Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (4 page)

Who Would I Be Today?

Inside the school there was a circle with benches and trees and bright tiles with handprints on the walls. I sat and pulled out the map. The lower yard divided the high school from the elementary and middle schools. I was assigned to a room on the second floor above the upper yard, the class of one very serious-sounding Mr. Hugh Lawson. I took a deep breath, about to march up those stairs like fear was not part of my DNA, when I heard:

“Charlie?” Felix, backpack dragging, papers falling out of his hand, tears in his eyes. “Do you know where I'm supposed to go?”

Really? Now? Just as I was about to make my grand entrance?

“Charlie?” His voice croaked. “I wish I'd let Mom come. I thought I could go by myself, but I can't.”

I turned and saw him. The slumped shoulders, the red nose. “No worries, kid. Your secret's safe with me. I'll help you find it.”

I took his papers, picked up his pack, and checked for his room. My sense of direction was infallible. Within seconds I found it, a bungalow behind the kindergarten classrooms. “Come on, follow me,” I said, and walked him up the ramp.

The classroom was already full of kids sitting at round tables. On the walls were ABC cards, and on the carpet a rocking chair. Man, was Felix lucky. I bent down and pointed to the nicest-looking teacher I ever saw. “Welcome to first grade. Enjoy the heck out of it, because it's all downhill after this.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” He took his backpack and hugged me. “You're really nice sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah, don't go spreading the word, all right?” I watched him walk in; the teacher put her arm around him; the kids waved. Man, growing up really sucked.

Felix looked at me one last time. “Bye, Charlie.”

“See ya, kid.” I left the land of milk and cookies and went into the jungle. I took the stairs like I knew each one by heart and made my way down the crowded hall, packed with kids who knew one another, my stomach now seriously flip-flopping. I hadn't felt like this since kindergarten, when I walked into that room and saw Roxy, the girl I knew I'd be best friends with for life. And we all know how that turned out, right?

Over the summer I did some groundbreaking research on the best way to start seventh grade in a new school.

Act like you need
no one
.

Act like you've got hordes of friends in your native home.

An English accent is key but must sound real, or major backfire will occur.

I chose my seat carefully—third row from the front, to the left. I was a master at seat selection. The seat I chose said
I am not the teacher's pet, but I could be if I wanted to, because I am super smart.
But as soon as I saw the kind of kids coming through, I knew I was far from small-time Malibu. I'd made it to the big city. They fell in like actors onstage playing different parts, some Goth with black hair, lips, and nails; a couple of punks; a few hip-hop types. A dude with a blue Mohawk came in. Next was a kid sporting a white suit, hat, and tie, who I was pretty sure was a girl. There was a girl with a nose ring; kids speaking Russian, Korean, Farsi, Hindi. I leaned back and watched them all from my seat. I didn't want to believe it yet, but so far it looked like, here, it was going to be different than Malibu, where you either looked good in a bikini or you didn't. Here, maybe, just maybe, it was cool to be whoever you wanted to be.

But then
they
walked in, en masse, their long hair curled, their makeup shiny, their clothes straight out of the pages of magazines. And in spite of myself, I could feel the old tug, the pull, the cry from deep down in my heart.
I so wanted to be one of them
. They were the populars. I could tell them from a mile away, blindfolded. Smell them from their perfume, their makeup, their gum. These were the girls who did everything first—first to date, to kiss, to see a movie with a boy
without
their moms sitting behind them. They were the first to get boobs and to show them. They were the ones girls like me followed for a living. Then, like a pack of dogs, they stopped at my desk and did a quick stop-and-sniff.

“Hey,” I said casually, barely looking.

They pushed past me like I hadn't said a word, like I wasn't even there, and headed to the very back of the classroom, where they sat like they were waiting to get their nails done. More people came in. Boys with upper-lip hair and small muscles grunted like they thought they should. Nerds walked fast and tight like they had red ants in their tight white briefs. And then came the ones who had dried toothpaste smeared over their lips and that dead look in their eyes that came from playing with their Legos all night long.

