How to Survive Middle School (18 page)

There’s only one way to find out.

Tuesday, in the lunchroom, I grip my red plastic tray and walk toward the Neanderthals’ table. The strong smell of burrito and mold makes my legs wobbly.

Tommy notices me right away and says, “Hey, Lameberg,” and swipes his finger across his neck.

Everyone cracks up.

My heart beats so hard it sounds like ocean waves pounding in my ears. Someone throws an empty milk carton that skims my shoulder.

I ignore it, squeeze my tray more tightly, stand right behind Elliott and say, “Hi, Elliott.” My voice doesn’t crack, but inside it feels like I might.

Everyone stares at me, even kids from other tables.

I stand firm, praying for Elliott to say hi back, feeling sweat drip from my armpits.

Elliott looks at Tommy, then at the other guys at the table. Finally, he turns to me and says, “Hi …”

My heart leaps.

“… Lameberg.”

I duck my head and walk toward the losers’ table. Angry heat claws up my neck as I slam my tray down. I stab my burrito with a spork and will myself not to cry.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

By last period, I’m exhausted from thinking about Elliott and worrying about how Tommy will finally get me, because I know that no matter how careful I am or how fast I run, he
will
get me.

Sophie taps me on the shoulder. “Do you have it?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the flash drive.

“Excellent.”

When Mr. Milot asks for volunteers to present first, Sophie thrusts her hand into the air.

“Okay,” Mr. Milot says, nodding at me and Sophie. “Show us what you’ve got.”

I start the video, then walk back to my seat.

Sophie leans close enough that I smell peppermint.

I focus on the images of Albert Einstein that appear on the screen, but it’s not easy to pay attention.

And Sophie Meyers
, I think, inhaling her peppermint scent.

Somebody yells, “Oh, yeah!” A few kids cheer.

“Settle down,” Mr. Milot says.

After that quotation comes a list of the schools Einstein attended, like the Polytechnic in Zurich, where he studied math and physics.

A photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue appears on the screen.

Sophie and the rest of the class, even Mr. Milot, crack up, and I feel tingles along my spine. Listening to their laughter reminds me that making videos is probably what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Einstein’s major theories appear, like his theory of general relativity, which states that gravitational force is equal to the force of acceleration. That’s why when a car is moving forward—force of acceleration—you feel like you’re being pushed backward—gravitational force. Or why when an elevator is moving up, you feel like you’re being pushed into the floor.

Einstein’s honors and awards, including the Nobel Prize in Physics, scroll across the screen.

After that quotation vanishes, an image of me with baby powder in my hair and a fake mustache appears on the screen. Everyone laughs. On-screen, “Einstein” says, “Any questions?” while at the same time, Sophie and I hop off our stools, stand in front of the room and say, “Any questions?”

Every person in the room is silent.

It feels like a bowling ball takes residence in my stomach.

Suddenly, kids clap like crazy. Someone whistles. Another person pounds on the lab table with his palms.

Mr. Milot turns off the video. “That,” he says, “is an example of A-plus work. Excellent job, you two!”

No one asks a question, but they keep clapping.

While I’m basking in the glow of an appreciative audience, Sophie puts her hands on my shoulder, leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, David.”

The rest of the world falls away.

I guess I walked back to my seat, watched other kids’ presentations and probably even applauded, but I don’t remember. I suppose Mr. Milot handed my flash drive back, because it’s in my pocket. I can’t tell you if we got homework or even if there was a fire drill.

There’s only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty:
Sophie Meyers kissed me!

I’m so dazed by that tingly butterfly kiss on my cheek that I completely forget about Tommy Murphy. I’m in a crowd of kids in the courtyard when I hear, “There he is!”

I look up and see Tommy and another guy pointing and threading their way toward me.

I take off running. I don’t wait for the crossing guard to signal me. I run through the intersection and hear the blast of her angry whistle. I don’t look back. I just run like my butt’s on fire.

By the time I jam my key into the lock on our front door, my lungs burn, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I drop my backpack, let out a big breath and head toward the kitchen.

