“I’m sorry,” I barely peep.
“What?”
I look into my sister’s eyes. My sister, who held my hand when Mom and Dad were screaming in the living room that night with the tuba. My sister, who let me sleep in her room for two weeks after Mom left. My sister, who I totally humiliated and embarrassed on my videos. “Lindsay,” I say, “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“I think you really mean it.”
I nod and walk out of her room. How could I have done that to her?
In my room, I go online to delete all the videos with footage of Lindsay, but when I pull up the Magazine Cover Jon Stewart video, there are 151,430 views and eighty-six comments.
I can’t believe it.
And I can’t delete it, either.
I spend much of the weekend answering messages about my videos, four of which are from fans in Australia, London, Belize and Singapore. But my heart really isn’t in it. I check Tommy’s lame video of me obsessively. By Sunday night, there are twenty-six more views, but I think most of them are from me.
No one, thank goodness, has commented.
As I walk to school Monday, I feel like I’m loaded down with rocks. I’m sure the minute I enter the courtyard, everyone will point and laugh.
But no one pays attention to me. They talk in groups and laugh and shove each other, but not one person even nods to acknowledge my existence. It’s strange that people in Australia, London, Belize and Singapore make a fuss over me online but at my own school, I’m sort of invisible.
In the hall outside math class, Tommy stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Did you like my video, Lameberg?”
“What video?” I say, feeling proud of myself for coming up with that.
“Look, Lameberg,” he says, shoving my shoulder into the wall, “don’t act stupid with me. I’m still going to get you. I owe you for making me get that week of detentions. Remember?”
I gulp, nod and slip into the classroom.
Sophie smiles at me, but I’m too shaken to smile back. I open my math book and pretend to study.
In the lunchroom, I see Elliott sitting at the Neanderthals’ table. When he turns his head in my direction, I look down at my so-called food.
I thought it would get easier not hanging out with Elliott, but it actually gets harder. It’s not like I have a thousand friends lined up to hang out with me. It was always me and Elliott. And now it’s just me and my online fans, but they can’t keep me company in the lunchroom or walk to school with me or make new TalkTimes with me.
The moment the buzzer signals the end of the day, I find a different door to exit from, avoid the courtyard and race home.
In my room, there’s an envelope on my bed.
I see the Xs and Os over Mom’s return address and inhale, expecting a whiff of her vanilla scent, but it smells like paper. Without opening the envelope, I take it to Lindsay’s room.
“Enter,” she yells when I knock.
Lindsay’s on her bed, reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.
I wonder if she’s still mad at me. I don’t blame her if she is.
“Hey, David. What’s up?”
She doesn’t sound mad.
I dangle my envelope. “You get one, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Open it yet?”
“Nope,” Lindsay says.
“Are you going to?”
“Nope.”
“But, Linds, Mom wrote that she wishes—”
“Nope!” My sister puts her book in front of her cream-covered face again. “David, did you want something?” she asks from behind the book.
I squeeze my envelope. “Nope.” And I walk out. Why does Lindsay have to be like that? Mom can’t help that she has some “issues,” as Dad calls them. I mean, it’s not like Mom disappeared completely from our lives, like Elliott’s dad did. At least she writes to us.
In my room, I pet Hammy and change his water. I’m dying to know what Mom wrote, but her letters don’t come every day, so I savor them. I brush my teeth, check the hair under my armpits—two new hairs!—and work my Rubik’s Cube for a few frustrating minutes before tearing open the envelope.
Dear David,
My father came from Poland when he was six. Hope this arrives in time for your assignment.
“Nope,” I say to the letter.
I also hope the beginning of school is going well. You and Elliott must be having loads of fun together.
“Nope.”
Have you made lots of new friends, too? I’ll bet you have. And your teachers must love you.
I think of Ms. Lovely and shake my head. “Nope.”
You’ve probably joined a bazillion clubs, and I’m not there to hear about any of them. Next time we’re in town, I’ll use the phone at the library and give you and Lindsay a call.
My heart leaps. I rush back into Lindsay’s room, waving the letter. “She’s going to call.”
Lindsay slams her book closed. “No, David, she’s not. And don’t come in without knocking.”
“She is,” I say, and run back to my room to finish reading her letter.
I sewed your name and Lindsay’s name into the new quilt I’m making. It’s a good thing I’ve made so many quilts, because you wouldn’t believe how coooold it’s getting here.
Well, it was a long day, and I have a wicked headache. Besides, it’s getting hard to read with only a candle’s dim light.
Peace and cupcakes,
Mom
I write back immediately.
Mom,
You won’t believe this, but they wrote an article about me in the Courier Times. It’s about my videos. And there’s a picture of Hammy. I know you don’t have a computer … or even electricity—ha-ha—but I thought you’d like to read it.
I cut it out, fold it and slip it into an envelope.
I’m sorry Lindsay isn’t writing to you. She’s really busy with high school.
