How to Survive Middle School (14 page)

“Dinner!” Ms. Meyers shouts, and clangs the bell extra loudly.

“Coming!” Sophie leans toward me and speaks softly. “Ever since Dad left, Mom’s been a little”—Sophie bites her lip again—“controlling.”

“Dinner!” Ms. Meyers snaps. “Come down right now.”

My heart pounds. “We’d better go.”

Sophie pulls up
Hammy Time
again. “Four more views, David.”

We high-five, then walk down for dinner.

Three place settings take up most of the tiny kitchen
mesa
.

“So nice of you to attend,” Ms. Meyers says, placing a bottle of salad dressing on the table. I’m surprised when there’s not a label with the Spanish translation for “salad dressing” on the bottle.

Sophie does an exaggerated curtsy.
“Gracias, Madre.”

Ms. Meyers cracks a smile, and I see that Sophie knows how to work her mom.
“De nada, mi hija.”

I wait for Sophie to sit, then slide onto the chair beside her, panicked that Ms. Meyers will expect me to speak Spanish during the meal. The only words I remember from Spanish Club are “dog” (
perro
), “rooster” (
gallo
), “hamster” (
hámster
) and “Be quiet!” (
¡Cállate!
), because Señorita Rioux yelled that at least twice each meeting.

“So glad to have you here, David. You’ll get to enjoy my signature salad.”

“I love salad.”
As long as it doesn’t have cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes, green peppers or weird frizzy lettuce
.

“Great.” Ms. Meyers lays her napkin in her lap, and I do the same. “And a veggie omelet. And Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. She’s quite a baker, our, um, my little girl.” She pats Sophie’s hand.

Sophie smiles but gives an eye roll as soon as her mom turns her head.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Ms. Meyers says, grasping the edge of the silver foil covering the salad bowl.
“Come.”

Sophie answers my puzzled look with a whispered “Eat.”

I nod.

Ms. Meyers whips the foil cover off the bowl.

I take one look and feel like I’m going to vomit.

The bowl is loaded with weird frizzy lettuce, cucumbers, green peppers, mushrooms and sliced beets! And the beets are bleeding onto the rest of the salad.

While I choke down a few bites to be polite, I wonder if Mom’s hands touched the beet I’m eating.

The veggie omelet is okay, but Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie is incredible—sweet and tart with a buttery, flaky crust. It’s even better than Bubbe’s Jewish apple cake.

I eat two slices, and Ms. Meyers wraps up another slice in foil for me to give Dad when he picks me up.

“How was dinner?” Dad asks when I slide into the car.

“Okay,” I mumble, guiltily wiping crumbs off my lips and shoving the empty silver foil wrapper into my pocket.

Monday morning, I go into Dad’s office to get my detention slip from Ms. Lovely signed. He tells me he’s writing a response to a twelve-year-old girl who wants to get her boyfriend’s name tattooed on her wrist. “What’s she even doing with a boyfriend?” Dad flicks the letter. “This kind of thing reminds me how lucky I am to have you and Lindsay.”

I cough.

Dad puts the letter down. “What’d you need, pal?”

I slide the detention slip across his desk.

“Oh, a field trip already?”

I say nothing as Dad reads.

“Oh.”

Guess Dad’s not feeling so lucky about having me right now.

“I’m not happy about this, David.”

“Me neither. I was late to class because I was checking out the TV studio.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have been late.”

Thanks for understanding
. I grab the signed slip, stuff it into my pocket and trudge to school for detention.

When I open the door to room 103-B, my eyes open wide.

The students slouching at desks are all bigger than me. Of course, kindergarteners would probably be bigger than me. But here some of the guys who turn around to look at me have stubble. Stubble!

I don’t belong here!

“Up front,” calls a voice.

I make my way to the front of the classroom, where a teacher holds out her hand.

I wipe my sweaty palm on my pants and extend my hand to shake. “David Greenberg,” I say, getting used to the drill of giving my name.

“Nice to meet you, David Greenberg,” the teacher says in a snide way. She does not take my extended hand but shows me her palm again.

I slap her five.

Kids laugh, and I feel the skin on my neck tingle.

A girl from the first row stretches her sneaker out and kicks my foot. “Your detention slip,” she whispers.

I nod to show her that I appreciate her telling me.

The girl mutters, “Moron.”

I suck in a breath and give the teacher my signed detention slip.

“Take a seat, David Greenberg.”

There’s only one unoccupied desk, and the person at the desk behind it waves.

My knees turn to matzo meal.

“Take that open seat,” the teacher says, pointing. “Right there.”

