How to Survive Middle School

by Donna Gephart

  I look down. “My mom.”

  I’m glad he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  After Mr. Levine and the photographer leave, Lindsay hits me in the back of the head. “David.”

  “Yeah?” I say, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “You’re like really, really famous.”

  “I guess,” I say. And when this article comes out, more people will be watching the Daily Acne Forecast. I’m sorry, Linds.

  Dad touches Lindsay’s arm. “You okay with this?” Lindsay nods and tousles my hair.

  Bubbe hugs me so tightly I suffocate for a little while. She puts my cheeks between her warm palms. “Bubelah! The Philadelphia Inquirer. Wait till Aunt Sherry hears about this!”

  Dad leans over and whispers, “You know, David, your mom would be so proud.”

  I take a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah, maybe she’ll …” But I don’t finish the sentence.

  In the morning, at the kitchen table, Bubbe hands me a toasted bagel. “So, how’s our superstar?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I take a small bite, but it goes down hard because I’m worried about what might happen at school today.

  “Next thing you know,” Bubbe says, “you’ll be on CNN or MSNBC or maybe even Oprah!”

  I laugh.

  Bubbe shoves a piece of bagel into her mouth. “Could happen.”

  “Hey, Bub, look at this.” I push my face into hers.

  She wipes bagel crumbs off my cheek.

  “No,” I say. “Look.” I move closer.

  “Vos?” she asks, squinting.

  I turn the light on over the table and point to the corners of my upper lip. “See?”

  Bubbe gets her glasses. “What am I looking for, bubelah?”

  “My mustache.”

  “Pfft!” Bubbe waves her hand. “You call that a mustache?” She shoves her upper lip into my face. “Now, that’s a mustache.”

  It’s true. Bubbe’s mustache is way darker than mine.

  My shoulders droop. Even though I was interviewed by a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer yesterday, this is not good for my self-esteem.

  I don’t see Tommy in the courtyard before school. And my language arts teacher gives me a pass so I can go to the media center during lunch. I take a reading test on a computer and spend the rest of the period skimming magazines and looking longingly at the door to WHMS news.

  In science class, I can hardly look at Sophie. Is she going to kiss me again?

  “Here,” she says, stuffing a piece of paper into my hand. “Call me after school.”

  While two girls demonstrate their board game about Marie Curie, I unfold the paper. It’s Sophie’s phone number with ten stars surrounding it. Ten!

  I realize that the only way I’ll be able to call Sophie after school is if I make it home, so when the buzzer sounds, I tear out of class. I’m the first person in the courtyard. I get home so fast that I stop to get the mail on my way in.

  An ad for zit-be-gone cream, the water bill and Bubbe’s Oprah magazine. Nothing from Mom.

  In my room, I’m tempted to go online and check my videos’ stats, but instead I grab the phone and pull the piece of paper with Sophie’s number from my pocket. I count the stars again—ten—then begin to dial.

  I check my watch—4:15—and realize that Sophie might not be home from school yet. I hang up. I’ll wait another five minutes, then call.

  “What do you think she wants?” I ask Hammy. “Do you think she might want to go out?”

  Hammy is lying on his side on top of the wood shavings.

  “Hammy?”

  He’s not moving, which is strange, because he usually responds when I talk to him. I slide the lid off and blow on him. His fur moves, but he doesn’t.

  “Ham—” My voice catches.

  I lift him out. His fur is soft, but his body is stiff. His tiny dark eyes stare blankly at me.

  I take Hammy to Lindsay’s room. I don’t knock on the door, just push it open.

  “David, I’m—”

  Lindsay hops off her bed. “What is that?” She comes closer and grabs my wrist. “Oh, my—”

  I start shaking but hold Hammy out in my palm.

  “Don’t move.” Lindsay runs to her closet and dumps out a shoe box full of envelopes. “Here,” she says, offering me the empty box.

  I can’t put Hammy in an empty box. He needs his wood shavings and water bottle.