I took out my binder, pretended to write something super important, but really I was scared that there would be no one I would really like. No one I could see and
know
in my heart and soul that we could be friends. It's not something you can fake, either. You know; you just know. A few minutes later, two girls walked in. Their names: Trixie Chalice and Babette Suivre. And, dang it, you know what? I got that feeling.

Trixie had long, blondish-brown hair down to her waist. She was super skinny with freckles, big floppy ears, and a glint in her eyes. And let's not even talk about those incredibly cool knee-high Converse tennis shoes I would have given a kidney for, but Mom said they were too expensive, whatever that's supposed to mean. Her purse looked like liquid gold, and when she saw me, she gave me the look-over and I could tell she approved the fashion I was working. Babette, who followed her like a puppy, had curly hair to her shoulders but not cool curly hair, if you get my drift.

 

 

I could tell that she was
the
follower, zero spark. All right, I'll admit it, my first thought was
I can get rid of that one
. But then the new me, the better me, quickly silenced that awful, mean voice, that small red devil on my shoulder.
Be nice to everyone,
countered my new-and-improved self.

Trixie walked straight up to me like she wanted to meet me. I smiled. “Hey.”

She looked me over. “You're in my seat.”

Stop. Freeze. Now, if this ever happens to you,
do not
give in. If you
do
, you lose all credibility. Watch and learn. I lifted my black glasses over my head and said, “Didn't see your name on it.”

With a glint in her eye, she tapped the desk. “Look underneath.”

I did a quick check, and much to my delight, I saw carved into the seat in letters pointed like sharp daggers, all swaying V's in purple and red, she'd written,
Trixie Chalice's Butt Goes Here So Get Yours Outa Here ASAP
. I knew the style like the back of my hand. “You know Versuz?”

Her whole face lit up. “He's only the greatest graffiti artist in LA. Of course I know Versuz. He's a genius.”

My mouth dropped open. So did hers. That's all it took.

“Did it on the last day of last year.” She put her finger to her lips and smiled. “Name's Trixie.” She nodded. “This here's Babs.”

I looked at Babs and knew right away that she was lost without Trixie. “I'm Charlie.”

Babs put her hand out—weird, right?—and squeezed mine hard, really, really hard. The message came through loud and clear. I was a threat. But I wasn't, because I was reformed. No way would I ever do to her what Ashley had done to me. I stood up. “Here, take your desk. It's yours.” I could tell right away that Trix knew I was giving her the respect she deserved. She squeezed in, Babs next to her, and I, well, I was right in front of them.

The bell rang. I was pretending to look at my schedule when a kid named Bobby walked in, all sweaty. He had light brown skin and a blondish-brown Afro that stood a good two hands over his head. He was covered in cool leather necklaces and beaded bracelets. Our eyes met; he kinda smiled. “Cool shades,” he said.

Trix tapped me on the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, “He's got a girlfriend in high school. Don't waste your time.”

“Good morning, my soon to be massively intelligent, creative, and kind seventh grade class!” Our teacher, Mr. Lawson, came in juggling two tall stacks of books, which tumbled down the moment he reached his desk. “Man, those are heavy!” He was wearing shorts and a white shirt, and I could tell right away that his arms and legs were way skinnier than mine. On his feet—were hairy Birkenstocks. Lucky for me, his legs were less hairy than Pen's.

“Morning, morning, class. Take your seats while I just make this place feel good and cozy.” He closed the door, got down on the floor, and plugged in his table lamp for a little, soft glow. I checked out the class once more. So far, no total losers, which meant one thing: Good-bye, Dr. Scales. I sat back, breathed a heavy sigh of
relief
. I even began dreaming about my brand-new glamorous life when suddenly the door swung open and hit the wall. Marta Urloff stormed into the room.

My heart sank.
Sank.
She was a horror. You could see it from space. I wanted to cry; I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. If I did what Scales asked of me, I could kiss all possible interaction with humans at this school good-bye.

