How to Survive Middle School (9 page)

Sophie hands my paper back. “Congratulations, David.”

Her soft words make my stomach flop around.

“Um, same to you, Sophie Meyers.” But I’m thinking,
So Fee My Errs
, so I’ll pronounce everything right.

Sophie put a bunch of stars around
my
hundred.
Does that mean she thinks I’m smart? Does she … could she … like me? Or maybe she’s just a big fan of astronomy and likes stars
.

I remember Elliott obsessing over Cara Epstein’s purple hearts, and for the first time, I get it.

I wish I could tell Elliott about Sophie’s stars.

I trudge to the cafeteria, wishing that Sophie Meyers shared my lunch period or I had at least one person to sit with.

The lunch lady dumps a corn dog, baked beans and wilted lettuce on my tray.

In the lunchroom, I spot Gavin. Like yesterday, he’s at a table with a bunch of guys I don’t know, but I realize I need to make some friends or I’ll be sitting by myself at lunch every day. Gripping the sides of my plastic tray, I stand behind Gavin and say, “Hey, Gavin, mind if I sit here?”

Everyone’s talking so loudly that no one looks up.

I squeeze my tray more tightly and shout, “Hey, sit, mind if I Gavin here?”

Everyone stops talking.

A couple of guys look at me with their heads tilted. Others laugh.

I close my eyes, then slowly say, “Hey, guys, mind if I sit here?” My face flushes. At least my voice didn’t crack.

I brace myself for Gavin to laugh and say, “No way, Penguin Boy; you can’t even talk right.”

What he does is look around the table and say, “Oh, sorry, David. There’s no room left.”

Why didn’t I realize there was a butt on every single seat at the table before I made a fool of myself?

“That’s cool.” I nod. “Next time.”

“Definitely,” Gavin says, then goes back to talking with the guys. I hurry along the row and put my tray down at a table with only a few kids. They don’t even look up.

But while I’m shoving the rubbery corn dog into my mouth, a couple of kids look past me. I turn to see Elliott and Tommy standing there, holding trays.

Is that a bruise on Elliott’s cheek? It’s purple; it must be a bruise
.

I turn back and look at my food.
Go away
.

“Hey,” Tommy says.

I squeeze my eyelids closed.

“Hey,” he says more loudly, and shoves his tray into my back.

I swallow hard and turn to face them.

Tommy slings an arm over Elliott’s shoulders. “Elliott showed me some of your lame videos yesterday.”

Elliott nods.

I imagine the two of them looking at my videos and making fun of me.

Tommy shoves his tray into my back again. “What do you think you are, a celebrity or something?”

“Uh, no,” I hear myself say, heat creeping up my neck and into the tips of my ears.

“You’re lame,” Tommy says. “That’s what you are. Lame.”

Elliott laughs. “So, David, how’s your
mom
doing?”

My stomach plunges like I dropped down a roller coaster. I can’t believe that Elliott brought up my mom. He knows how sad I was after she left. But then … I know how much talking about his dad hurts him. And I still made that stupid crack the other day.

Elliott takes a step closer. “I hear she’s working so hard she’s beat. Get it? Beet farm? She’s beat?”

I no longer miss Elliott or his dumb jokes.

“Yeah, beat,” Tommy says. “You’re lame and she’s beat.”

“High five,” Elliott says, and they high-five each other.
For making fun of my mom!

It takes all my willpower to keep my butt on the seat and not give Elliott a fat purple bruise on his other cheek, but I have a feeling that if I tried it, Tommy would pulverize me.

How can Elliott hang out with Tommy Murphy, the guy responsible for the scar on his forehead? And how could he have told him about my penguin bathing suit and showed him our videos?

Their laughter fades as they walk away, and I finally swallow the food that’s been squirreled in my cheek. The other kids at my table look down at their food. One girl hides behind a book.

I wish I could shrink to the size of a baked bean and hide on my tray until lunch is over.

Someone nudges me.

I tense and turn.

“Hey, David,” Scotty Griswald says from the next table. Since
our last names both start with “G,” we always had to sit near each other at Longwood El. But Scotty’s a superjock and I’m … not.

“Yeah?” I say.

Scotty leans close. “I thought Elliott Berger was your best friend. You guys always hung out together.”

Elliott sits a few tables away with Tommy and a bunch of other guys, laughing. Probably at me.

I shrug at Scotty, like it’s no big deal, but there’s a lump the size of a matzo ball lodged in my throat.

“
Was
my best friend,” I say, my voice catching on the last word.

