How to Survive Middle School (20 page)

IT’S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

By the time I get to science—the last class of the day—I’ve managed to avoid both Tommy Murphy and bathrooms, but I’m panicked.

I walk into class and take a deep, shaky breath, hoping I can hold it together.

Mr. Milot walks to the back of the room and grabs two metal trays. “Okay, class,” he says, “today is Worm Dissection Day.”

I’d forgotten about Worm Dissection Day.

A tray lands on our lab table, with a worm stretched out, held taut by pins.

I don’t know if it’s caused by the formaldehyde smell coming from the tray or seeing the dead worm with pins stuck in it, but a feeling swells inside my chest, and my throat squeezes.

“You okay?” Sophie asks, her fingers landing like a feather on my wrist.

It’s hard not to cry when someone is being nice. A strangled
sound comes from my throat, and my shoulders bob. I know that Niagara Falls is about to spill.

Mr. Milot, at the rear of the room, grabs two more trays, his back to the class.

Without asking, without a hall pass, without my back pack, I bolt.

I’m halfway down the hall when sadness overwhelms me. I lean back against a row of lockers and sink to the floor. My shoulders jerk and hot tears stream down my cheeks. I pull my knees to my chest and cover my face.

That’s when I hear a door open at the far end of the hallway.

I squint and see the bald head of Mr. Carp.

I cover my own head with my arms.
Go away!
I peek through my arms and see Mr. Carp getting closer.

The door to the stairway is down the hall, past him. But the bathroom is right next to me.

“David?”

It’s Mr. Milot, calling from science class.

“David Greenberg?”

I duck into the boys’ bathroom, lean against the cool tile wall and hold my breath.
As soon as Mr. Carp passes, I’ll run down the hall, away from science class, to the stairway and all the way home
.

A stall door opens and a cloud of cigarette smoke drifts out.

I hear a deep voice.

My jumbled thoughts distill to one:
Run!

Too late.

Tommy Murphy saunters toward me, grinning.

“Lookie here,” he says, poking me hard in the chest. “It’s Lameberg. He thinks he’s so cool with those dumb videos. Anybody could make them.” He pokes me again. “You’re not so special, Lameberg.”

I shiver.

A big guy I don’t recognize emerges from the same stall and stands beside Tommy. This kid has stubble on his chin. I think of the skimpy mustache hairs I showed Bubbe.

Cigarette smoke drifting from the stall reminds me of that summer day with Jack—the day he warned me to avoid the bathroom on the second floor near the science wing.

“Hey,” Tommy says, shoving the other guy. “We don’t need to get him after school today. Lameberg came to us. Can you believe it?” Tommy gets in my face. “Mighty nice of you, Lameberg.”

I close my eyes and pray.

Let it be quick
.

And painless
.

His warm tobacco breath on my face, Tommy says, “It’s time to celebrate your birthday, Lameberg.”

“Yeah,” the other guy says. “Happy birthday.”

Tommy’s so close to my face, I see rubber bands stretching between his braces. I feel cold, hard wall pressed against my back.

And I hear something. Mr. Carp whistling softly. Tommy’s eyes open wide.
Scream, David. Scream!
I don’t even breathe as I hear Mr. Carp’s whistling get softer and softer and then … nothing.

Tommy presses his lips together, and there are hands on my arms and shoulders. They drag me to the stall door.

When Tommy kicks open the door, I twist like crazy. “Mr. Carp!” I yell, but a damp hand clamps over my mouth. It smells like cigarette smoke.

I jerk hard and scream a muffled “No!”

Someone leans close to my ear. “The only thing I wanna hear out of you, Lameberg, is ‘Happy Birthday.’” He twists my arm behind my back for emphasis.

I shake my head and struggle wildly, but they’ve got me in an iron grip. “Sing!” Tommy says.

I shake my head again, afraid to open my mouth.

Then his words get deep and ominous. “Sing or we’ll drown you.”

I look at the toilet. There’s nothing in it except water … and germs and bacteria. If there are 516,000 bacteria in one square
inch of armpit, I don’t want to think about how many are swarming inside that toilet bowl. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Happy birthday to me,” I cry, even though it’s nowhere near my stupid birthday. “Happy birth—”

“What’s going on in here?”

Thank God!
My arms go limp.

Tommy and his friend drag me out of the stall.

It’s the big guy who wears funny T-shirts. When he sees me, his eyes open wide. “Hold on, kid. I’ll get help.”

And he runs out of the bathroom.

Don’t go!

