How to Survive Middle School

by Donna Gephart

“Two: It will make your parents happy. Your parents give you money when they’re happy.

  “Three: Because I say so.” (I turn the camera to Hammy.)

  “Four: The Dress Code Police can be anywhere. Anywhere!” Later, when I’m editing, I’ll find a photo of a restroom door and insert it into the video here.

  “Five: Just be glad this isn’t your school’s dress code.” Online I found a photo of a dog dressed as a clown that I’ll edit in at this part.

  “Six: If your school doesn’t have a dress code, where is your school? I’m transferring!

  “And the most important reason to follow school dress code is …

  “Six and one-half: It’s a great way to avoid getting a detention!”

  Then I put on my collared shirt, pose in front of the camera and say, “This is dress code.” Next I borrow Lindsay’s purple dress. What I don’t do for my career! In front of the camera, I put my hand on my hip and say in a high-pitched voice—which is not such a stretch for me—“This is a dress, but it’s not dress code.” Then I turn off the camera, take off the dress and throw on my collared shirt with my “Be nice to me. I might be famous someday” T-shirt over it. And I stick pencils up my nostrils, turn on the camera and say, “This is snot dress code.” Then I wear a collared shirt, put a different collared shirt on top of my head, dance around and say, “This is dress code. Sort of.”

  When I edit later, I’ll insert a shot of Hammy, Photoshop khaki pants and a collared shirt on him and say, “This is dress code. Thanks, Hammy.”

  To wrap up, I say in my best announcer voice, “Wherever you are, kids, don’t do dress code. I mean, er …” Suppressing a laugh, I say, “This has been TalkTime with David Greenberg. And now, your moment of Hammy …”

  I crack up, knowing that this will be my best TalkTime yet. And if Elliott sees it, he’ll wish he could have worked on it with me.

  I start editing by taking the image of Hammy in the khaki pants and collared shirt and inserting a surfboard under his feet so it looks like he’s surfing. On the left side of the screen, I write Director—David Greenberg; Producer—David Greenberg; Host—David Greenberg; Guy in a Dress—Beats Me; Daily Acne Forecast—Lindsay Greenberg; Well-Dressed Hamster—Hammy Greenberg.

  I upload the video to YouTube, do my math homework and check back online. The video already has thirteen views and one comment, from Felfdom: Cute dress, dude. UR 2 funny!!!

  I check my Magazine Cover Jon Stewart TalkTime. There are more than fourteen hundred views and three more positive comments.

  I’m feeling dazed by how many people are watching my videos when Bubbe yells, “Come down for dinner, David. It’s late.”

  My stomach grumbles. “Coming!” Before turning off the computer, I glance out the window. When did it get so dark?

  I walk downstairs to the smell of Bubbe’s brisket and the sound of the phone ringing.

  Lindsay grabs it. “Hello? Yes, he’s right here. Hold on.”

  Lindsay mashes the phone against her stomach. “David … it’s for you.” Her cheeks are bright pink.

  “Elliott?” I mouth.

  Lindsay shakes her head.

  “Sophie?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Tommy Murphy?” My heart stampedes.

  Lindsay hands me the phone and whispers, “It’s a reporter from the Bucks County Courier Times.”

  “Hello?”

  A deep voice says, “David Greenberg?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, David. My editor got a call from a parent of a student at Harman Middle School about your TalkTime videos.”

  Could it have been Sophie’s mom? Or Sophie pretending to be her mom?

  “It seems like you’re becoming quite the local Internet celebrity.”

  “Uh, I guess.”

  “Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk to your mom about interviewing you for an article I’d like to write for the newspaper.”

  I blink a few times. “I’ll get my dad.”

  I’m in bed, thinking about the questions the reporter asked today: What inspired me to create TalkTime? Am I a big fan of Jon Stewart? What do I want to be when I grow up? Duh! I have to ask Sophie if she knows about this.

  “David!” Lindsay shrieks from the hallway.

  Suddenly, my bedroom door flies open.