After lunch, I feel like the new kid in every class. I have to ask my teachers where I sit, which is totally embarrassing, because everyone already figured that out yesterday. And in world cultures, we had homework, so I am unprepared, but Ms. Daniels says she’ll let it slide if I turn in the assignment—finding out where my grandparents came from—to her tomorrow.

In science, Mr. Milot tells me to sit at a lab table near the front of the room. A lab table with four stools, three of which are already occupied by two guys I don’t know and one girl I do.

“Hi, David,” Sophie says, moving her notebook out of my way.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Yes, I actually say this, but it’s okay, because it makes Sophie giggle.

Mr. Milot drops four papers onto each table. “Quick quiz,” he says, “to make sure you remember the safety rules I went over yesterday.”

Safety rules?
When Mr. Milot is in the back of the room, I lean
toward Sophie—she still smells pepperminty—and I whisper, “What’s with teachers giving so many quizzes in middle school?”

She giggles again.

When I read the questions, my stomach aches. I know four of the ten answers.
Four!
I look around and see other kids bent over their papers, scribbling. I can’t get a failing quiz grade.

Sophie’s paper is exposed, her answers showing. I’m about to look back at my own paper when Sophie pushes hers a little closer to me. And nods.

While Mr. Milot arranges supplies in a cabinet at the back of the room, I copy Sophie’s answers. Even though I’ll probably get a good grade now, I feel awful. In only two days of middle school, I’ve managed to get into a fight, get suspended, cheat on a quiz and, if you must know, have a few impure thoughts about Sophie.

I’ve got to shape up!

Mr. Milot says, “I want you to pick one person to team up with for our first project of the marking period.”

I look around and see everyone else looking around, too.

“It’s okay if you don’t know the person,” Mr. Milot says. “In fact, it’s probably better.”

I feel a soft touch on my arm.

When I turn, I’m looking into the green—
green!
—eyes of Sophie Meyers.

“Want to pair up, David?”

I know she’s talking about the project, but it feels like something more.

“Yes,” I say, mortified when my voice cracks.

“Together you will choose one scientist,” Mr. Milot says. “If you need ideas, ask me.”

“Ooh, a scientist,” Sophie says. “I’ve got an idea.”

“After you research your scientist,” Mr. Milot says, “you’ll create a project together and present it to the class.”

“Albert Einstein,” Sophie whispers. “He’d be perfect.”

I force a halfhearted smile. “But, Sophie, don’t you think everybody already knows about him?”

“That’s why he’s perfect, David. We won’t have to explain every little thing. We can just get to the good stuff.”

“But wouldn’t it—”

Sophie touches my arm.
My arm!

Her touch is to me what Kryptonite is to Superman. “Albert Einstein’s a great choice,” I say.

Mr. Milot hands out instructions about the project.

I stare at number four. I can’t believe that Mr. Milot is letting us do number four. It’s like he’s offering me—I mean us—an A.

Sophie taps the paper and leans close. “We
have
to do the second one.”

“Huh?”

“When Mom was homeschooling me, I made this awesome board game to learn Spanish.”

“Cool,” I say, but inside I’m panicked.
No way we’re doing a stinkin’ board game when we can shoot a video
.

“I’ll show it to you sometime,” Sophie says.

“Cool,” I say again, but I’m thinking,
I’ll show
you
the videos I’ve made and you’ll want to pick number four. At least, I hope you do
.

Sophie touches my arm again with her Kryptonite fingers.

Stay. Strong. Must. Choose. Video
.

“We could even start making the game today.” Sophie looks at me with those green eyes. “If you want to.”

She lifts her hand from my arm, and the spell is broken.

“Must. Choose. Video.”

“What?” Sophie says, and looks at me like I have slugs crawling up my nostrils.

“Video,” I say. “I think we should make a video. Number four.”

Sophie waves her hand. “David, I’m hopeless with that stuff.”

This time I put my hand on Sophie’s arm and feel goose bumps on her skin. “I’ll teach you.”

Having my fingers on her arm works like Kryptonite on her, too, because she says, “Okay. If you show me how.”

Some kid is talking to Mr. Milot at his desk.

I lean close to Sophie. “If you want to come over after school, I’ll show you some of the videos I’ve already made.”
Did I just say that? What if Sophie thinks they’re lame, like Tommy Murphy does?

“Cool,” Sophie says. “Let me get our scientist approved.”

Sophie writes
Albert Einstein
on our paper, rushes to Mr. Milot’s desk and comes back with his signature in red ink. “All set,” she says.

When the buzzer sounds, I barely have time to pick up my notebook before Sophie pulls me—
pulls me!
—down the halls and out the doors of Harman Middle School.