How to Survive Middle School (10 page)

Sophie leans into the passenger window of a silver Prius. “Mom, this is my friend David.” She pushes me in front of the window.

“Hello, Ms. Meyers.”

“We need to work on a science project, and David invited me over to his house.”

A few cars pull around Sophie’s mom’s car.

“Well, I—”

Mr. Carp marches forward. He taps on the hood of Ms. Meyers’s car. “Move along, please,” he says through his megaphone.

I turn my back to Mr. Carp. All I need is for him to say, “Hi, Mr. Greenberg. Glad to see you back from suspension.”

That’s why when Sophie opens the back door and pushes me into the car, I don’t resist. I also don’t resist because, well, Sophie Meyers pushes me into the backseat of the car.

As Ms. Meyers pulls out, I look back and see Elliott and Tommy walking away from school. Together. Tommy’s way taller,
and Elliott hangs back a little, like he doesn’t quite belong beside Tommy. I’m just glad to be in this car and driving away from them.

“My gosh. It’s like a zoo,” Ms. Meyers says. “I came an hour early to avoid this kind of thing.”

“An hour early?” Sophie says.

“Well, I thought …” Her mother doesn’t finish.

I shrug, like I can’t believe her mother would do something so lame, but inside I feel a pang, because Sophie’s mom not only picked her up from school but cared enough to be the first car in line.

“So, David,” Ms. Meyers says, looking in the rearview mirror, “where do you live? And what is this science project, anyway?”

“It’s cool, Mom,” Sophie says. “We can make a picture book or whatever about a scientist. And we picked Albert Einstein.”

“But we’re going to make a video,” I say before giving Ms. Meyers directions to our house.

Ms. Meyers pulls into the driveway behind Dad’s car. “I’ll just come in for a minute.” She glances into the review mirror. “To meet your mom.”

Why do people always assume?

“Or does she work? Because I don’t allow Sophie to go over to someone’s home without parental supervision.”

“I’m sure my dad’s home, Ms. Meyers. He works from home.”

“Oh. What does he do?”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Mom.”

“I’m just curious, honey.”

“He’s a newspaper writer.” I’m not allowed to say he’s Alan of
“Alan’s Answers” or, Dad says, it would destroy his anonymity. Whatever the heck that means.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Ms. Meyers says.

Not really. He sits in his office and stares at his computer most of the time
.

“I read the
Bucks County Courier Times
cover to cover every day.”

“Mom!”

“It’s true, Sophie. That’s what I do after you leave for school. And my favorite column is that ‘Alan’s Answers.’ I love how he tells it like it is.”

Sweat breaks out on my upper lip, and since there are no mustache hairs there to catch it, salty droplets drip into my mouth. Sweat erupts from my bacteria-laden armpits, too.
If I don’t get out of this car soon, I’ll drown in my own sweat!

“Mom!” Sophie screams, and opens her car door.

The cool air instantly dries my sweat.

“We have a project to do. Come on, David.” Sophie yanks me out of the car and pulls me toward my house.

Ms. Meyers follows.

“Dad, we’re home,” I yell, hoping he doesn’t come out of his office dressed in penguin boxer shorts or something else totally embarrassing.

“Be right there,” he calls from his office.

Ms. Meyers stands in our foyer and wrings her hands, as if she’s about to meet someone important, like Jon Stewart.
It’s just my dad
, I want to say.

“Who do we have here?” Dad asks, walking toward us, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He looks at Sophie. “You’re definitely not Elliott.”

Sophie tilts her head. “Uh, no. I’m Sophie,” she says, thrusting her hand toward Dad.

“Hi, Sophie.” Dad shakes her hand.

“And I’m Ms. Meyers.”

“Glad to meet you,” Dad says.

“Your son says you write.”

Dad shoots me a stern look.

“Yup, I told her you write articles for the paper.”

“Ah, yes,” Dad says. “Articles. Come in.”

