My neck gets hot.
“And in other news …”
Kids do stop me in the hallway as I walk to my next class. People I don’t know slap me on the back and say, “Funny video, man.” Gavin gives me a thumbs-up in the lunchroom, and a couple of guys from his table hoot and whistle when I walk past.
I feel pretty good as I move toward the back.
“Hey, Lameberg!” Tommy screams, and the guys at his table crack up. “Think you’re hot stuff, huh?”
Why can’t you leave me alone? I bow my head, but before I do, I notice that Elliott isn’t sitting at the Neanderthals’ table. I look around the lunchroom but don’t see him.
When I put my tray down, a couple of the kids nod, and the girl stops reading long enough to smile and say, “Funny video this morning.”
“Thanks,” I say, biting into my grilled cheese sandwich, but inside my head, I keep hearing Hey, Lameberg! Hey, Lameberg!
“Hey.”
I stop chewing and whirl around, expecting to see Tommy Murphy and the Neanderthals, which I realize sounds like a name for a band. I should probably suggest it to Dad.
Standing behind me is Elliott. He’s holding a tray and wearing the now stained shirt he wore on the first day of school. His eyebrows arch, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Mind?” he asks, nodding toward the seat beside me.
I shrug, and he puts his tray on the table and sits next to me.
At first I wonder if it’s another trick, but it doesn’t feel like a trick. And when Tommy yells, “Hey, Lameberg and friend of Lameberg,” and Elliott gives Tommy the finger, I know it’s not a trick. I know that Elliott has finally crossed back over from the dark side.
“Wow,” I say.
Elliott shrugs. “He’s a jerk.”
“I know,” I say. “But—”
“I was a bigger jerk for hanging out with him.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Look, don’t worry about it.” Elliott rips a ketchup packet open with his teeth. “You gonna eat those fries?”
I throw a few fries onto Elliott’s tray, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He and I eat grilled cheese and fries and nudge each other’s shoulders every once in a while. We don’t say anything else, but it’s the best lunch I’ve had since coming to Harman.
When the bell buzzes, I realize that Dad was right. He said that I just had to give it time, that things would work out with Elliott. And it looks like they are working out.
Maybe this means things might work out with Mom, too.
When I walk into science class, everyone stares. I think it’s because of the announcement on the news this morning, but then I remember. The last time these people saw me, my head was dripping as I came out of the bathroom.
“You okay, David?” Mr. Milot asks, his hand on my shoulder.
Someone bursts out laughing.
Mr. Milot stares at her, and she mutters, “Sorry.”
I’m relieved when Mr. Milot starts talking about the properties of protons. I’m really relieved when the bell buzzes and my first post-swirlie school day ends the same way it began, with Sophie hugging me.
After school, I walk Sophie to her mom’s car.
“Want a ride home?” she asks.
“Nah,” I say. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“’Kay. See you tomorrow,” Sophie says.
I watch their car drive away with Sophie waving to me out the back window. I turn around and realize I’m standing in the courtyard—alone—a giant bull’s-eye for Tommy Murphy.
Elliott walks over. “Hey, David.”
“Hey,” I say.
“You want to—”
Tommy Murphy charges toward Elliott and slams into him so hard he goes flying. Elliott is sprawled on the ground, his backpack a couple of feet ahead of him.
Kids turn and stare.
Tommy stands with his chest pushed forward. “Why you talking to Lameberg?” He motions to me. “Now that he’s famous and all, you dump me, right? I ain’t good enough for ya?”
Elliott stands, brushes off his pants and faces Tommy. “You’re a jerk.” Elliott bends to pick up his backpack, but Tommy shoves him again.
Then he comes over to me.
My legs go weak. Tommy stands so close I smell cigarette smoke on his breath.
He pokes me hard in the chest. “Lameberg!”
Elliott takes a running start and slams into Tommy so hard Tommy stumbles sideways. “Don’t call him that! Don’t talk to him! Don’t even look at him!”
