A SAFE PLACE TO ACHIEVE ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE.

  As I watch, I feel Tommy glaring holes through the back of my head.

  On TV, a girl says, “Good morning, I’m Ellen Winser. Today is Wednesday, September eighth. Please stand tall for the pledge.” A flag appears on the screen, and chairs scrape as everyone rises to recite the pledge.