“No!”
“Got to,” Tommy says, squeezing my arms so hard it feels like his fingers are boring holes through my bones. “I owe you.”
In one swift motion, Tommy grabs the back of my neck and shoves my head into the water.
Then flushes.
My forehead splashes into the toilet bowl and bumps porcelain. Water rushes loudly around my ears.
I force my head backward and am suddenly standing tall, rivulets dripping into my ears and down my neck.
I’m alone, heaving and blubbering, but won’t open my mouth. Can’t let that water get into my mouth.
Shivering, I splash water from the sink onto my face and neck. There are no paper towels, so I walk out of the bathroom dripping.
I hear a gasp and turn.
“David?” Mr. Milot says.
I’m staring at my science teacher and my entire class standing behind him. Sophie’s hand is clamped over her mouth.
The big guy shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. I tried—”
But I don’t hear another word. My vision blurs. And I take off, my sneakers squeaking down the hallway.
A boy twirling a hall pass turns to look at me.
I run down the stairs and toward the main doors.
“Hey!” a deep voice calls. “Stop!”
I keep running.
Past the doors into the blaring sunshine, beyond the car line. They see me. They all see me dripping. I guess I’m not that funny kid in the videos now. I’m not an Internet phenom or a celeb in the newspaper. I’m just wet, humiliated Lameberg.
I trip on a crack in the sidewalk and windmill my arms. I feel like I did when I knew I was going to fall into the pool this summer. But I don’t fall. I run.
Past the crossing guard.
Past a lady walking her dog.
Past houses and bushes and mailboxes.
I run until I’m home, out of breath and fumbling with my key. Dad’s car is gone. Bubbe’s car is gone, too.
Inside, it’s quiet. Everything looks the same but feels different.
I charge upstairs. To the bathroom.
And once I’m locked inside, I sink to the tile floor.
And weep.
Middle School SUCKS!!!
I’m in my room with the door locked, lying flat on my bed.
“Go away!” I yell.
“But, bubelah, I made peach kugel. Your favorite.”
“I hate that. Go away.”
“Davey, I’m sorry about Hammy, but you have to eat something. A little nashn?”
“No!” I won’t go downstairs. Or back to school. How can I face those kids from science class? They saw me dripping! Tommy humiliated me and he’ll probably do it again … and again. Elliott still hates me, and I don’t even know why. What good does it do to have thousands of fans online when not a single person at school likes me except Sophie? I can still see her hand slapped over her mouth as she watched me dripping toilet water onto the floor. How am I supposed to deal with all of this without Hammy to make me feel better? Without Mom?
A little while after Bubbe leaves, someone pounds on my bedroom door. “David Todd Greenberg, open up this second. You’ve upset your bubbe.”
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not.
“Open. The. Door,” Dad says.
I say nothing.
He pounds once. Hard. “Now.”
I look at the towel over Hammy’s cage, pull my covers up to my nose and say nothing.
“Well, then …” Dad sounds exasperated. “You won’t eat dinner tonight.”
“Fine,” I say, because that was all I wanted in the first place.
An hour later, another knock.
“David, Sophie’s on the phone.”
She probably wants to tell me she never wants to see me again. My heart beats so loudly in my ears I think I’m going to go deaf.
“Hello?” Lindsay says, sounding annoyed. “She wants to know what you want her to do with your cupcake. Whatever the heck that means.”
The cupcake. The cupcake that started this whole thing. Tommy wouldn’t have even thought of flushing my head if he hadn’t seen the cupcake and figured it was my birthday.
“Tell her I don’t care. Tell her she can flush it down the toilet!” I don’t mean that. I know that Sophie was just trying to make me feel better about Hammy with that cupcake, but I’m too upset right now to be nice. Besides, I can’t stand knowing that she saw me dripping.
“I’m not saying that,” Lindsay hisses.
“Go away!” I scream, and throw my Rubik’s Cube at the door.
