“David?” Sophie waves her hand in front of my face.
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
When Sophie closes the door, I notice a label on it that reads puerta. On the banister along the stairs, another label reads escaleras. I expect a dog to trot by with the word perro on its back, but I remember Ms. Meyers’s reaction to Hammy and know there won’t be a perro in this house.
Ms. Meyers walks in, wiping her hands on an apron. “Hello, David.”
I nod.
“The labels are a throwback from homeschooling,” Sophie says, then glares at her mom.
“I’ll take them down,” Ms. Meyers says. “Soon.”
Sophie grabs my wrist and pulls. “We’ll be in my room.”
Ms. Meyers opens her mouth as though she’s going to say something, but doesn’t.
We go up the escaleras, open the puerta to her bedroom, sit on the sillas and turn on her computadora.
Sophie yanks the label off the computer and throws it into the trash can.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“A little. Sometimes it feels like Mom’s suffocating me. She totally needs to get her own life.”
I can almost hear my mom shrieking, I’m suffocating here. My mom did get her own life, far away from us. “I know what you mean,” I say to Sophie, even though I really don’t. “At least you know she cares about you.”
“I guess.” Sophie shrugs. “But if she cared a little less, that would be good.”
“Hey, can I show you something?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“Sure.”
I call up Hammy Time on YouTube and scroll down. There are twenty-three new comments since last night. Twenty-three! And three hundred sixty-five more views.
I stare at the screen, trying to picture three hundred sixty-five people, all watching my video just since yesterday. Three hundred sixty-five people! That’s like the entire sixth-grade class at Harman Middle School.
“Oh my gosh.” Sophie shoves me. “This thing’s going viral. All I did was send it to my homeschool network.” She reads some comments. “Cartooney87 says, ‘Cute hamster. I have one just like it.’ Redsoxnritas writes, ‘You rock. Make more vids. Pls!’ and Astrokid13 says, ‘Ha. Ha. Ha. Hammy’s hilarious.’”
“They like it,” I mutter, shaking my head. “They all like it!”
We click over to the TalkTime show with my interview with Magazine Cover Jon Stewart. That one has fourteen more comments. Fourteen! And a hundred twenty-two more views.
We read through the comments, which are almost all positive. One guy even says, You should have ur own show! I would watch u. Reading through all these compliments makes me feel amazing, like I used to feel when I made Mom laugh, and it makes me want to make another video like crazy. Finally, Sophie twirls a curl on her finger and says, “We’d better get started on our project.”
I have an irrational urge to lean over and kiss her. After all, she’s the person who got all this attention for my videos. Instead, I say, “I got a great idea for our project from the book your mom got us.”
I teach Sophie how to work the camera. This requires me to be incredibly close to her peppermint-smelling skin and hair, which makes it hard to concentrate. I think about Cantor Schwartz from Hebrew school. The mole on his chin has hair growing out of it. I can concentrate again.
Sophie and I shoot several segments that involve my putting baby powder in my hair to make it look white, like Einstein’s. The baby powder makes me sneeze, which makes Sophie laugh. Somehow, we keep working and manage to nearly finish editing our video by the time Ms. Meyers yells, “Dinner!” And a loud bell clangs.
I look at Sophie.
“Our dinner bell is a cowbell.”
“You have a dinner bell?”
Sophie bites her lip. “Weird, right?”
Yes! “No.” I check my watch. “You eat kind of early, though.”
When Sophie turns to me, she’s got that same look in her eyes that Dad had when I found him with Mom’s tuba the other morning.
“We used to eat really late,” Sophie says, twirling hair around her finger again. “Really late.” Sophie looks up at me, then down again. “’Cause we’d wait for my dad to come home from work. Sometimes he was late.” She lets out a big breath. “Sometimes …”
It’s weird. I know I said they eat kind of early, but now that Sophie’s explaining, all I want is for her to stop. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to explain if it hurts. I want to tell her about Mom and the Farmer, but I don’t.
“My dad ended up moving in with some lady from work.” Sophie slaps her palms onto her knees and laughs. “I’ve never told anyone before.”
Not sure what else to do, I pat her shoulder.
It must have been the right thing, because Sophie smiles. “After that, Mom decided we’d eat dinner at a decent hour, and ever since, we’ve eaten earlier and earlier and—”
“Dinner!” Ms. Meyers shouts, and clangs the bell extra loudly.
“Coming!” Sophie leans toward me and speaks softly. “Ever since Dad left, Mom’s been a little”—Sophie bites her lip again—“controlling.”
“Dinner!” Ms. Meyers snaps. “Come down right now.”
My heart pounds. “We’d better go.”
Sophie pulls up Hammy Time again. “Four more views, David.”
We high-five, then walk down for dinner.
Three place settings take up most of the tiny kitchen mesa.
“So nice of you to attend,” Ms. Meyers says, placing a bottle of salad dressing on the table. I’m surprised when there’s not a label with the Spanish translation for “salad dressing” on the bottle.
Sophie does an exaggerated curtsy. “Gracias, Madre.”
Ms. Meyers cracks a smile, and I see that Sophie knows how to work her mom. “De nada, mi hija.”
