How to Survive Middle School (22 page)

“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 courtyard, 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.

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.”