I thought I’d be glad when the hallway light finally went out and I heard Dad shut his bedroom door, but I’m not. Even though I could turn on my computer right now and read dozens of fan messages from people all over the world, I feel more alone than ever.
“School,” Dad says, pounding on my door in the morning.
“Ugh,” I groan.
“Are you sick, David? Let me in.”
“Not sick,” I say. “Not going.”
“Son.” Dad’s voice softens. “You have to go.”
“Not going.”
He slams his hand on the door; then I hear footsteps fade. Not going to school. Not dealing with Tommy Murphy and his lunch table full of Neanderthals or Elliott or even Sophie. Not going to hear “Lameberg” ever again.
Just not.
At ten-forty-five, I use the bathroom, brush my teeth and catch my image in the mirror. I look worn out, like Dad looks sometimes. And my eyes are still pink and puffy.
I sneak down to the kitchen and bring up supplies—orange juice, a sliced bagel, three pieces of cheese and a cereal bar.
Then I lock my door again.
I turn on the computer and am surprised that I’m able to smile about the huge number of new views and comments the videos have gotten. How can one part of my life be so amazing while the other part, well … is flushed down the toilet? If only a few of these fans went to Harman, my life would be so much better.
I don’t answer the phone when it rings twice in the late afternoon. Sophie leaves a message. “David, I want to know if you’re okay. I’ll drop your backpack off in front of your house later. Call me. And let me know if you want the math homework.”
Nope.
The other message is from Elliott. Elliott! “David, look, Tommy told me what happened and I’m … I’m really …” He chokes up. “Look, I’m really sorry, okay?”
I take a deep breath and play the message again. Nope. Definitely not okay!
I don’t answer my family when they pound on my bedroom door in the evening—until Dad threatens to take the door off its hinges. I’m not sure if he can do it, because he’s pretty hopeless with tools, but I open the door a crack just in case.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, even though I’m not. “But I’m not coming out.”
“Yes, you are,” Dad says, bounding into my room. “And you’re going to school tomorrow.”
I cross my arms. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” Dad says.
“I’m not, because tomorrow is Saturday.”
Dad’s neck gets red. “Well, Monday. You’re definitely going back Monday.”
“Never going back.”
“You are,” Dad says, sitting on my bed and patting the space beside him. “Now, let’s talk about this.”
“No.” I know I sound like a baby, but I don’t care. And I don’t sit beside him, either.
“You’ll feel better, David. I promise if you talk about this, you’ll feel better.”
“Talking will not make me feel better,” I say, crossing my arms more tightly. Tommy getting transferred to another school would make me feel better. Tommy getting suspended for life would make me feel better. Tommy getting arrested and sent to jail until I graduate from college would make me feel fantastic.
“David, I love you.”
My anger dissipates.
Dad sighs. “Well, good night.” He stands and kis
ses the top of my head. “I’ll be in my room.” He takes a few steps toward my door. “If you want to talk.”
“I don’t.”
Dad leaves, and no one else comes in.
After a while, I go to the living room and sit on the couch in the dark near Mom’s tuba. I turn away from it and remember the time Mom and I camped in the living room. She wasn’t up for camping outside, so we moved the coffee table, pitched a tent she had ordered online, popped Paul Newman’s popcorn and drank grape juice from a canteen. Then we watched The Daily Show through the tent flap late into the night.
I also remember that first day of summer break, when Elliott and I were supposed to watch the Daily Show episodes I’d recorded, but ended up going to the stupid mall.
I turn on the TV and click on the first of many Daily Show episodes I recorded. During Jon’s opening monologue, I don’t laugh, even though he’s funny. I love the expressions he makes, especially when he raises one eyebrow and says, “Oh, really?” Elliott used to do that when we made TalkTime together. I can’t believe he called today. Maybe he’s changing into a decent person. Maybe he wants to be friends again. Or maybe it’s just another trick. Doesn’t matter. It’s too late. The damage has already been done.
By the second episode of The Daily Show, I laugh a couple of times. It feels good to laugh.
“Hey.”