  Lindsay stands in the doorway, her face covered with zit-be-gone cream. My instinct is to grab my camera, but one look at Lindsay’s tight-lipped face tells me not to move.

  She marches toward me, and I press my back against the headboard.

  “Okay,” she says. “I figure if a reporter interviews you, your videos must be a big deal, right?”

  “Right,” I squeak, wishing I could move farther away from my sister, because spit is flying from her lips.

  “So when I’m done with my homework, I decide to finally check out my little brother’s ultrafamous videos. Right?” She steps closer.

  “Right,” I barely whisper.

  “And what do you think I see, David?”

  “Um, my—”

  “I see this!” she screeches, pointing to her face. “And your stupid Daily Acne Forecast to go along with it.”

  I clutch my blanket.

  Lindsay sticks her face in front of mine. “David, I could kill you!”

  Dad charges into the room. “Whoa. Whoa. What’s going on here?”

  Lindsay screams at Dad, “David put me in his stupid videos!”

  Dad tilts his head.

  “Like this.” Lindsay points to her cream-covered face.

  Dad breathes hard from his nose. “David?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I kept meaning to look at those videos,” Dad says to himself, then locks eyes with me. “Show me.”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  I start the video with the Magazine Cover Jon Stewart interview, hoping Dad will think it’s so funny he won’t get mad about the part with Lindsay’s cream-covered face.

  Dad doesn’t laugh during the funny parts at all, and when Lindsay’s face fills the screen, he makes a scary sound deep in his throat.

  “See?” Lindsay screeches. “What if my friends see this? Make him take it off.”

  Dad makes me show him all the videos, then quietly says, “Remove them.”

  “I can’t.” My heart hammers. I’m finally getting popular, even if it is online. I can’t get rid of that.

  “You will,” Dad says.

  “Yeah, David.” Lindsay shoves me.

  “Hey!” Dad says, holding her back. “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “Once they’re up, they’re up. I can’t change them. I can’t remove them.” I don’t think this is true, but I’m counting on Dad’s being too clueless about the Internet to know that.

  “Yes, you can, David,” Lindsay says. “And you’d better.”

  “No, Lindsay, I really can’t.” I feel my face heat up because I know I’m lying. “It’s impossible.”

  “You’re a jerk,” Lindsay says, shoving me so hard my head bangs into the monitor.

  “It’s a joke,” I say, rubbing my head. “Why are you guys making such a big deal out of this?”

  “It’s not a joke to me!” Lindsay storms out of my room.

  “You never film someone without permission,” Dad says. “You should know better.”

  “Okay,” I say, holding up my hands. “I get it. I get it.”

  “No, David, I don’t think you do. What if Lindsay’s friends at school see that? Do you think that will be easy for her?”

  “Why would her friends at school look at my videos?”

  Dad shakes his head and walks out, too.

  “I don’t know why they’re making such a big deal,” I tell Hammy.

  He scratches against the side of his cage.

  “Lindsay’s only on a tiny part of the videos anyway. And besides, they really are funny.”

  Hammy turns away and burrows in his wood shaving
s.

  The next day, Lindsay glares when I pass her in the hallway. “Don’t even look at me, David. And if you ever come near me again with that camera, I’ll break it.”

  I slink back to my room, close the door and wait until I hear her leave for school before going downstairs for breakfast.

  At the table, Dad gives me the silent treatment.

  “I told you to get rid of the part with your sister,” Bubbe says, making a clucking noise to let me know how disappointed she is in me.

  I’m relieved to leave the house … until I realize that it means I’ll have to deal with another day at Harman. I think of the poster I would put on the lunchroom bulletin board if I had the chance.

  Harmful to students

  Avoid Ms. Lovely’s class

  Repulsive, moldy lunchroom

  Maybe high school will be better

  Another day in paradise … not!

  Never get on Tommy Murphy’s bad side—

  and the only side he has is bad!

  In Ms. Lovely’s class, I ask Sophie if she knows anything about someone calling the Bucks County Courier Times.

  She nods so hard I think her head will fall off. She whispers, “I asked my mom to call and tell them how popular your videos are. Why?”

