How to Survive Middle School (5 page)

He’s heading down the tracks at a hundred miles an hour
. “Uh, I guess.”

“So who needs Cara Epstein?” Elliott says. “She’s not even going to Harman.”

Toward an oncoming train
.

Elliott puffs his chest out and declares, “I, Elliott Isaac Berger, am gonna make out with every single girl at Harman Middle School before I graduate!”

Crash!

“Great,” I say in a less than enthusiastic tone. “Can we please get started now?”

“That was supposed to be a joke.” Elliott shoves me.

“Ha,” I say, pulling away.

Elliott shrugs and sprints up the stairs.

I follow him into my room. “I shot everything except the interview and a public service announcement.”

“Cool,” Elliott says, tapping on Hammy’s cage, which annoys me. “Who are we interviewing today?”

“Ashton Kutcher.”

“Awesome,” Elliott says. “I can do Ashton.”

“Then I wrote a public service announcement about preventing skin cancer.”

“Sounds like fun.” Elliott makes a face. “Can’t we do something about girls instead? Like how to get them to fall madly in love with you?”

“Uh, and why would we want to do something dumb like that?”

“Because it’s way better than your stupid idea.”

I exhale through clenched teeth. “We’re doing the Ashton Kutcher interview and the PSA about preventing skin cancer. I already wrote it.”

Elliott steps back. “What if I don’t want to do the stupid cancer PSA? What if I want to do the girl PSA?”

Prickly heat creeps up my neck. “What if I do the interview
and
the PSA without you?”

“What if you do? Moron.”

“Supermoron.”

He shoves me. “Megamoron.” Then he turns away like I’m not worth looking at and mutters, “Schmo.”

I breathe in short bursts. Then it pops out of my mouth, like a firecracker: “Cara Epstein drew two purple hearts in
my
yearbook.”

There is electrically charged silence between us.

“Liar!”

I grab my yearbook, find the page with Cara’s entry and shove it in Elliott’s face. “She probably put two hearts in everybody’s yearbook.” I slam the book and throw it onto my bed. “Who’s the schmo now?”

Elliott’s lips pinch together, and he glares at me before exploding. “You suck!”

“You … ssssuper suck!” I breathe hard through my nose and try to think of something meaner to say. “And maybe if your dad was around, my dad wouldn’t have had to drive us to the mall twenty-four times!”

Elliott’s eyes open wide.

My stomach plunges. I know that was a low blow. I know better than anyone how awful it feels for a parent to up and leave. I have no idea why I just said that.

“Well, maybe if your mom—” Elliott’s voice cracks, and not because his vocal cords are lengthening.

I bite my lip, wishing there were a rewind button on my mouth.

Elliott snatches his yearbook and storms out of my room.

Even though “sorry” bounces around my brain, I stand there, stupid and silent, and watch Elliott Isaac Berger, my—
gulp
—
former
best friend, stomp down the stairs and out of my house.

I attempt to shoot the Ashton Kutcher interview without Elliott, but my throat tightens. I hope he calls, so I can tell him I’m sorry, because I am.

I let Hammy out of his cage and pet behind his ears, which usually makes me feel better, but not today.

If Mom were here, she’d probably sit on the edge of my bed, push my hair out of my eyes and tell me to call Elliott and apologize.

And I’d tell Mom I can’t call Elliott and apologize, because even though I know what I said was mean, it’s Elliott’s fault, too. He was a jerk all summer. I was only a jerk today.

Mom would probably tell me to call anyway. She’d talk to me about things like karma and how my spirit would be enhanced if I called and apologized. She’d remind me that Elliott’s been my best friend for years.

I hold Hammy in one hand and the phone in the other, but I can’t make myself press the numbers. I can’t shoot the interview. I don’t feel like making the PSA. This was supposed to be a great day, but it’s just another lousy day in a string of lousy summer days.

Hammy seems completely uninterested in my plight. Until he pees on my hand.

“I deserve that.” I put Hammy back into his cage and scrub my hand.

Then I reach into the back of my closet and pull out an old birthday gift from Mom. I sit on my bed and work the Rubik’s Cube but can’t get more than one side the same color. Mom said to close my eyes and envision myself solving the cube. I try it, but that doesn’t work, either. Even when I cheat and look up how to solve it on the Internet, I get only two sides the same color.

When Bubbe calls me for dinner, I’m glad.

But when I see what we’re having—creamed spinach, brown rice and liver with fried onions—I’m not glad anymore. I eat a few forkfuls of rice and move the other stuff around on my plate.

“You’re quiet,” Bubbe says, shoving a chunk of liver and a dangling onion into her mouth.

I don’t say anything.