  Lindsay shakes my wrist until Hammy falls into the box with a soft thud.

  I still feel the weight of him on my palm.

  Lindsay places the box on her bed and comes over to hug me. “Oh, David, I’m sorry. I know you loved that—”

  But I’m gone. Down the steps and out of the house. I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I end up at Elliott’s apartment building and pound on his door. A neighbor from across the hall peeks out, and I bolt. Away from Elliott. Away from home. Away from everything.

  Run. Run. Run. But I can’t outrun one thought: Hammy’s dead. The last thing Mom ever gave me is gone.

  It’s dark by the time I get home, and the moon is out.

  “Davey!” Bubbe shrieks. “Oy vey, I’m so glad you’re home.” She envelops me in a hug.

  I cry, because I don’t want her hugging me.

  I want Hammy.

  I want Mom.

  When Bubbe finally lets me up for air, Dad puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “Lindsay told us. We’re so sorry.”

  Lindsay shrugs.

  I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “The average lifespan of a hamster is 2.5 years. Hammy didn’t even live that long,” I say, feeling cheated.

  “It’s not your fault,” Dad says. “You did a real good job taking care of him.”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay says. “And you have that cool video with him, right? Hammy Time. And the other ones, too.”

  I sniff. Hammy was the real star of TalkTime. How am I ever going to make another one without him?

  “You were a good boy with him,” Bubbe says.

  “We saved dinner for you,” Dad says.

  “Matzo ball soup,” Bubbe says.

  “And I didn’t steal all the matzo balls this time,” Lindsay says, which makes me laugh and cry at the same time.

  I swipe at my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

  But Bubbe makes me sit and eat one matzo ball. And everyone watches.

  Afterward, we go to the backyard. Lindsay holds the flashlight. Dad digs a hole near the azalea bush. I put Lindsay’s shoe box with Hammy into the hole. And Bubbe says the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

  Amen.

  Please pick up. Please answer.

  I wish I could call Elliott, but I can’t. I really wish I could call Mom. She gave me Hammy. She deserves to know he’s gone.

  The phone rings four times before Ms. Meyers says, “Hello?”

  “I know it’s late, but is Sophie there?”

  “David—”

  “Please tell her it’s really important that she call me back.” I hang up. Please call back, Sophie. Please.

  I go online and watch the Hammy Time video Elliott and I made. That video always cracks me up, but today it makes me sad. How can Hammy be gone? I drape a towel over his cage so I won’t have to look at it.

  When the phone rings, I grab it and hear Lindsay say hello. Then I hear Sophie’s voice. “Got it, Linds,” I say.

  “Okay, David.”

  “Hi, Sophie.”

  “Hey, David. I thought you were going to call after school.”

  I look at the towel on top of Hammy’s cage, and my throat constricts. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  I take a raggedy breath. “Hammy’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “He died.”

  “Hammy’s … dead?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, David. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Coming, Mom!” Sophie yells. Then
she whispers, “I’ve got to hang up, but I’m going to give you something special tomorrow morning to cheer you up.”

  I wipe my nose with my sleeve again. “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I hold the phone long after the click.

  After turning the phone’s ringer off and setting my alarm clock, I pull my blanket to my chin and stare out the window. Hammy’s out there in the cold ground while I’m lying in a warm bed. It isn’t fair!

  I have a hard time falling asleep.

  When my alarm buzzes, my head feels stuffed with cotton. My eyes ache. I open crusty eyelids, see Hammy’s covered cage, turn off the alarm and fall back to sleep.

  When I wake again, it’s brighter, but my eyes are still sore from crying so much. And my calf muscles ache from running yesterday. I yank the blanket over my head. I’m not going to school today. It’s the least I can do for Hammy.

  Then I remember we have a test in Ms. Lovely’s class. I can’t miss a test, especially in her class.

  I force myself up and avoid looking at Hammy’s cage while I dress.

  Before leaving, I check my face in the mirror. My eyelids are pink and puffy. I hope they’re a normal color by the time I get to school.