I wait for Sophie to sit, then slide onto the chair beside her, panicked that Ms. Meyers will expect me to speak Spanish during the meal. The only words I remember from Spanish Club are “dog” (perro), “rooster” (gallo), “hamster” (hámster) and “Be quiet!” (¡Cállate!), because Señorita Rioux yelled that at least twice each meeting.
“So glad to have you here, David. You’ll get to enjoy my signature salad.”
“I love salad.” As long as it doesn’t have cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes, green peppers or weird frizzy lettuce.
“Great.” Ms. Meyers lays her napkin in her lap, and I do the same. “And a veggie omelet. And Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. She’s quite a baker, our, um, my little girl.” She pats Sophie’s hand.
Sophie smiles but gives an eye roll as soon as her mom turns her head.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Ms. Meyers says, grasping the edge of the silver foil covering the salad bowl. “Come.”
Sophie answers my puzzled look with a whispered “Eat.”
I nod.
Ms. Meyers whips the foil cover off the bowl.
I take one look and feel like I’m going to vomit.
The bowl is loaded with weird frizzy lettuce, cucumbers, green peppers, mushrooms and sliced beets! And the beets are bleeding onto the rest of the salad.
While I choke down a few bites to be polite, I wonder if Mom’s hands touched the beet I’m eating.
The veggie omelet is okay, but Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie is incredible—sweet and tart with a buttery, flaky crust. It’s even better than Bubbe’s Jewish apple cake.
I eat two slices, and Ms. Meyers wraps up another slice in foil for me to give Dad when he picks me up.
“How was dinner?” Dad asks when I slide into the car.
“Okay,” I mumble, guiltily wiping crumbs off my lips and shoving the empty silver foil wrapper into my pocket.
Monday morning, I go into Dad’s office to get my detention slip from Ms. Lovely signed. He tells me he’s writing a response to a twelve-year-old girl who wants to get her boyfriend’s name tattooed on her wrist. “What’s she even doing with a boyfriend
?” Dad flicks the letter. “This kind of thing reminds me how lucky I am to have you and Lindsay.”
I cough.
Dad puts the letter down. “What’d you need, pal?”
I slide the detention slip across his desk.
“Oh, a field trip already?”
I say nothing as Dad reads.
“Oh.”
Guess Dad’s not feeling so lucky about having me right now.
“I’m not happy about this, David.”
“Me neither. I was late to class because I was checking out the TV studio.”
“Still, you shouldn’t have been late.”
Thanks for understanding. I grab the signed slip, stuff it into my pocket and trudge to school for detention.
When I open the door to room 103-B, my eyes open wide.
The students slouching at desks are all bigger than me. Of course, kindergarteners would probably be bigger than me. But here some of the guys who turn around to look at me have stubble. Stubble!
I don’t belong here!
“Up front,” calls a voice.
I make my way to the front of the classroom, where a teacher holds out her hand.
I wipe my sweaty palm on my pants and extend my hand to shake. “David Greenberg,” I say, getting used to the drill of giving my name.
“Nice to meet you, David Greenberg,” the teacher says in a snide way. She does not take my extended hand but shows me her palm again.
I slap her five.
Kids laugh, and I feel the skin on my neck tingle.
A girl from the first row stretches her sneaker out and kicks my foot. “Your detention slip,” she whispers.
I nod to show her that I appreciate her telling me.
The girl mutters, “Moron.”
I suck in a breath and give the teacher my signed detention slip.
“Take a seat, David Greenberg.”
There’s only one unoccupied desk, and the person at the desk behind it waves.
My knees turn to matzo meal.
“Take that open seat,” the teacher says, pointing. “Right there.”
A few kids snicker.
One doesn’t. He grins.
I feel like I swallowed broken glass.
“Now,” the teacher says in a low, ominous tone.
I sit, every muscle in my body tense and tight.
The kid behind me breathes loudly. His breath is hot and rotten. It makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristle as his name whirls through my mind like a hurricane.
Tommy Murphy.
I feel like I’m on one of those nature shows—the timid gazelle sipping water from a stream, seemingly unaware of danger lurking nearby. Tommy, of course, is the huge, hungry lion. Everyone knows what happens in those shows: the gazelle makes a desperate run for it but ends up getting eviscerated.
I check my watch and drum my fingers lightly on the desk. The gazelle stands alone in the clearing, hoping the lion doesn’t notice him.
Something bonks off the back of my head.
My body stiffens.
The lion has marked its prey.
Another bonk. This one hits my ear. Two balls of paper lie on the floor beside me. Great. Now I’m going to get in trouble for leaving trash.
I turn in time for a ball of paper to hit me on the cheek.
I give Tommy the fiercest look I can muster.
Tommy mouths, “Sorry.”
Yeah, right. Jerk!
On Tommy’s desk, there’s an arsenal of paper balls.
I face front, sink low in my seat and pray that something shiny will distract him. Why does detention last so long?
That’s when I feel the next bonk. On my neck. Hello? Little help here.
Another bonk. And another.
I sink so low that only my head is still above the chair. The gazelle tries to blend in with the environment, making himself less of a target. Will the lion be fooled?