Tommy breathes hard through his nose and tilts his head, like a bull preparing to charge. “Oh, mama has to protect her little baby. I’ll call Lameberg whatever I want to call him, friend of Lameberg.”
Elliott looks around at the kids forming a circle and smiles. “Then I’ll tell everyone that you—”
Tommy slams into Elliott again. “I’ll kill you if you—”
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Carp says through his megaphone. “Break this up.”
Tommy steps back. “Uh, nothing, Mr. Carp. We’re just … we’re cool.”
Mr. Carp looks at Elliott for confirmation.
Elliott looks at Tommy. “Yeah, nothing’s going on. We’re cool, right?”
Tommy nods. “Yeah, right.”
Mr. Carp says, “Mr. Murphy, don’t you have enough detentions already? Move along.”
Tommy lets out a big breath and jogs off.
“You all right, Mr. Greenberg?” Mr. Carp asks, even though I’m not the one who got shoved.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, looking at Elliott.
“Great article in the paper,” he says. “I knew you’d turn it around.”
As soon as Mr. Carp walks away, I say to Elliott, “Thanks.”
He tilts his head. “No problem.”
As we walk home, I say, “What do you call a Neanderthal with only half a brain?”
“What?” Elliott asks, chucking a pinecone at a stop sign.
“Someone twice as smart as Tommy Murphy.”
Elliott shakes his head, then bumps his shoulder into mine. I can tell he’s as happy to be walking home together as I am.
“So, what dirt do you have on Tommy?” I ask.
“When we were friends or whatever, we used to just walk into each other’s apartments. Our folks were never home, you know.”
I nod. Elliott’s mom works all the time, but Elliott isn’t supposed to have friends in the apartment when she’s not there.
“Anyway,” Elliott says, “one time I walked in, and Tommy was sitting there watching that little kids’ show Dora the Explorer.”
I remember Tommy’s face an inch from mine when he had me cornered in the bathroom. “Dora the Explorer? Really?”
“Yup,” Elliott says. “He made some lame excuse that he was just switching channels, but he wasn’t. I stood back awhile before he knew I was there, and he was actually watching it. And laughing.”
“Oh my gosh. Does he have a little brother or sister or something?”
“Nope,” Elliott says. “Just him.”
We both crack up.
“Hey,” I say. “Maybe we could use that in our next TalkTime.”
“I miss making them, but I’m going to save that little bit of dirt for an emergency. I think it’s good for both of us to have something hanging over Tommy Murphy’s head.”
“Definitely.”
When we get to my house, I feel awkward because Elliott hasn’t been over in such a long time. I’m afraid if I invite him in, he’ll make some lame excuse, but things have been going so well that I ask anyway. “Want to come in for a while?”
Elliott lets out a big breath. “Heck, yeah. I don’t want to go home and find that Neanderthal waiting for me.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t think of that.”
I grab the mail and head for the front door. Peeking from the envelopes is a letter with XOXO over the return address. It’s for
me. From Mom. I push the letter back into the stack. I’ll read it later, after Elliott leaves.
Lindsay’s in the living room, doing homework on the couch. She looks up and there’s surprise in her eyes. “Elliott,” she says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
He nods, his cheeks reddening.
The phone rings, and Lindsay grabs it.
“Wanna hang out in my room?” I ask Elliott.
“Okay.”
“I’m Ms. Greenberg,” Lindsay says, winking at us.
I nudge Elliott and nod toward the phone. “Check this out,” I whisper. “Lindsay’s so funny with telemarketers.”
Elliott and I hunch together and eavesdrop.
“Yes, he’s my son,” Lindsay says, shrugging at me and Elliott.
It’s hard to hold back laughter.
“Yes,” Lindsay says, “that would be wonderful. I’ll let him know.”
She presses the phone against her ear and leans forward.
“No, thank you. He’ll be very excited to hear that.”
She nods.
“Yes, just let me get some paper.” Lindsay waves her hand, and Elliott whips a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack.
Lindsay scribbles something, then says, “Thanks again. Good-bye.”