  Dad intercepts me at the front door and gives me a fierce hug. “Love you, David.”

  I don’t say anything, but Dad’s hug and his words make me feel sad and strong at the same time. I walk to school, trying unsuccessfully not to think about how Hammy felt on my palm yesterday.

  In the courtyard, I see the heavy kid from the TV studio. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Fat kids are harder to kidnap.”

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “I saw that article about you in the Courier Times and I checked out your stuff.”

  I nod.

  “You’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You wanted to join the news team, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, realizing that even though it seemed important before, it doesn’t now.

  “You should ask Ms. Petroccia again. You’re really good.”

  “I thought it’s only for seventh and eighth graders.”

  He shrugs. “You should ask.”

  When the bell buzzes, I rush to Ms. Lovely’s class because I don’t want to run into Tommy in the hallway. At my desk, I force myself to look over the chapter review. I hear a throat clearing and “Lameberg!”

  What little energy I have drains. Holding my pencil feels like a Herculean effort, so I let it drop to my desk.

  Sophie bounces in, clutching a brown paper bag.

  How can she be so happy when Hammy’s gone?

  “This is for you,” she whispers, holding up the bag.

  It almost makes me glad I came to school today.

  Sophie reaches into the bag and pulls out a cupcake—vanilla with yellow icing.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Ms. Lovely is still at the back of the classroom, near the door.

  Sophie nods. “I’m really sorry about Hammy. He was so—”

  “Lookie! It’s Lameberg’s birthday!”

  I whirl around. Tommy waves. “Happy birthday, Lameberg.”

  “It’s not my birthday. My ham—”

  “Quiet in front,” Ms. Lovely croaks.

  I’m glad she said that, because I almost told Tommy about Hammy. And he doesn’t deserve to know.

  Ms. Lovely walks to the front of the room. “No food in my classroom, Mr. Greenberg.”

  Sophie snatches the cupcake off my desk and shoves it back into the bag.

  Ms. Lovely smiles at her.

  “Happy birthday, Lameberg!” Tommy calls again.

  “It’s not my birthday,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, happy birthday!” another guy says.

  “Happy birthday,” a girl says.

  Ms. Lovely levels the class with a stare. “You may celebrate Mr. Greenberg’s birthday another time. Right now, we have a test.”

  It’s not my birthday!

  “Everything off your desks except your pencils.”

  The moment Ms. Lovely turns to grab the tests, I feel something bonk me on the back of the head.

  I whirl around and glare at Tommy.

  “Read it,” he mouths, pointing to the wad of paper on the floor.

  I take a deep breath and don’t move.

  “Read it,” he says again, his voice menacing.

  I try to resist, but snatch it, turn front and read.

  Happy barfday, Lameberg. Will celubrate L8R.

  As I shove the note into my backpack, my hand shakes. I can barely scrawl my name on the test that has landed on my desk, because now I realize exactly how Tommy Murphy plans to get me.

  IT’S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

  By the time I get to science—the last class of the day—I’ve managed to avoid both Tommy Murphy and bathrooms, but I’m panicked.

  I walk into class and take a deep, shaky breath, hoping I can hold it together.

  Mr. Milot walks to the back of the room and grabs two metal trays. “Okay, class,” he says, “today is Worm Dissection Day.”

  I’d forgotten about Worm Dissection Day.

  A tray lands on our lab table, with a worm stretched out, held taut by pins.

  I don’t know if it’s caused by the formaldehyde smell coming from the tray or seeing the dead worm with pins stuck in it, but a feeling swells inside my chest, and my throat squeezes.

  “You okay?” Sophie asks, her fingers landing like a feather on my wrist.

  It’s hard not to cry when someone is being nice. A strangled sound comes from my throat, and my shoulders bob. I know that Niagara Falls is about to spill.

  Mr. Milot, at the rear of the room, grabs two more trays, his back to the class.

  Without asking, without a hall pass, without my back pack, I bolt.