When the phone rings after dinner, I lunge for it, hoping it’s Elliott. But Lindsay gets to it first.

“Hello?” she says, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “Yes, I’m Ms. Greenberg.”

“Liar,” I mouth.

She shrugs.

“No,” Lindsay says. “We don’t want a year’s worth of prime beef delivered fresh to our door.” She bites her lower lip. “Oh, I’m sure. Our family is vegetarian. All twelve of us.”

I smile.

“Even the dog,” Lindsay says.

“Woof. Woof,” I bark.

Lindsay hangs up and bursts out laughing. “Good dog, David.” She pats my head.

I stand, do a fake bow, then grab the phone and retreat to my room.

By bedtime, I realize I’m not going to call Elliott and he’s not going to call me, either, but I stay up till eleven with the phone beside my bed just in case he does.

When the phone rings in the morning, I smack the snooze button on my alarm clock. The ringing doesn’t stop even though I smack it again and again.

“Answer the phone!” Lindsay screams, and pounds on her bedroom wall.

“Stop banging the wall!” Dad shouts, and pounds on his own wall.

That’s when I realize my alarm clock doesn’t ring; it beeps. I answer the phone. “Yeah?”

“Hey, buddy.”

It’s Elliott. He called me buddy
. I try to think of something nice to say to show him I’m sorry and want to be friends again. But all that comes out is a sleepy “Hey.”

“You ready for school?” Elliott asks. It sounds like he’s laughing, but I’m still too tired to process much.

“Elliott,” I say, wiping gunk out of my eyes, “I’m really sorry about yesterday. What I said was—”

“I’m so over that.”

“Really?” I can’t believe Elliott’s forgiven me so easily. “But I am sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever. By the way, Tommy Murphy spent the day at my place yesterday, and he let me in on something important.”

My heart hammers. “Tommy Murphy?” A couple of years ago, he threw pinecones at us while we walked home from school. When Elliott turned to tell him to quit, Tommy nailed him in the head with a rock. Elliott’s forehead bled like crazy, so his mom called a doctor friend. She told Elliott’s mom to stick Elliott’s skin back together with Krazy Glue.
Krazy Glue!
And it worked, except Elliott still has a scar. “
The
Tommy Murphy?”

“Yeah,” Elliott says.

“The one who lives in your apartment building?”

“Duh. What other Tommy Murphy is there, David?”

“But I thought—”

I hear muffled laughter.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Elliott coughs.

I don’t hear anything else. “So what did Tommy let you in on?”

“Okay,” Elliott says. “You know that whole dress code thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Tommy told me all the kids are purposely breaking it today.”

“Breaking it?” My voice cracks. “All the kids?”

“You know, the seventh and eighth graders and the cool sixth graders.”

I remember Mom’s letter.
Don’t break any rules, especially on the first day
. “But—”

“I’m definitely wearing a T-shirt,” Elliott says. “You should, too.”

“Really?” I whisper, as though the Dress Code Police can hear me.

“David, if you
don’t
wear a T-shirt today, the eighth graders are going to target you for the rest of the year.”

“No!” Everything Jack said rushes back. “I don’t want to be a target.”

“Exactly,” Elliott says. “That’s why I’m looking out for you, buddy.”

“Thanks, but do you really think …?” I bite my bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Elliott says. “Everyone’s doing it.”

“But I thought—”

“Relax, David. This is a no-brainer. You don’t want to be labeled a dork your first day, do you?”

“No, but—”

“So you’ll wear a T-shirt today?”

I swallow hard and push Jack’s and Mom’s words from my mind. “Yeah. I’ll wear one.” I slide out of bed, wondering how I’ll sneak past Dad. “So, Elliott, you coming to my house or you want me to walk to yours?”

“Uh, I promised Tommy I’d walk with him.”

My stomach squeezes, but since Elliott’s being such a good guy about everything, I make a concession. “I can meet both of you at your place, then.” Silence. “I mean, if that’s okay.”
Why wouldn’t it be?

“Look, David, how about we meet you in the school’s courtyard?”

“But—”

“Just wear your T-shirt and meet us in the courtyard.”

Before I click off the phone, I know exactly which T-shirt I’ll wear.

In Dad’s office, the computer casts a ghostly blue glow on his face.

“Poor woman,” Dad says. “Wants to keep homeschooling her daughter because she’s afraid if she goes to school, she’ll be lonely at home without her. Can you imagine?”

“Um, not really,” I say.

Dad pushes away from his computer. “I’m suggesting she find activities during the day with people of her own age. Maybe get a job. Or volunteer somewhere.”

“Um, great advice,” I say, wishing I hadn’t interrupted Dad’s work on his advice column.

“Oh my gosh.” Dad looks at his watch. “I didn’t realize …”