  “Someone called and interviewed me.”

  Sophie squeals. “No way.”

  I check and see that Ms. Lovely is outside the classroom door. “Yeah, it was cool.” I don’t tell Sophie that Lindsay found out about the Daily Acne Forecast. No need to ruin the moment.

  “David, guess what else Mom did.”

  Ms. Lovely is still outside the door. “What?”

  “Finally took down all those stupid Spanish labels.”

  “Really?”

  Sophie nods. “She’s actually loosening up a little.”

  “That’s great,” I say, but I get that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that comes when I think about my mom. Now that Sophie mentions it, I think Mom might have loosened up too much. In fact, I think before she left us, she was starting to come apart at the seams.

  A wad of paper bonks off my ear and drops to the floor.

  “Oops,” I hear Tommy Murphy say. “Sorry, Lameberg!”

  I stare straight ahead and sink low in my seat, grateful when Ms. Lovely walks to the front of the room and tells us to do all the odd problems on page thirty-seven.

  It’s good to have something to take my mind off things.

  In the kitchen, a couple of days later, the Bucks County Courier Times lies open on the table. There’s a photo of Hammy from the Hammy Time video and one of me from my Jon Stewart video. Someone has drawn an arrow to me in the photo and written JERK!

  “Way to get over things, Linds,” I say, even though Lindsay has already left for school and I’m the only one in the room. After I cross out the word with black marker, I read the article and think about how the reporter didn’t get what I said exactly right, but it’s still pretty cool to be written about in the newspaper.

  Someone I know might read it, like Aunt Sherry or Ms. Berger or even Elliott. Definitely Ms. Meyers, because she said she reads the newspaper every day. Tingles erupt on the skin on my arms and shivers run up my back. I really am getting famous.

  In math class, Ms. Lovely says in her gravelly voice, “Nice article about you in the newspaper, Mr. Greenberg. Very impressive.”

  “Very impressive,” Tommy mocks from behind me.

  Ms. Lovely glares at him. “Mr. Murphy, I have had enough of you.” She slaps a piece of paper onto his desk. “You have a detention. And if you disturb my class again, I will send you to the assistant principal’s office.”

  As soon as Ms. Lovely turns on the TV for WHMS news, Tommy throws a ball of paper at my head. When I bend to pick it up so I don’t get in trouble for leaving trash, Tommy whispers, “Read it.”

  I do.

  Your so ded!

  Even though he can’t spell, I know exactly what he means. Cousin Jack’s words echo in my mind, and I can’t concentrate for the rest of the period. I think I know what Tommy plans to do.

  On the way to my next class, I walk past the staircase, imagine Tommy throwing some kid off it—throwing me off it—and know that Tommy really is going to hurt me if I let him get near me.

  In my next two classes, a couple of kids and another teacher tell me they read the article about me and liked my videos, but I’m too worried about Tommy to get excited about the extra attention.

  In the lunchroom, when I’m walking toward the loser table in the back, Tommy appears out of nowhere, sticks his foot out and trips me. Pizza and chocolate milk fly off my tray, and I land on the floor.

  Someone shouts, “Have a good trip. See you next fall!”

  Kids laugh.

  I scoop everything back onto my tray and feel heat explode in my cheeks. As I’m dumping my lunch into the trash, I see Tommy aiming his cell phone at me. “Give us a smile, Lameberg. After all, you’re famous right?”

  I turn my back to him but can hear his laughter.

  “Greenberg’s videos are lame,” Tommy shouts. “I’ve seen them all and they’re lame.”

  “Yeah,” I hear someone say.

  “Totally lame,” someone else says.

  “Even my little sister thinks they’re for babies.”

  I rush to the table at the back of the lunchroom and keep my head down, wishing I still had my food, because at least it would be something to distract me from this horrible, never-ending period.

  After school, Lindsay comes into my room without knocking. She waves the newspaper at me. “Guess what happened today, David.”

