How to Survive Middle School (21 page)

“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 kisses 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.”