It’s Lindsay, wearing her Dumb Bunny pajamas. She sits at the other end of the couch. “Mind if I watch?”
I shrug, but I’m glad she’s here. And even more glad when she laughs at Jon’s jokes, too. “He’s freakin’ hilarious,” she says, and for some reason it feels like she’s saying it about me.
Bubbe walks in with three bowls of caramel swirl ice cream, one for each of us. She plops onto the couch between me and Lindsay. “This guy’s a real mensch,” she says between spoonfuls.
Dad comes in, too, and sits in the chair. I catch him looking at me and nodding.
Together, we watch two more shows before Dad says, “I’ve got to turn in. I’m exhausted.”
“Me too,” Bubbe says, and kisses my forehead.
Lindsay slides next to me and bumps my shoulder with hers. “Night, David.”
“Night,” I say, feeling better than I have in a long time, which is crazy, because my hamster is dead and I had my head flushed. And it wasn’t even my birthday. But watching Jon Stewart reminds me of what I want to do when I grow up, of what I’m really good at doing right now.
Upstairs, even though I’m so tired I’m dizzy, I take Hammy’s cage and dump out the wood shavings. I scrub the bottom, too. Then I carry the cage, water bottle and food dish to the garage.
It hurts too much to keep looking at that empty cage.
“Good-bye, Hammy.”
Saturday morning, I wake to Bubbe’s shrieking.
I trip getting out of bed and run downstairs, figuring I’ll see a shiny black water bug skitter near her feet. She hates those things.
Instead, I see Dad and Lindsay at the kitchen table with Bubbe, fussing over the newspaper.
Lindsay grabs it and reads the headline. “‘Local Boy and His Hamster Become Internet Phenomenon.’”
“Davey, you’re famous!” Bubbe squeezes my cheeks in her palms and kisses me hard on the forehead. “My grandson the phenomenon. The Philadelphia Inquirer! I hope your aunt Sherry is reading this.”
I picture Cousin Jack giving me extra noogies next time he sees me.
Dad grabs the newspaper and reads.
“Out loud,” Lindsay says.
Dad reads about how I started making TalkTime and how Jon Stewart is my idol. There’s a photo of me and Hammy, which makes me totally choke up. I think of his empty cage in the garage and how much he’d have loved to pee on this article.
“David, this is amazing,” Dad says, tapping the article. “We’re going to have to go out and buy lots of—”
The phone rings.
“It’s the reporter from the Courier Times,” Lindsay says. “He wants to do a follow-up article on you.”
After I answer his questions and hang up, the phone rings again. It’s Dad’s friend Alan Drummond. “Hey, David. Saw the article about you when I was at the gym this morning. Congratulations, man!”
I blush. “Thanks.”
Alan Wexler calls, too, and congratulates me.
So does Jack. “Way to go, little man. It’s cool having a famous cousin. Does Lindsay know about the—”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling bad all over again, because now more people will see Lindsay’s cream-covered face in the Daily Acne Forecast. I wish I’d never put that in the videos.
Three people request radio interviews. Two newspaper reporters, four neighbors and, it seems, most of Bensalem and approximately half of the rest of the country call. Even Ms. Meyers, Mr. Carp and Ms. Petroccia call to congratulate me.
I can’t believe it. I’m so busy answering the phone, I don’t have time to go online, but I imagine there are a lot more messages than usual and even more views and comments for my videos.
At eleven o’clock, when I’m in bed and the phone has finally stopped ringing, I realize that one person hasn’t called—one person who probably hasn’t seen the article but couldn’t call even if she had.
Mom.
I shuffle into the hallway and see light shining under Lindsay’s door. I knock.
“Yeah?”
Lindsay’s in bed, reading Ella Minnow Pea. She puts the book down.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, David. What’s up?” She pats the edge of her bed.
I sit and tell her all about Tommy Murphy and how he gave me a swirlie.