“David?”

I turn. Dad, Bubbe and Lindsay are in the living room. And so is some man I don’t recognize.

My heart hammers.
Did something happen to Mom?

I walk in, and the man, his brown beard neatly trimmed, smiles at me.

Do I know you?

“David,” Dad says again, “this is Mr. Levine. He’s a reporter from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, and he’s here to interview you.”

“Me?” I touch my chest. I’m still breathing hard and wondering what Tommy and that other kid had planned to do if they caught me.

“Well, David,” Mr. Levine says, extending his hand, “you’ve become quite an Internet sensation. You and Hammy.”

My hand’s sweaty, but I shake anyway. “Um, thank you.”

Lindsay comes over and shoves her shoulder into mine.

Bubbe grins like crazy.

I take a deep breath.

Dad pats me on the back and nods.

“Obviously, your family’s very proud,” Mr. Levine says.

I think that Mom isn’t here and she would like this, but then I look at Dad—he’s beaming—and Bubbe and Lindsay, and I feel really good, even without Mom. But then I notice her tuba in the corner, and a little wave of sadness washes over me. It still feels like part of my family is missing.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Mr. Levine says. “And a photographer will be here to take some pictures.”

“Okay,” I say, but my voice cracks, and I’m glad this isn’t a TV interview.

Mr. Levine asks if it’s okay to tape-record our conversation.

I nod.

“You’ll have to say it out loud for the tape recorder.”

“Um, yes.” I’m trembling. I can’t believe Sophie kissed me. And Tommy and his friend tried to kill me. And now this.

With the tape recorder between us and its green light glowing, Mr. Levine asks me lots of questions, like “Are you a big fan of
The Daily Show
?” and “What’s your favorite subject at school?” He grins after he asks this, and says, “And you can’t cheat and say lunch.”

No worries there
. I wipe sweat off my upper lip and tell him that I’m a huge fan of
The Daily Show
and science is my favorite class.

When the photographer arrives, she takes pictures of me at my computer, me in front of fake New York, me holding Hammy and Hammy running on his wheel.

“Who gave you the hamster?” Mr. Levine asks.

I look down. “My mom.”

I’m glad he doesn’t ask any more questions.

After Mr. Levine and the photographer leave, Lindsay hits me in the back of the head. “David.”

“Yeah?” I say, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“You’re like really, really famous.”

“I guess,” I say.
And when this article comes out, more people will be watching the Daily Acne Forecast. I’m sorry, Linds
.

Dad touches Lindsay’s arm. “You okay with this?” Lindsay nods and tousles my hair.

Bubbe hugs me so tightly I suffocate for a little while. She puts my cheeks between her warm palms. “
Bubelah!
The
Philadelphia Inquirer
. Wait till Aunt Sherry hears about this!”

Dad leans over and whispers, “You know, David, your mom would be so proud.”

I take a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah, maybe she’ll …” But I don’t finish the sentence.

In the morning, at the kitchen table, Bubbe hands me a toasted bagel. “So, how’s our superstar?”

“Okay, I guess.” I take a small bite, but it goes down hard because I’m worried about what might happen at school today.

“Next thing you know,” Bubbe says, “you’ll be on CNN or MSNBC or maybe even Oprah!”

I laugh.

Bubbe shoves a piece of bagel into her mouth. “Could happen.”

“Hey, Bub, look at this.” I push my face into hers.

She wipes bagel crumbs off my cheek.

“No,” I say. “Look.” I move closer.

“Vos?”
she asks, squinting.

I turn the light on over the table and point to the corners of my upper lip. “See?”

Bubbe gets her glasses. “What am I looking for,
bubelah
?”

“My mustache.”

“Pfft!” Bubbe waves her hand. “You call
that
a mustache?” She shoves her upper lip into my face. “Now,
that’s
a mustache.”

It’s true. Bubbe’s mustache is way darker than mine.

My shoulders droop. Even though I was interviewed by a reporter from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
yesterday, this is not good for my self-esteem.