How to Survive Middle School (16 page)

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.

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.

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 tight, 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?”