A few kids snicker.

One doesn’t. He grins.

I feel like I swallowed broken glass.

“Now,” the teacher says in a low, ominous tone.

I sit, every muscle in my body tense and tight.

The kid behind me breathes loudly. His breath is hot and rotten. It makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristle as his name whirls through my mind like a hurricane.

Tommy Murphy.

I feel like I’m on one of those nature shows—the timid gazelle sipping water from a stream, seemingly unaware of danger lurking nearby. Tommy, of course, is the huge, hungry lion. Everyone knows what happens in those shows: the gazelle makes a desperate run for it but ends up getting eviscerated.

I check my watch and drum my fingers lightly on the desk.
The gazelle stands alone in the clearing, hoping the lion doesn’t notice him
.

Something bonks off the back of my head.

My body stiffens.

The lion has marked its prey
.

Another bonk. This one hits my ear. Two balls of paper lie on the floor beside me.
Great. Now I’m going to get in trouble for leaving trash
.

I turn in time for a ball of paper to hit me on the cheek.

I give Tommy the fiercest look I can muster.

Tommy mouths, “Sorry.”

Yeah, right. Jerk!

On Tommy’s desk, there’s an arsenal of paper balls.

I face front, sink low in my seat and pray that something shiny will distract him.
Why does detention last so long?

That’s when I feel the next bonk. On my neck.
Hello? Little help here
.

Another bonk. And another.

I sink so low that only my head is still above the chair.
The gazelle tries to blend in with the environment, making himself less of a target. Will the lion be fooled?

I feel a bunch of bonks at once. Bonk. Bonk. Bonkity-bonk bonk. Bonk! Some girl laughs out loud.

I’m sure this will inspire the teacher to at least look up from the papers she’s grading. It doesn’t.

There are balls of paper all around my desk. Evidence! I clear my throat as though there’s something stuck in it.

The gazelle makes a desperate attempt to summon help from a larger, stronger gazelle
.

That’s when something hard hits me on the back of the head. There’s an eraser on the floor. A fat pink eraser! What’s next? An electric pencil sharpener?

I clear my throat more loudly.

Tommy kicks my chair, but I don’t pay attention.

The teacher glares at me. “Do you need something, David Goldberg?”

“Greenberg,” I say, correcting her. “No, I’m fine.”

The teacher walks over and kicks one of the paper balls. “What’s all this trash around your desk?”

I shrug.
Tommy Murphy did it. Tommy Murphy. Tommy Murphy
.

“Pick it up,” she says.

“Me?” I touch my chest.

She nods.

Tommy snickers.

“And you,” she says, tapping on Tommy’s desk, “you must love coming here, because you’ll be visiting me every day for the rest of the week. Now apologize to Mr. Goldberg.”

“I w-was, um … kidding around,” Tommy stammers. “Really, we’re just—”

“Apologize!” the teacher barks. “Or you’ll get a month of detentions.”

Tommy sinks low in his seat, shoots me a killer stare and mutters, “Sorry,
Gold
berg.”

“Good,” the teacher says, and walks back to her desk. “And that floor had better be cleaned up.”

When her back is turned, Tommy slaps me on the head.

Against my better judgment, I swivel and face him.

He locks eyes with me, then slides a finger slowly across his neck.

The gazelle realizes he’s in grave danger, but can’t find an escape route
.

I slip out of my seat and pick up the wads of paper and the eraser. I think of throwing the eraser away, but I put it on Tommy’s desk instead as a peace offering.
Please don’t kill me
.

Tommy throws it at my forehead. Bonk!

I take a deep breath, turn and dump the paper balls into the trash can.

By the time the bell finally buzzes and I bolt to math class, I’m sure I have a red mark in the middle of my forehead and a death threat hanging over me.

The gazelle manages to escape to safety
.

Momentarily
.

When I get home, I throw my backpack onto the floor, turn on the computer and watch a few clips from
The Daily Show
. Even though they’re really funny, I don’t laugh.

Lindsay opens my door and flops onto my bed. “Hey, David.”

“Hey,” I say, signing onto my YouTube account. “Make yourself comfy.”

“I will,” she says, propping my pillow under her head. “I’ve got a giant paper due tomorrow and I don’t feel like—”

“No way!” I scream.

“What?” Lindsay rushes to me and reads the message over my shoulder. “David.” She smacks the top of my head. “This guy read about your videos on the
Daily Show
forum. He said they’re hilarious and you have to make more.”

“Wow,” I say, not really believing that someone wrote about my videos on the
Daily Show
forum.