When Lindsay hangs up, her cheeks are bright pink and her hands are flapping. She looks at me, then Elliott, then me again. “David,” she says in this high-pitched voice that sends my heart racing.
“What?”
Lindsay screams, “They’reshowingTalkTimeonTheDailyShow!”
I hear something that sounds like “TalkTime” and “The Daily Show.”
I shake my head. “What?”
She keeps flapping her hands, like she’s hoping to take flight. “David, they’re going to put TalkTime on The Daily Show.”
“They’re …”
“On tomorrow’s show!”
Elliott punches me really hard in the arm. “David, this is so great. This is so great.”
Lindsay holds both of my hands. “That was a producer from The Daily Show. They’re going to play your Jon Stewart TalkTime video.”
“Oh, my …”
Lindsay squeezes my hands really hard and we jump and scream. Elliott pumps his fists in the air. “Oh, yeah! Sweet! Oh, yeah!”
Dad walks in just as Lindsay and I fall over and nearly crack our heads on the coffee table.
“What? What are we celebrating?” Dad asks. “Hey, Elliott. Great to see you.” He squeezes Elliott’s shoulder. “So, what’s going on here?”
Breathless, Lindsay explains. “A producer … from The Daily Show called. They found out … about David’s videos … on their forum. And they’re playing his video … tomorrow.”
“The Daily Show?” Dad asks. “Are you sure it wasn’t somebody playing a trick?”
Lindsay shows Dad the piece of paper.
Dad calls the number and speaks to the producer. He hangs up and says, “It’s true.”
Lindsay and I jump and scream all over again.
“Vos?” Bubbe asks, coming into the room.
Lindsay explains, and Bubbe hugs me. “Oh, I’m so proud. I told you that Jon Stewart was a mensch!” Then she notices Elliott.
“Bubelah!” She puts his cheeks in her palms. “So nice to have you back here.” Bubbe looks at me and winks.
“Nice to see you, too, Matzo Ball Mama,” Elliott says, and we all crack up.
“We should have a party,” Lindsay says.
Dad reels back. “A party?”
“Yeah. Let’s have a bunch of people over to watch The Daily Show together.”
“I don’t know,” Dad says. “It’s a school night.”
Lindsay puts a hand on her hip and gives Dad “the look.”
“Okay,” he says. “I get it. This is a really big deal.”
“Yeah,” she shrieks. “My little brother’s video is going to be on The Daily Show.” She messes up my hair.
I duck out of the way and say, “Quit it,” but inside it feels really good.
Dad scratches his chin. “I guess we could invite Alan Drummond and Alan Wexler.”
“And Sherry and the kids,” Bubbe says.
“And a couple of my friends,” Lindsay chimes in.
“And Sophie,” I say.
Elliott elbows me in the ribs.
“And her mom,” Dad says.
“And Tommy Murphy,” Elliott says.
Lindsay grabs a pillow from the couch and chucks it at him.
“Kidding. I was kidding.” He puts his arms up in self-defense.
It feels so good to have Elliott back.
Dad scans the living room. “I guess if we move the coffee table out and add some chairs and—”
“I’ll make appetizers,” Bubbe says.
“I’ll make seven-layer dip,” Lindsay says.
“And we should have popcorn,” I say, thinking of the night Mom and I camped out and watched The Daily Show together.
“Popcorn’s good,” Bubbe says. “And punch. I’ll make a big bowl of fruit punch.”
Dad looks around again, like he’s imagining the room full of people. His gaze stops at the tuba. He walks to the corner and picks it up with a grunt. “I guess it’s time we got rid of this thing.”
My heart squeezes. I remember that awful night with mom and dad and the tuba.
Lindsay sidles up beside Dad. “Definitely,” she says. “Let’s put it on Craigslist.”
“Or eBay,” Elliott says. “My cousin sold a pair of used shoes on eBay and got twenty bucks.”
“Or in the garbage,” Bubbe says, crossing her arms.
I take a deep breath. “I have a better idea.”