I haven’t made a lot of friends yet, but there’s one girl and we’re working on a science project together about Albert Einstein.
Your new quilt sounds neat. I wish I could see it.
I take a deep breath and write the next part.
I miss you,
David
As I’m sealing the envelope, the phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, amazed I got to it before Lindsay picked up the other line.
There’s breathing on the other end, then a familiar voice. “Watch out, Lameberg. You can hide from me, but I’m going to get you.”
Click.
I pet Hammy for nearly ten minutes but can’t get my heart to calm down. I hear Tommy’s scary voice in my head and imagine him hoisting me over the railing at school, and me landing on the floor below, my skull cracking.
I do something I know will make me feel better. I set up fake New York to make another TalkTime, but I really wish Elliott were here to help me. If he were here, I’d definitely feel better.
I take a deep breath, turn on the camera, sit on my bed, scribble on some paper and look up, scribble some more, then do my best Jon Stewart grin. “Welcome to TalkTime with David Greenberg and Hammy.” I’ll insert footage of Hammy later, when I’m editing. “Today, in our series about surviving middle school, we’ll talk about the dreaded detention. Now, on to our Top Six and a Half list.”
During lunch today, I wrote and memorized my list. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do.
“The Top Six and a Half Ways to Get a Detention:
“One: Dress-code violation.” Later I’ll insert a shot of me wearing Lindsay’s purple dress.
“Two: Show up late for class.
“Three: Class? What class?
“Four: Ask for one. They’re free.
“Five: Tell your teacher your hamster ate your homework.” Hammy will get screen time here, munching on a tiny piece of lettuce that I hope will look like paper.
“Six: Tell yo
ur teacher your sister ate your homework.” I’ll insert a shot here of Lindsay eating, but this time I will get her permission first!
“And the best way to get a detention …
“Six and one-half: Bring your hamster to school!” Here I’ll insert a picture of Hammy and use Photoshop to add a teacher standing on a chair while Hammy sits at a desk, holding a book—Hammy Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
Then I interview Ms. Tough Tomatoes, who is actually me wearing one of Mom’s old wigs and a nasty scowl. And she—um, I talk about how she gives detentions for everything, including breathing too loudly or blinking too often. In the interview, Ms. Tough Tomatoes mentions the day she was so late for class that she gave herself a detention.
I smell Bubbe’s chicken soup downstairs, so I go right into “And now, your moment of Hammy.” Later, with the miracle of Photoshop, I’ll insert a picture of Hammy wearing Lindsay’s purple dress.
After dinner—chicken soup, baked stuffed potatoes and string beans—I edit the video, then upload it to YouTube. Five minutes after it’s up—five minutes!—I have twenty-four views and two comments. JJJDAWG wrote Funniest vid EVER!!! and TheaterGeek wrote You should have your own TV show! I’m posting link on Daily Show forum. You’re freakin hilarious!
I keep checking the stats as I put the finishing touches on the science project that’s due tomorrow. When I turn off the computer for the night, I tell Hammy, “A hundred and twenty-six views and nine positive comments. We’re totally famous, little dude!”
In bed, before I fall asleep, I remember the Neanderthals’ table in the lunchroom today. When I walked past, every guy at the table cleared his throat and said, “Lameberg,” except for one person, who sat quietly with his shoulders hunched—Elliott. He didn’t say anything to me, throw anything or do anything. In fact, he looked like he didn’t want to be there.
The more I think about it, the more I realize there might be a glimmer of hope that Elliott is tired of Tommy and sick of sitting at the Neanderthals’ table. Maybe he even wants to be friends with me again.
There’s only one way to find out.
Tuesday, in the lunchroom, I grip my red plastic tray and walk toward the Neanderthals’ table. The strong smell of burrito and mold makes my legs wobbly.
Tommy notices me right away and says, “Hey, Lameberg,” and swipes his finger across his neck.
Everyone cracks up.
My heart beats so hard it sounds like ocean waves pounding in my ears. Someone throws an empty milk carton that skims my shoulder.
I ignore it, squeeze my tray more tightly, stand right behind Elliott and say, “Hi, Elliott.” My voice doesn’t crack, but inside it feels like I might.
Everyone stares at me, even kids from other tables.
I stand firm, praying for Elliott to say hi back, feeling sweat drip from my armpits.
Elliott looks at Tommy, then at the other guys at the table. Finally, he turns to me and says, “Hi …”
My heart leaps.
“… Lameberg.”
I duck my head and walk toward the losers’ table. Angry heat claws up my neck as I slam my tray down. I stab my burrito with a spork and will myself not to cry.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
By last period, I’m exhausted from thinking about Elliott and worrying about how Tommy will finally get me, because I know that no matter how careful I am or how fast I run, he will get me.
Sophie taps me on the shoulder. “Do you have it?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the flash drive.
“Excellent.”
When Mr. Milot asks for volunteers to present first, Sophie thrusts her hand into the air.