  I think about Tommy tripping me, then taking pictures with his cell phone. I think of the never-ending lunch period. I think about kids and teachers telling me they saw the article about me, and my worrying about Tommy too much to care.

  “No clue,” I say.

  Lindsay pokes a pink-polished fingernail into my chest. “Denny J. Michaels asked me what the weather was supposed to be like today.”

  I shrug, wondering why Lindsay is telling me this.

  “Denny J. Michaels happens to be the cutest guy at Bensalem High, David. Anyway, I can’t believe he’s talking to me, a mere mortal, so I think fast and start answering him. That’s when he says, ‘I mean the Daily Acne Forecast.’ And he and all the kids around him crack up. At me. Thanks, David!”

  Lindsay throws the newspaper at my face.

  “I’m s—”

  But she’s already gone.

  I knock softly on Hammy’s cage, but he’s curled into a ball under his wood shavings. His whiskers twitch in his sleep, and he’s so cute that even though I need company, I don’t wake him.

  I grab a piece of paper and a pen.

  Dear Mom,

  I really wish you’d come home soon.

  It’s nice here now.

  Dad’s playing his guitar all the time. I’m doing great in school, and things are real calm and peaceful. Even Lindsay says she misses you a lot. I think you’d be happier now.

  Love,

  David

  I read my lies, crumple the paper and toss it into the trash can.

  Online I’ve got hundreds of new views on my videos and dozens of nice comments, which is really great, except that the people who really matter to me either are not talking to me or are yelling at me because they’re mad. And all the funny videos in the world can’t change that.

  I’m glad to have made it through Friday in school, but I have a bad feeling about Tommy.

  When the final buzzer sounds, I dash out of class and down the hall. I’m in the bright light of the courtyard before anyone else. Except Tommy.

  “Hey, Lameberg,” he says, standing in front of me and crossing his arms.

  I look up at him—way up—then my eyes dart around as I look for an escape route.

  “I thought you’d be out here early, so I skipped my last class.”

  “Oh,” I hear myself say in a tigh
t, panicked voice.

  “Yeah,” Tommy says. “I want to give you something.”

  I hold my breath and brace for the first blow.

  “Take it,” Tommy says.

  I realize I closed my eyelids. When I open them, I see Tommy’s palm extended with a slip of paper on it.

  Slowly, I lift my trembling fingers and pluck the paper from Tommy’s hand.

  Inside my house, my sweaty hand still grips the paper Tommy gave me. I didn’t read it in the courtyard. When I realized that Tommy wasn’t going to kill me, I ran.

  But now, trying to catch my breath, I wonder what’s on it. A death threat? A time and place for me to meet him over the weekend?

  I drop my backpack, run up to my room and look at the paper. There’s a Web address, on it. A YouTube address.

  I’m online in a flash. I call up the video. It looks like the lunchroom at Harman, but it’s hard to tell because of the white arrow in the middle. I press the arrow.

  I see myself on the screen, scooping up pizza and chocolate milk. I look scared. Someone says, “Have a good trip. See you next fall!” Kids crack up.

  Tommy wasn’t taking pictures of me with his cell phone. He was making a video.

  When it’s over, words appear on the screen: David Greenberg—Lamest Kid at Harman!!!

  How did that Neanderthal know how to do that? Did Elliott help him?

  I scroll down and see that twelve people viewed this video. Twelve! I can never face the kids at Harman again.

  I turn off the computer and bite my lower lip.

  I pace around my room, thinking of a video I could make about Tommy. I’d call it Neanderthal at Harman. Mine would be much better than his. It would be … I couldn’t make a video about Tommy or he’d kill me. I wouldn’t do it anyway, because it’s incredibly mean. It makes a person feel exposed and violated. Even a kid as mean as Tommy Murphy doesn’t deserve—

  I stop pacing and walk down the hall. I knock on Lindsay’s door.

  “Enter unless you’re David Greenberg.”

  I go in anyway.

  Lindsay swivels around from her desk to face me.

  I must have a funny expression on my face, because she says, “What’s wrong? Did somebody give you an A-minus on a test?”