Lindsay’s quiet for a while, then says, “Tommy Murphy’s a jerk. It wasn’t even your birthday.” She opens her arms. I fall into them, and Lindsay gives me a bone-crunching hug.
Sunday, in Hebrew school, the cantor tells me he read about me in the newspaper. “Very impressive, David,” he says. A few kids tell me how much they like my videos. I wish the kids from Hebrew school went to Harman.
As soon as I get home, I put up fake New York. I know I have to make another TalkTime. My fans are waiting.
When I get to the Top Six and a Half list, I say, “Top Six and a Half Ways to Avoid a Swirlie.” And something happens that has never happened before. My mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single way to avoid a swirlie. I don’t even know what I did to make Tommy Murphy hate me so much.
I put my camera away and stare out the window at the place in the backyard near the azalea bush.
What good does it do to be famous online when in real life, I go to a school where all I am is “Lameberg”?
The next morning, I button my collared shirt and plod downstairs, a knot squeezing tight in my stomach because I don’t want to go back to school.
In the kitchen, Bubbe pats the chair beside her. “I have five minutes before I leave. Sit.”
I sit and let out a sigh.
“Frosted flakes or shredded wheat?”
“Shredded.”
Bubbe puts the bowl in front of me and lays her warm hand on mine. “Middle school can be hard.” She looks in my eyes. “Harder for some than others. Lindsay told me what happened.”
“Oh, great.” I shove a spoonful of shredded wheat into my mouth. “No offense, Bubbe,” I say with my mouth full, “but you don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think, David.”
I nod but know she doesn’t. No one does, except maybe that boy Lindsay told me about who got a swirlie and ended up transferring schools.
“Now that you’re famous, things should go better in school, no?”
No.
Bubbe taps her watch. “I’ve got to go.” She kisses my forehead and says, “You’ll do fine today, Davey.”
“Thanks,” I say, and dump the rest of my cereal into the sink. How will I possibly do fine when so many people saw me dripping toilet water and Tommy Murphy might still want to kill me?
In the co
urtyard, kids hang around in groups. They talk and laugh and shove each other. Even though I feel like I have a neon sign on my forehead that says Lameberg Got a Swirlie, no one seems to notice me.
Sophie runs over and gives me a hug.
I’m shocked that she doesn’t seem even a little repulsed by the germs that were on me from the swirlie.
Sophie hands me a brown paper bag. “It’s stale, but …”
The cupcake.
“Thanks,” I say, and look around for people making fun of me. No one seems to be.
When the bell buzzes, I walk slowly, like I’m heading to the gallows. That’s kind of what facing math class with Ms. Lovely and Tommy Murphy feels like sometimes.
“Hurry up,” Sophie says, yanking on my sleeve.
As always, Ms. Lovely stands at the classroom door. She’s smiling. At least, I think it’s a smile. Hard to tell through all those wrinkles. “Welcome back, Mr. Greenberg.”
When I’m seated, I turn and look at Tommy Murphy. He’s glaring at me like he’s pissed. What does he have to be mad about? I’m the one who should be mad!
Ms. Lovely leans over and quietly says, “I read the Inquirer article this weekend.” And she winks at me.
I sink low in my seat.
Ms. Lovely turns on the TV, and we stand for the pledge. I’m not paying attention to what Ellen Winser says, because I’m trying to figure out why Tommy could possibly still be mad.
That’s when I hear my name.
Ellen Winser is talking about me on TV. She says, “Our very own David Greenberg, a sixth grader here at Harman, was mentioned in the Philadelphia Inquirer this weekend.”
A gasp spreads around the room. Ms. Lovely beams.
I forgot that when Ms. Petroccia called my house, she asked if it would be okay to mention the article on WHMS news today.
Ellen talks about the article, then shows the Hammy Time video.
I get choked up watching Hammy, but kids laugh. And when it’s over, the class applauds. I can even hear applause from other classrooms, and it feels amazing.
Ellen Winser says, “When you see David in the hallway, congratulate him.” And they flash a picture of me in front of fake New York.
How to Survive Middle School Page 13