How to Survive Middle School (7 page)

I notice Tommy beside Elliott, and the spark dims.
What is he doing with that Neanderthal?

“Yo, David,” Elliott says, as though we’re still best buds.

“Yo, Dave,” Tommy says, like a brain-damaged parrot.

Elliott rests his tray on my table. He chose the same food I did; we both hate spinach. “So, how’s the T-shirt thing working out for you?” Elliott asks. Tommy laughs so hard he snorts.

The memory of Ms. Lovely embarrassing me in front of the class, in front of the red-haired girl, crashes back.

It’s all your fault
.

I turn and laser-focus on Elliott, who has picked up his tray and has this innocent
who me?
look on his face.

It’s all your fault!

Elliott’s eyes open wide.

I realize that his eyes look panicked because I’m off my seat and in his face. Kids from other tables swivel around to watch.

Tommy steps forward.

Elliott tugs on his shirt collar—
his shirt collar!
—and says, “What?”

“You’re a jerk,” I say, and shove Elliott’s tray so hard it smashes onto the front of his shirt and knocks him backward.

“What the—”

Elliott’s sitting on the floor, looking up and blinking while globs of food cling to the front of his shirt. A sliced carrot slips down his neck. Elliott’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

I back up, every muscle tense. “I’m sorry. I—”

Elliott scrambles off the floor. He charges toward me, slips on something and slams into me.

I fall backward and land hard on my butt.

“Jerk!” I scream, rocketing up toward Elliott.

He hits me hard on the side of the head.

I swing, landing a fist square on his cheek. “I hate you!” I yell, but it’s drowned out by chanting.

“Fight. Fight.
Fight
.”

Could they be talking about me? David “Please Don’t Hit Me” Greenberg?

Elliott lands one hard on my chin.

I blink a few times and am pulling my fist back just as someone grabs my arms and yanks.

I’m still trying to swing when I look over my shoulder and see that the person holding me is the police officer.
The police officer is holding me!

“I’m sorry … i-it’s just …,” I stammer.

Her grip tightens.

Elliott struggles against the man holding him, and I can’t believe how much he looks like he wants to kill me.

The cafeteria falls whisper-quiet as the bald guy who had the megaphone this morning charges over. He nods at the police officer. “I’ll take it from here.”

When the officer loosens her grip, the bald guy grabs my arm. It hurts.

Elliott breathes through flaring nostrils, like a bull ready to charge.

I glance around at kids staring at me and bite my lower lip.

“Take him to the nurse,” the bald guy says to the man holding Elliott. “Then make sure he gets to my office. I’ll have to call his parents.”

Parent
, I want to say.
Elliott has one parent
.

As he’s being led away, Elliott glowers at me, food splattered on his collared shirt and a fat red mark on his cheek. I look down, knowing I ruined Elliott’s first day of school, too.

Tommy stands nearby, grinning.

“Let’s go,” the bald man says, tightening his grip on my already sore arm.

It turns out Mr. Carp (aka Bald Guy) is the assistant principal for sixth grade.

I know this because there is a sign on his desk that reads
MR. CARP, SIXTH-GRADE ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL
.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Mr….” He runs his hand over the freckled skin on his scalp.

“Greenberg.”

“What do you have to say, Mr. Greenberg?”

“Uh, I’m really sorry.”

Mr. Carp nods. “I’ll bet you are, son.” And he picks up the phone.

Actually, I’m not that sorry. Because I, David Todd Greenberg, biggest fraidy cat ever, was in my first fight. And I think I might have won!

I’ll never tell Mr. Carp this, but I feel a little proud of myself.

Until Dad shows up.

Dad skids into Mr. Carp’s office, breathing hard.

I sink low in my chair, feeling smaller than ever.

“Mr. Greenberg?” Mr. Carp says to him.

Dad shakes Mr. Carp’s hand but looks at me. “What’s this about a fight, David?”

I can tell by the look in Dad’s eyes that he’s hoping it’s a mistake, that some other David Greenberg was dumb enough to get into a fight the first day of school.

“It’s j-just—” I stammer.

“And why are you wearing
that
?” Dad points to my T-shirt. “I thought I made it clear—”

“Mr. Greenberg?” Mr. Carp points to the chair next to mine.

Dad sits and runs his hand through his hair.

“I’ve looked into David’s file,” Mr. Carp says. “It’s obvious he’s a good kid. A really good kid.”

Dad’s face softens a little.

“Sometimes, starting middle school can be rough.”

“You can say that again,” I mutter.

They both glare at me, and my cheeks get warm.

Mr. Carp continues. “But David made a mistake.”

“A big mistake!” Dad says, looking directly into my eyes.

I sink lower in my chair.

Mr. Carp puts both palms on his desk. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Mr. Greenberg, you’re going to take David home. We’ll call it a one-day suspension.”

The word “suspension” kicks my heart into overdrive.

“Okay,” Dad says, the vein on the side of his head pulsing.

“And he’s going to come to school tomorrow wearing a collared shirt.”

“Of course,” Dad says, giving me a look.

“And he’s going to stay out of trouble all year.” Mr. Carp looks at me. “Isn’t that right, David?”

“That’s right,” I say.

Mr. Carp offers me his hand, and I shake it even though my palm is sweaty. Then he shakes Dad’s hand and picks up the phone. “Send the other boy in now.”

As Dad and I walk out of Mr. