How to Survive Middle School (19 page)

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.

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.