Sophie pulls on my pinky finger.

“Well, we need to go up and work on our science project,” I say.

“Okay,” Dad says as Sophie and I charge upstairs.

I hear Dad offer Ms. Meyers a cup of coffee.

She stammers. “I—I’d … love to, but don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“I’m done for the day,” Dad says.

Atop the stairs, Sophie says, “Is she annoying or what?”

I shrug, thinking about how Mom used to read Elliott’s aura or talk about his energy field when he came over. Elliott and I would laugh about it later, but it was embarrassing, especially the time Mom told him he was Julius Caesar’s bodyguard in a past life. “Your mom seems okay,” I say.

I think I’m taking Sophie to my room to show her one of my
TalkTime
videos, but I detour instead to Lindsay’s door. I know I’m here to show off Sophie. “My sister’s room,” I say, and knock.

Just as Lindsay yells, “Enter,” I remember that she might have zit-be-gone cream slathered all over her face.

“Maybe we should go to my room instead.”

“Come in!” Lindsay yells in a ferocious voice.

I crack the door open. “Hey, Linds, you busy?”

She swivels around from her computer. “Of course I’m busy, moron. I’m in high school now.” Her face is zit cream free.

I sigh and open the door all the way to let Sophie in.

“Oh, hi,” Lindsay says. “You’re not Elliott.”

What is it with people?

“This is Sophie. She came over to work on a project.”

“Hey, Sophie.”

When Sophie wanders to Lindsay’s CD rack, I’m afraid my sister’s going to yell at her to get away from her stuff, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me two thumbs up.

My neck gets warm.

“You like Ben Harper?” Lindsay asks.

Sophie shrugs. “My mom makes me listen to classical CDs. I wish I had a collection like this.”

“I can burn anything you like,” Lindsay offers.

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

Thank you, Lindsay Melanie Greenberg, for being nice to Sophie. And for not having zit-be-gone cream on your face
.

I pull my shoulders back. “We’re heading to Bubbe’s now.”

“Good luck,” Lindsay says, and flops onto her bed.

When we’re out of the room, Sophie whispers, “I like your sister.”

“She’s okay. Sometimes.”

Downstairs, Ms. Meyers is still chatting with Dad, so I grab Sophie’s elbow, and we duck past the kitchen and head to Bubbe’s apartment.

Sophie’s peppermint whisper on my ear surprises me. “What’s a Bubbe?”

I lean close. “Yiddish word for ‘grandmother.’”

“Oh,” Sophie says as Bubbe’s door swings open. Her apartment smells like cinnamon.

“Bubbe, this is Sophie, one of my friends from school.”

Bubbe takes Sophie’s cheeks in her wrinkly palms. “I’m so glad to meet one of David’s little friends.”

“Uh, Bubbe,” I say, pulling Sophie out of her clutches, “we stopped by to say hi, but have to head up to my studio now.”

“Oh. Your studio.” Bubbe pretends to grab onto lapels and struts around her living room. “Even a big-shot star needs to eat.” Bubbe winks at Sophie, grabs our hands and guides us to the table in her tiny kitchen. “You can go to your studio after you nosh on a little Jewish apple cake. Just baked.”

Sophie stares at Bubbe with wide eyes, and I can’t tell if she likes Bubbe or is overwhelmed.

“Eat,
bubelahs
!” Bubbe says, sliding plates of cake in front of us, along with glasses of soy milk.

I hope Sophie doesn’t think soy milk is weird.

Bubbe watches us eat. Every bite. You can’t refuse Bubbe. A Jewish grandmother trying to feed you is more persuasive than the heads of the Mafia, the CIA and the FBI combined.

“It’s delicious,” Sophie says about twenty-seven times. “May I have the recipe?”

I know she’s just kissing up, but it makes Bubbe glow. “Of course,
sheyn ponem
.”

Sophie tilts her head.

“Tell you later,” I whisper.