Everyone looks at me.
Before I know it, we’re piled in Dad’s car, heading to Sophie’s house, the tuba heavy on my lap. I’m squished in the backseat between Lindsay and Elliott.
When Ms. Meyers opens the door, she invites us in and yells upstairs, “Sophie, company. Come down.”
That’s when I notice something’s missing—the Spanish name tags. The stairs are just stairs. The door is just a door. And I remember Sophie telling me her mom finally took the labels down and is loosening up.
Sophie comes downstairs, her curls bouncing.
“Hey,” she says, tilting her head.
“Hey,” I say, and hand her Mom’s tuba.
Dad clears his throat. “We won’t be needing this anymore, and we thought you might enjoy playing it.”
Sophie squirrels air in her cheeks and lets out a blast.
We all laugh, and Ms. Meyers covers her ears.
“We’ll get you some lessons, honey,” she says, patting Sophie’s shoulder. “The music school would probably give me a discount now.”
Sophie puts the tuba down. “Mom’s teaching trumpet a couple nights a week over at J.A.M.—Jupiter Academy of Music.” She looks at her mom. “She read some advice in that newspaper column ‘Alan’s Answers’ that made her think of it.”
Dad coughs.
“So …,” Bubbe says.
“Thanks for the tuba, David.” Sophie leans over and kisses my cheek.
I break out in pepperminty shivers.
On the way home, Elliott elbows me. “You are so lucky.”
I put my hands behind my head. “Yeah.”
And we both crack up.
When we get home, I show Elliott the mean video Tommy made when he tripped me in the lunchroom. “At least there aren’t any comments,” I say.
“Yeah,” Elliott says, “but it’s got thirty-five views.”
“I know. That stinks,” I say, but I don’t tell Elliott that most of those are probably mine.
Elliott takes over my keyboard.
“What are you—”
He writes a comment on Tommy’s video: This video sux!—Dora
We crack up and high-five.
The next morning, I ask Dad if I can stay home from school because my video will be on The Daily Show.
Just before the intersection, Elliott asks, “What’s the difference between a rock and Tommy Murphy?”
I shrug.
“A rock has more personality.”
I shove my shoulder into Elliott’s. “Good one.”
Ms. Lovely hands me a note as soon as I walk into class.
“Ms. Petroccia, the media specialist, wants to see you,” she says and hands me a hall pass.
Sophie looks at me and tilts her head.
I shrug.
Tommy Murphy scowls, but I ignore him and head to the media center.
Inside the TV studio, the heavy guy turns to me. His T-shirt reads “Fat. Not Pregnant.” “Here he is,” he says to Ms. Petroccia.
“David,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “we were wondering if you’d like to do a special segment on WHMS news. You know, something short and funny, kind of like your videos, but appropriate for Harman. Maybe once a week or so.”
I stare at her. This is even better than I imagined—more fun than just being a newscaster. I can create funny skits about the teachers and the lunchroom. Maybe Elliott can even help.
“If you feel it’s too much … I just thought, you know, since you do such a good job with your videos …”
“No,” I say. “It would be awesome, but I thought only seventh graders—”
“In your case,” Ms. Petroccia says, grinning, “I think we can make an exception.”
The heavy kid high-fives me, then holds up his hand to signal Ellen Winser that it’s time to start.
“Come here tomorrow during fifth period,” Ms. Petroccia says. “I’ll send your teacher a note. And we’ll go over everything.”
I feel great as I walk back to class. I can’t wait to tell Elliott about this at lunch.
About a half hour before everyone’s supposed to arrive for the party, I grab some popcorn from a bowl on the kitchen counter and notice Mom’s letter on top of the mail. With all that happened yesterday, I forgot to read it.
I take the letter to my room, sit at my desk and look at the place where Hammy’s cage used to be. I check online and see that Hammy Time has nearly two million views. And Magazine Cover Jon Stewart has over a million. I’m sure that after tonight, that number will spike even higher.
How to Survive Middle School Page 14