“Okay,” Mr. Milot says, nodding at me and Sophie. “Show us what you’ve got.”
I start the video, then walk back to my seat.
Sophie leans close enough that I smell peppermint.
I focus on the images of Albert Einstein that appear on the screen, but it’s not easy to pay attention.
“The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.”—Einstein.
And Sophie Meyers, I think, inhaling her peppermint scent.
Somebody yells, “Oh, yeah!” A few kids cheer.
“Settle down,” Mr. Milot says.
After that quotation comes a list of the schools Einstein attended, like the Polytechnic in Zurich, where he studied math and physics.
“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”—Einstein
A photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue appears on the screen.
Sophie and the rest of the class, even Mr. Milot, crack up, and I feel tingles along my spine. Listening to their laughter reminds me that making videos is probably what I want to do for the rest of my life.
Einstein’s major theories appear, like his theory of general relativity, which states that gravitational force is equal to the force of acceleration. That’s why when a car is moving forward—force of acceleration—you feel like you’re being pushed backward—gravitational force. Or why when an elevator is moving up, you feel like you’re being pushed into the floor.
“You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.”—Einstein
Einstein’s honors and awards, including the Nobel Prize in Physics, scroll across the screen.
“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.”—Einstein
After that quotation vanishes, an image of me with baby powder in my hair and a fake mustache appears on the screen. Everyone laughs. On-screen, “Einstein” says, “Any questions?” while at the same time, Sophie and I hop off our stools, stand in front of the room and say, “Any questions?”
Every person in the room is silent.
It feels like a bowling ball takes residence in my stomach.
Suddenly, kids clap like crazy. Someone whistles. Another person pounds on the lab table with his palms.
Mr. Milot turns off the video. “That,” he says, “is an example of A-plus work. Excellent job, you two!”
No one asks a question, but they keep clapping.
While I’m basking in the glow of an appreciative audience, Sophie puts her hands on my shoulder, leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, David.”
The rest of the world falls away.
I guess I walked back to my seat, watched other kids’ presentations and probably even applauded, but I don’t remember. I suppose Mr. Milot handed my flash drive back, because it’s in my pocket. I can’t tell you if we got homework or even if there was a fire drill.
There’s only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty: Sophie Meyers kissed me!
I’m so dazed by that tingly butterfly kiss on my cheek that I completely forget about Tommy Murphy. I’m in a crowd of kids in the courtyard when I hear, “There he is!”
I look up and see Tommy and another guy pointing and threading their way toward me.
I take off running. I don’t wait for the crossing guard to signal me. I run through the intersection and hear the blast of her angry whistle. I don’t look back. I just run like my butt’s on fire.
By the time I jam my key into the lock on our front door, my lungs burn, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I drop my backpack, let out a big breath and head toward the kitchen.
“David?”
I turn. Dad, Bubbe and Lindsay are in the living room. And so is some man I don’t recognize.
My heart hammers. Did something happen to Mom?
I walk in, and the man, his brown beard neatly trimmed, smiles at me.
Do I know you?
“David,” Dad says again, “this is Mr. Levine. He’s a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer, and he’s here to interview you.”
“Me?” I touch my chest. I’m still
breathing hard and wondering what Tommy and that other kid had planned to do if they caught me.
“Well, David,” Mr. Levine says, extending his hand, “you’ve become quite an Internet sensation. You and Hammy.”
My hand’s sweaty, but I shake anyway. “Um, thank you.”
Lindsay comes over and shoves her shoulder into mine.
Bubbe grins like crazy.
I take a deep breath.
Dad pats me on the back and nods.
“Obviously, your family’s very proud,” Mr. Levine says.
I think that Mom isn’t here and she would like this, but then I look at Dad—he’s beaming—and Bubbe and Lindsay, and I feel really good, even without Mom. But then I notice her tuba in the corner, and a little wave of sadness washes over me. It still feels like part of my family is missing.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Mr. Levine says. “And a photographer will be here to take some pictures.”
“Okay,” I say, but my voice cracks, and I’m glad this isn’t a TV interview.
Mr. Levine asks if it’s okay to tape-record our conversation.
I nod.
“You’ll have to say it out loud for the tape recorder.”
“Um, yes.” I’m trembling. I can’t believe Sophie kissed me. And Tommy and his friend tried to kill me. And now this.
With the tape recorder between us and its green light glowing, Mr. Levine asks me lots of questions, like “Are you a big fan of The Daily Show?” and “What’s your favorite subject at school?” He grins after he asks this, and says, “And you can’t cheat and say lunch.”
No worries there. I wipe sweat off my upper lip and tell him that I’m a huge fan of The Daily Show and science is my favorite class.
When the photographer arrives, she takes pictures of me at my computer, me in front of fake New York, me holding Hammy and Hammy running on his wheel.
“Who gave you the hamster?” Mr. Levine asks.
How to Survive Middle School Page 11