The minute Sophie enters my room, she zooms to Hammy’s cage, opens the lid and cups Hammy in her hands. “Mom won’t let me have pets,” Sophie says, nuzzling Hammy’s fur. “Too many germs. Too much trouble. Allergies. Shedding. Blah. Blah. Blah.”
Sophie kisses Hammy on top of his head. “You are the cutest thing ever,” she coos to him. “You don’t have any bad germs, do you?”

Lucky hamster!

I walk over and pet Hammy with my fingertip. “Now you’ve met the whole family. This is Hammy the—”

Sophie lets out a peel-the-wallpaper-off-the-walls shriek.

Before I can restart my heart and ask what’s wrong, Sophie’s mom bursts through the door.

How’d she get up here so fast?

“What?” Ms. Meyers’s eyes are the size of matzo balls.

She rushes to Sophie and flings her arms around her shoulders. “Oh, thank goodness I hadn’t left yet. What’s—” That’s when Ms. Meyers notices Hammy in Sophie’s hands and leaps backward.

Sophie cracks up, holding Hammy way out in front of her.

“What’s going on?” Dad asks, stepping into the room.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Lindsay asks, pushing past Dad.

Sophie offers Hammy up like a gift. “He … he … peed on me.” She bursts out laughing again.

Lindsay laughs, too, then me, then Dad. It’s contagious, but Ms. Meyers doesn’t catch it. She rummages through her purse with a vengeance and thrusts a container of antibacterial liquid at Sophie. “Here.”

Sophie takes the bottle.

I put Hammy back into his cage and lead Sophie to the bathroom to wash her hands. When we return, Dad is scrubbing the carpet with an old washcloth, and Sophie gives the antibacterial stuff back to her mom, who retrieves it with a tissue.

“Sophie, are you ready to go?”

“Mom,” she says, “I just got here.”

“Well …” Ms. Meyers looks at Hammy.

“She’s welcome to stay for dinner,” Dad says.

“Yeah,” Lindsay says, secretly winking at me. “Bubbe cooks great dinners.”

Ms. Meyers looks at each of us as though she’s deciding if we’re serial killers. Then she looks at Sophie, who is nodding like crazy. “I guess that’ll be okay. I do have to run a few errands. How about if I pick you up at”—she looks at her watch—“seven-thirty?”

“Yes,” Sophie says.

Her mother comes over and whispers something in her ear.

“I won’t touch the hamster,” Sophie says.

After Ms. Meyers leaves, Sophie says, “She probably stayed all that time to make sure I was okay.” Sophie shakes her head. “Maybe she was afraid I’d be mauled to death by your hamster.”

My treacherous hamster is buried under wood shavings, asleep. “Yeah,” I say, “Hammy’s pretty dangerous. He’s also sort of famous.”

“What?”

“He’s on YouTube. I’ll show you.”

At the computer, I pull up our
Hammy Time
video on YouTube. “I made this one with my friend Elliott,” I say, that familiar ache in my stomach. “It was right after I got Hammy.”

In the video, Hammy’s up on his hind legs, and Elliott and I edited it to make it look like he’s holding a microphone and singing while that old song “U Can’t Touch This” plays in the background. We dubbed in Elliott’s voice to make it say “Hammy time” instead of “Hammer time.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sophie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “That’s so cute. Play it again.”

Sophie watches the video six more times. “Why don’t you have more views and comments?” she asks. “This is too funny to have only four comments.”

“We never told too many people.” I think of Tommy Murphy’s words. “Besides, our videos are kind of lame.”

“Lame!” Sophie says. “You mean hilarious.” She leans next to me and takes over the keyboard.

“What are you—”

“I’m sending the link to my e-mail address. Did you make other ones?”

I’m afraid she’ll think I’m a giant dork, but I hold my breath and show her the
TalkTime
video I made with Magazine Cover Jon Stewart.

Sophie laughs in all the right places and sends that link to her e-mail address, too.