She looked like a homeless Disney princess. She had on dirty pink velour pants, a matching Disney jacket, socks, and blackened pink Crocs. Her pale grayish-blond hair was matted so high, it looked like she was wearing a wig.

Babette leaned forward, giggling. “She's our very reason for waking up every morning.”

On top of it all, she looked mean, like a pit bull with messed-up teeth.

“People say she was raised by wolves,” Trixie said, mesmerized.

“She's a Gypsy from Romania,” Babette said. “My father tells me to be careful of Gypsies.”

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Babs over here is French. Every homeless person is automatically a Gypsy.”

Marta parked her battered Cinderella roller suitcase and took a front-row seat. She turned and looked straight into my eyes. I gotta admit, I felt sick. And it wasn't because her teeth were a shade of yellow I had only seen on buttered popcorn, or that her nails were long and filled with grime. Nope. It was because I recognized that if I did what I had to do to get off Dr. Scales's couch, she would be my lunch date for the rest of my days.

Mr. Lawson came out from behind his desk and surveyed the room. It was packed. I counted thirty-eight kids. “Welcome to seventh grade.” He waved to Marta. “Now, I'd like you to meet someone special.”

I looked away; I was so not ready for this.

Mr. Lawson held up a stick of deodorant. “Who knows what this is?” He looked around. No one said a word. “This is Mr. Deodorant. And why am I holding him up? Because you don't know this yet, but by seventh grade you guys
stink
, all of you.” He walked down the rows, handing one out to each of us. “Keep it here; use it daily. Your bodies are all changing in gross ways that we'll address at the end of the year in
sex education
.”

Nervous giggles all around. He stopped right in front of my desk. Great. “Charlie Cooper?”

That's when Bobby looked down and said in the cutest voice ever, “Oh come on, man, she doesn't stink that bad. Give her a break.”

I turned around to look at him, to give him my full attention. “Wow, impressive. You're seriously funny.”

Mr. Lawson slapped my desk. I turned back around and came face-to-face with my teacher's hairy nostrils. “Class, meet Cooper.”

Chairs scratched against the floor as everyone tried to get a good look at yours truly. I adjusted my thick, black glasses, pushed away my dark bangs, and waved weakly like a total dork. “Hey.”

“Charlie”—he went back to his desk and took a seat—“tell us a little about yourself. Just the juicy stuff though.” He grinned like he thought he was super funny. “We love the juicy stuff, not the boring stuff.”

I surveyed the room. “Um, well, I'm from Malibu—”

Mr. Lawson interrupted. “Did you go to Malibu Charter or Malibu Elementary?”

“Yeah! Give it up for the BU.” Trixie clapped. “I know a whole bunch of people from there. I surf with them.” She looked right at me, scooted closer. “Come on, where did you go? Who do you know?”

My heart started to spasm. I swear I could feel it.

Mr. Lawson cut in. “Which one?”

So I skipped right over it. “We moved here for my dad's work—”

Bobby totally interrupted. “What kind of work is that?”

“My dad's going to rebuild the original Houdini mansion, the huge one that burned down and then was totally taken over by hippies and ghosts.” I started rambling. “Houdini never actually lived in the mansion, you know.”

Bobby looked right at me. “You like magic?”

“I like invention.” As soon as I said it, I could see most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but Trixie shook her head oh so slowly, like she knew exactly what I was talking about, like she thought about it all the time. And I wondered, Is she like me?

“And Mr. Houdini was one of the greatest inventors and marketers of all time,” Mr. Lawson added. “All right, people.” He clapped his hands, signaling school was back in session. “Find a buddy.” He looked at me. “Charlie, we work the buddy system for the first few weeks of school.”

I hated the buddy system more than life. You always got paired up with a total loser. “Love the buddy system.”

Mr. Lawson pointed right at me. “How about you and Marta team up?”

See what I mean? My heart began to pound, my hands grew wet, I could feel all eyes on me, but most of all, I felt the old eyes of Scales. In my reformed heart, I knew that this was the moment—my fork in the road, people—offered up to me on a giant silver platter.