How to Survive Middle School (8 page)

The next morning, I wake exactly twenty-three minutes before my alarm is set to buzz, because our phone won’t stop ringing.

“Get the phone!” Lindsay yells.

“Stop yelling,” Dad yells.

“Stop yelling at me to stop yelling!”

I grab the phone and push the talk button. “Hello?”

“Hey, David.”

The voice makes my heart pound.

“David?” Tommy Murphy asks. “That’s you, right?”

I hold my breath, remembering Jack’s warning about staying away from Tommy.
That kid’s crazy mean
.

A familiar voice in the background says, “It’s him.”

“Okay, then,” Tommy says. “Wanted you to know everyone at Harman’s wearing a bathing suit today. It’s Bathing Suit Day!”

I hold my breath and press the phone against my ear.

“So, make sure you wear the one with penguins all over it.”

Before I can find the off button in the dark, I hear Elliott and Tommy cracking up.

I hurl the phone across my room and pull my knees to my chest.

Hammy startles.

“Sorry, Ham,” I say, my voice catching.

Elliott was here when Mom gave me that bathing suit. He saw how excited she was to find one covered with her favorite animal—penguins. Penguins skiing, penguins sledding and penguins building snowmen … on swim trunks. I thought they were funny until I wore them to Aunt Sherry’s pool party. Elliott came with us that year. He stood next to me when Jack said, “Cute suit, David. Does it come with a swim diaper?”

When we got home, I shoved the bathing suit to the very back of my underwear drawer and made Elliott promise—
promise!
—he wouldn’t tell another human being about those stupid trunks. Granted, Tommy Murphy is not exactly a human being, but still …

After that, Mom started buying penguin everything. She gave me penguin earmuffs. Lindsay got penguin earrings, penguin school folders and seven pairs of penguin pajamas. Dad got penguin boxer shorts in six different colors, and tiny penguin statues began appearing all over the place. Mom bought a dozen copies of
Mr. Popper’s Penguins
and scattered them throughout the house.

Once, during dinner, Mom left the table and called the Philadelphia Zoo. When I heard her ask about buying a real penguin, I got excited. I thought it would be fun to have a penguin, except we’d probably have to keep the air conditioner blasting, even in winter. Dad got up so fast his chair fell over. He grabbed
the phone from Mom’s hand, hung up and started screaming about responsibility and reality. Lindsay kept eating.

I yank the blanket over my head and moan. “Elliott, you lousy, stinkin’, rotten …!”

What if Tommy Murphy tells everyone at school about my penguin bathing suit? What if the red-haired girl finds out? What if Tommy throws me over a railing?

I pull the blanket off my head and watch light stream through the window.

“I should tell everyone that Elliott slept with Boo-Boo Bear until he was ten and a half,” I say to Hammy. “But
I
am too nice to do something like that!”

Before I leave for school, Dad checks underneath my collared shirt.

“Don’t worry,” I say, pulling away. “I’m not going to do that again.”

“I know.” Dad ruffles my hair. “You’re a good kid, David. You just had a bad day.”

On the way to school, something hits me between the shoulder blades.

I whirl around, expecting to see Tommy Murphy holding a rock in one hand and my penguin bathing suit in the other, which is ridiculous, because the suit is still stashed in my underwear drawer. I know this because after the phone call, I checked. Didn’t want to find it flying on the flagpole at school this morning.

“Sorry,” a kid says, and runs past. “I was aiming for him.” He scoops up a pinecone and chucks it at some guy.

“Not even close!” the guy screams, and runs off.

Watching them makes me miss walking to school with Elliott. He used to tell the lamest jokes, like “What’s the difference between middle school and a loony bin? Nothing.” Even when Tommy Murphy chucked pinecones at us, at least Elliott and I were together—a team—fighting the forces of evil. Now Elliott
is
a force of evil, and all I’m left with is a big empty space in my stomach that feels like it will never be filled.

In the courtyard, I’m relieved about two things.

Thing One: I’m dressed like everyone else, in a collared shirt.

Thing Two: I don’t see Elliott or Tommy anywhere.

I bump into a boy and say, “Excuse me.”

“No sweat,” he says, and hoists his backpack onto his shoulder.

I look around. Everyone seems to have gotten the backpack memo. What other vital information have I missed? Maybe backpack info was given out Tuesday afternoon, after Mr. Carp sent me home.
What if there was homework assigned in some of my classes, and I’ll be marked as unprepared?

“Hey!”

I whirl around and stumble.

The red-haired girl covers her mouth and giggles. “New feet?”

My cheeks burn. “No, um …”
Ask her name
.

“We’re in math together. Remember?” she says. “The only sixth graders.”

“Yeah.”

She bobs from foot to foot. “So, how’s it going?”

“’Kay,” I say.
“’Kay”? Way to impress her with your one-syllable response, David!

“So …,” she says, biting her bottom lip.

Say something, David! Say something or she’ll walk away, and you’ll be standing by yourself again
. “No backpack, huh?” I want to smash myself in the forehead.
No backpack, huh? Way to point out the girl’s deficiencies
.

“Guess we missed the memo,” she says.

“Guess so.” I rock back on my heels.
Ask her name, you idiot!
“By the way, what’s—”

The buzzer sounds so sharply it cuts through my words.

She clutches her notebook to her chest with her left arm, bends forward and covers her ear with her right hand. “That’s sooooo loud.”

I cover one ear, too, to show solidarity. “Yeah,” I say in yet another brilliant demonstration of my use of one-syllable words.