“Uh, Tommy,” the other guy says, “I gotta go. If I get in trouble again, my dad’ll kill me.” He lets go of my arm and leaves.

“Wuss!” Tommy yells after him, squeezing my arms with vise-grip hands. He looks toward the stall and grunts. “Let’s get this done.”

“No!” I scream. “Get off me!”

Even though I flail and kick, Tommy forces me back into the stall, his hands on my upper arms, his body pressed against my back until I’m facing the toilet.

“No!”

“Got to,” Tommy says, squeezing my arms so hard it feels like his fingers are boring holes through my bones. “I owe you.”

In one swift motion, Tommy grabs the back of my neck and shoves my head into the water.

Then flushes.

My forehead splashes into the toilet bowl and bumps porcelain. Water rushes loudly around my ears.

I force my head backward and am suddenly standing tall, rivulets dripping into my ears and down my neck.

I’m alone, heaving and blubbering, but won’t open my mouth.
Can’t let that water get into my mouth
.

Shivering, I splash water from the sink onto my face and neck. There are no paper towels, so I walk out of the bathroom dripping.

I hear a gasp and turn.

“David?” Mr. Milot says.

I’m staring at my science teacher and my entire class standing behind him. Sophie’s hand is clamped over her mouth.

The big guy shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. I tried—”

But I don’t hear another word. My vision blurs. And I take off, my sneakers squeaking down the hallway.

A boy twirling a hall pass turns to look at me.

I run down the stairs and toward the main doors.

“Hey!” a deep voice calls. “Stop!”

I keep running.

Past the doors into the blaring sunshine, beyond the car line.
They see me. They all see me dripping. I guess I’m not that funny kid in the videos now. I’m not an Internet phenom or a celeb in the newspaper. I’m just wet, humiliated Lameberg
.

I trip on a crack in the sidewalk and windmill my arms. I feel like I did when I knew I was going to fall into the pool this summer. But I don’t fall. I run.

Past the crossing guard.

Past a lady walking her dog.

Past houses and bushes and mailboxes.

I run until I’m home, out of breath and fumbling with my key. Dad’s car is gone. Bubbe’s car is gone, too.

Inside, it’s quiet. Everything looks the same but feels different.

I charge upstairs. To the bathroom.

And once I’m locked inside, I sink to the tile floor.

And weep.

I’m in my room with the door locked, lying flat on my bed.

“Go away!” I yell.

“But,
bubelah
, I made peach kugel. Your favorite.”

“I hate that. Go away.”

“Davey, I’m sorry about Hammy, but you have to eat something. A little
nashn
?”

“No!”
I won’t go downstairs. Or back to school. How can I face those kids from science class? They saw me dripping! Tommy humiliated me and he’ll probably do it again … and again. Elliott still hates me, and I don’t even know why. What good does it do to have thousands of fans online when not a single person at school likes me except Sophie? I can still see her hand slapped over her mouth as she watched me dripping toilet water onto the floor. How am I supposed to deal with all of this without Hammy to make me feel better? Without Mom?

A little while after Bubbe leaves, someone pounds on my
bedroom door. “David Todd Greenberg, open up this second. You’ve upset your bubbe.”

“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not.

“Open. The. Door,” Dad says.

I say nothing.

He pounds once. Hard. “Now.”

I look at the towel over Hammy’s cage, pull my covers up to my nose and say nothing.

“Well, then …” Dad sounds exasperated. “You won’t eat dinner tonight.”

“Fine,” I say, because that was all I wanted in the first place.

An hour later, another knock.

“David, Sophie’s on the phone.”

She probably wants to tell me she never wants to see me again
. My heart beats so loudly in my ears I think I’m going to go deaf.

“Hello?” Lindsay says, sounding annoyed. “She wants to know what you want her to do with your cupcake. Whatever the heck that means.”

The cupcake. The cupcake that started this whole thing. Tommy wouldn’t have even thought of flushing my head if he hadn’t seen the cupcake and figured it was my birthday
.

“Tell her I don’t care. Tell her she can flush it down the toilet!” I don’t mean that. I know that Sophie was just trying to make me feel better about Hammy with that cupcake, but I’m too upset right now to be nice. Besides, I can’t stand knowing that she saw me dripping.

“I’m not saying that,” Lindsay hisses.

“Go away!” I scream, and throw my Rubik’s Cube at the door.

I thought I’d be glad when the hallway light finally went out and I heard Dad shut his bedroom door, but I’m not. Even though I could turn on my computer right now and read dozens of fan messages from people all over the world, I feel more alone than ever.