I feel a bunch of bonks at once. Bonk. Bonk. Bonkity-bonk bonk. Bonk! Some girl laughs out loud.
I’m sure this will inspire the teacher to at least look up from the papers she’s grading. It doesn’t.
There are balls of paper all around my desk. Evidence! I clear my throat as though there’s something stuck in it.
The gazelle makes a desperate attempt to summon help from a larger, stronger gazelle.
That’s when something hard hits me on the back of the head. There’s an eraser on the floor. A fat pink eraser! What’s next? An electric pencil sharpener?
I clear my throat more loudly.
Tommy kicks my chair, but I don’t pay attention.
The teacher glares at me. “Do you need something, David Goldberg?”
“Greenberg,” I say, correcting her. “No, I’m fine.”
The teacher walks over and kicks one of the paper balls. “What’s all this trash around your desk?”
I shrug. Tommy Murphy did it. Tommy Murphy. Tommy Murphy.
“Pick it up,” she says.
“Me?” I touch my chest.
She nods.
Tommy snickers.
“And you,” she says, tapping on Tommy’s desk, “you must love coming here, because you’ll be visiting me every day for the rest of the week. Now apologize to Mr. Goldberg.”
“I w-was, um … kidding around,” Tommy stammers. “Really, we’re just—”
“Apologize!” the teacher barks. “Or you’ll get a month of detentions.”
Tommy sinks low in his seat, shoots me a killer stare and mutters, “Sorry, Goldberg.”
“Good,” the teacher says, and walks back to her desk. “And that floor had better be cleaned up.”
When her back is turned, Tommy slaps me on the head.
Against my better judgment, I swivel and face him.
He locks eyes with me, then slides a finger slowly across his neck.
The gazelle realizes he’s in grave danger, but can’t find an escape route.
I slip out of my seat and pick up the wads of paper and the eraser. I think of throwing the eraser away, but I put it on Tommy’s desk instead as a peace offering. Please don’t kill me.
Tommy throws it at my forehead. Bonk!
I take a deep breath, turn and dump the paper balls into the trash can.
By the time the bell finally buzzes and I bolt to math class, I’m sure I have a red mark in the middle of my forehead and a death threat hanging over me.
The gazelle manages to escape to safety.
Momentarily.
When I get home, I throw my backpack onto the floor, turn on the computer and watch a few clips from The Daily Show. Even though they’re really funny, I don’t laugh.
Lindsay opens my door and flops onto my bed. “Hey, David.”
“Hey,” I say, signing onto my YouTube account. “Make yourself comfy.”
“I will,” she says, propping my pillow under her head. “I’ve got a giant paper due tomorrow and I don’t feel like—”
“No way!” I scream.
“What?” Lindsay rushes to me and reads the message over my shoulder. “David.” She smacks the top of my head. “This guy read about your videos on the Daily Show forum. He said they’re hilarious and you have to make more.”
“Wow,” I say, not really believing that someone wrote about my videos on the Daily Show forum.
“I guess people actually watch your videos, David. Maybe I should check them out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe how many—” Then I remember the Daily Acne Forecast. “I mean, there’s only a small group of fans. You’d probably think the videos are lame.” I shrug as though it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. I’m becoming famous on the Internet. Hundreds and hundreds of people I don’t even know are watching my videos. And liking them. And posting about them on the Daily Show forum.
Then I think about Tommy Murphy telling me my videos are lame. I think about him sliding his finger across his throat at me in detention today. And about how completely alon
e I felt in the lunchroom.
How can things be going so well online when I feel like such a schmo at school?
I take a deep breath, knowing I should start my homework, but instead, I read the guy’s message again and decide to do something else.
I set up the camera and tape fake New York to the wall behind my bed.
I bang two empty paper-towel rolls together and say, “Action.”
Like Jon Stewart, I start off the show by scribbling madly on a piece of paper, then look up and say, “Welcome to TalkTime with David Greenberg and …” I almost say, Elliott Berger. Almost. I bang the paper-towel rolls together again. “Take two: We’re …” I clear my throat and try again. Darn you, Elliott! “Take three: Welcome to TalkTime with David Greenberg. I’m going to do a series of shows about how to survive middle school. Today’s show is about dress code. But first, our Daily Acne Forecast.”
I take my camera off the tripod and knock on Lindsay’s door.
“Come in,” she calls, “unless you’re a giant doofus.”
I go in.
“David, I said unless—”
“Smile,” I say, interrupting her insult, and train the camera on her face, which honestly doesn’t look so bad today.
“Get out! I have to work on this paper.”
On the way back to my room, I decide what I’ll write to go along with the footage of her face: Today’s acne forecast: sunny with a 30 percent chance of blackheads later this week.
Then I take my time writing the Top Six and a Half list. When I’ve got it pretty much the way I want it, I memorize the list and set up the camera. It’s still hard to position the camera at the right height to film myself. This would be much easier if Elliott were here to help.
But he’s not, so I go on.
“The Top Six and a Half Reasons to Follow Dress Code at School.
“One: If someone at school wants to beat you up, it will be hard for them to find you if you’re dressed like everyone else.
How to Survive Middle School Page 9