The red-haired girl doesn’t seem to notice my extreme dorkiness, because she says, “Want to walk to math together?”

Do I want to walk to math together?
“Oh, yeah!” I say, a little too enthusiastically.

As we funnel toward the doors with the crowd, I smell pepper mint on her skin and get goose bumps all over my arms.

She smiles.

“You’re not from Longwood El, um, Elementary, are you?” I ask as we’re jostled through the doors and into the building. I know she’s not from Longwood El, because I would have noticed her.

“Nope.” She shakes her head, which makes her curls swing near my face.

They look so soft and …
Snap out of it, David!
“Trailside El?”

She shakes her head again.

We’re in the hall now, walking toward Ms. Lovely’s class.

“Private school?”

“Nope.”

I bite my lip and think. “You just moved here?”

“Nope.” She giggles and covers her mouth. “Guess again.”

Before we enter Ms. Lovely’s room, I step closer to the girl and hope Elliott’s in the area and sees me. If he notices me standing this close to a girl who’s actually talking to me, he’ll be so impressed.

“Hmm,” I say so she’ll know I’m thinking about my next guess.

In the crush to get into Ms. Lovely’s room, someone steps on the back of my sneaker. I turn around to say sorry, even though it’s not my fault, but only a strangled sound comes out.

Tommy Murphy towers over me like Mount Kilimanjaro towers over an anthill.

My stomach cramps violently, and it takes all my willpower not to double over, vomit and faint. But I can’t vomit or faint, because the red-haired girl is standing in front of me, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate either of those things happening in her general vicinity.

Tommy whispers two words—“Penguin Boy”—near my ear, then slides into his seat at the back of the room.

I shiver and take my seat in the front row, next to the red-haired girl.

“Guess again,” she says.

What were we talking about?
I glance behind me. Tommy glares at me.

I face front and grip the sides of my desk.

“Hello?” the girl says. “Do you give up?”

“What?”

She presses her lips together, like she’s thinking hard about something, then whispers, “Okay, I’ll tell you. I was homeschooled.”

“Homeschooled?” I say, more loudly than I meant to.

Panic in her eyes, she puts her finger to her lips and sinks low.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

I glance back, and Tommy is quietly facing front. The chatter in the room has stopped. There’s only the sound of one pencil tapping. It’s my pencil.

Standing in front of my desk is Ms. Lovely. I meet her eyes. If it’s possible, she looks even more tanned, wrinkled and menacing than yesterday.

And she’s glaring. At me.

I’m wearing a collared shirt
. I offer a weak smile.
She must teach lots of classes. Maybe she won’t remember me
.

“Mr. Greenberg,” she says in her gravelly voice, “no talking in my classroom unless you’re answering a question.”

I nod.

“And one more thing.”

Oh, please strike me dead
.

“Nice shirt.”

Did she just wink at me?

Ms. Lovely turns on a TV suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room.

I remember to breathe.

On the screen, a series of images appear—the front of the school, kids eating in the cafeteria, a student crossing a finish line, rows of bookshelves, a trophy case—while upbeat music plays in the background. The final image is the school’s sign:
HARMAN MIDDLE SCHOOL—A SAFE PLACE TO ACHIEVE ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE
.

As I watch, I feel Tommy glaring holes through the back of my head.

On TV, a girl says, “Good morning, I’m Ellen Winser. Today is Wednesday, September eighth. Please stand tall for the pledge.” A flag appears on the screen, and chairs scrape as everyone rises to recite the pledge.

Before Ellen Winser finishes telling us what’s for lunch today, Ms. Lovely snaps off the TV and grabs a stack of papers from her desk. “This is a quick quiz,” she croaks. “You should already know this material. It’s a way for me to learn what you remember from last year. Pencils out.”

There’s a collective groan along with the sound of backpack zippers.

When Ms. Lovely distributes the quizzes, I lean toward the red-haired girl and whisper, “What’s your name?” I’m grateful my voice doesn’t crack.

She leans over and whispers her pepperminty name in my ear.

My whole body erupts in goose bumps.

So Fee
. What an unusual name.
So Fee
. What a great name.
So Fee. So Fee. So Fee
. I’m floating on a cloud of So Fee when Ms. Lovely croaks, “You may begin.”

My cloud disperses.

I try to pay attention to the quiz, but I keep thinking about writing “So Fee” in the blank spaces between math problems. I shake my head and force myself to focus.

When I put my pencil down, I glance around the room and see that So Fee is the only other one finished. I smile.

When everyone’s finally done, Ms. Lovely croaks, “Please trade quiz papers with your neighbor.”

Too embarrassed to look at So Fee, I turn toward my left, but before I can ask the guy next to me to trade, So Fee taps my arm.

“Want to trade?” she asks.

Yeah!
I shrug and hand her my paper.

When she gives me hers, our fingers touch, and I shiver. I read her name on the top line—Sophie Meyers.
Sophie Meyers and David Greenberg. Sophie Meyers Greenberg. Sophie Greenberg
.

“Penguin Boy.”

I shrink down in my seat.

“Mr. Murphy,” Ms. Lovely croaks. “Do you have some great wisdom to share with the class?”

I don’t dare turn around, but I imagine Tommy, red-faced, shaking his head.

“Well, then,” Ms. Lovely says, “perhaps you’ll refrain from interrupting as I read the answers.”

Tommy is silent while Ms. Lovely reads.

I put tiny check marks next to each correct answer and feel happy when I circle her score:
100
.