  I’m halfway down the hall when sadness overwhelms me. I lean back against a row of lockers and sink to the floor. My shoulders jerk and hot tears stream down my cheeks. I pull my knees to my chest and cover my face.

  That’s when I hear a door open at the far end of the hallway.

  I squint and see the bald head of Mr. Carp.

  I cover my own head with my arms. Go away! I peek through my arms and see Mr. Carp getting closer.

  The door to the stairway is down the hall, past him. But the bathroom is right next to me.

  “David?”

  It’s Mr. Milot, calling from science class.

  “David Greenberg?”

  I duck into the boys’ bathroom, lean against the cool tile wall and hold my breath. As soon as Mr. Carp passes, I’ll run down the hall, away from science class, to the stairway and all the way home.

  A stall door opens and a cloud of cigarette smoke drifts out.

  I hear a deep voice.

  My jumbled thoughts distill to one: Run!

  Too late.

  Tommy Murphy saunters toward me, grinning.

  “Lookie here,” he says, poking me hard in the chest. “It’s Lameberg. He thinks he’s so cool with those dumb videos. Anybody could make them.” He pokes me again. “You’re not so special, Lameberg.”

  I shiver.

  A big guy I don’t recognize emerges from the same stall and stands beside Tommy. This kid has stubble on his chin. I think of the skimpy mustache hairs I showed Bubbe.

  Cigarette smoke drifting from the stall reminds me of that summer day with Jack—the day he warned me to avoid the bathroom on the second floor near the science wing.

  “Hey,” Tommy says, shoving the other guy. “We don’t need to get him after school today. Lameberg came to us. Can you believe it?” Tommy gets in my face. “Mighty nice of you, Lameberg.”

  I close my eyes and pray.

  Let it be quick.

  And painless.

  His warm tobacco breath on my face, Tommy says, “It’s time to celebrate your birthday, Lameberg.”

  “Y
eah,” the other guy says. “Happy birthday.”

  Tommy’s so close to my face, I see rubber bands stretching between his braces. I feel cold, hard wall pressed against my back.

  And I hear something. Mr. Carp whistling softly. Tommy’s eyes open wide. Scream, David. Scream! I don’t even breathe as I hear Mr. Carp’s whistling get softer and softer and then … nothing.

  Tommy presses his lips together, and there are hands on my arms and shoulders. They drag me to the stall door.

  When Tommy kicks open the door, I twist like crazy. “Mr. Carp!” I yell, but a damp hand clamps over my mouth. It smells like cigarette smoke.

  I jerk hard and scream a muffled “No!”

  Someone leans close to my ear. “The only thing I wanna hear out of you, Lameberg, is ‘Happy Birthday.’” He twists my arm behind my back for emphasis.

  I shake my head and struggle wildly, but they’ve got me in an iron grip. “Sing!” Tommy says.

  I shake my head again, afraid to open my mouth.

  Then his words get deep and ominous. “Sing or we’ll drown you.”

  I look at the toilet. There’s nothing in it except water … and germs and bacteria. If there are 516,000 bacteria in one square inch of armpit, I don’t want to think about how many are swarming inside that toilet bowl. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Happy birthday to me,” I cry, even though it’s nowhere near my stupid birthday. “Happy birth—”

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Thank God! My arms go limp.

  Tommy and his friend drag me out of the stall.

  It’s the big guy who wears funny T-shirts. When he sees me, his eyes open wide. “Hold on, kid. I’ll get help.”

  And he runs out of the bathroom.

  Don’t go!

  “Uh, Tommy,” the other guy says, “I gotta go. If I get in trouble again, my dad’ll kill me.” He lets go of my arm and leaves.

  “Wuss!” Tommy yells after him, squeezing my arms with vise-grip hands. He looks toward the stall and grunts. “Let’s get this done.”

  “No!” I scream. “Get off me!”

  Even though I flail and kick, Tommy forces me back into the stall, his hands on my upper arms, his body pressed against my back until I’m facing the toilet.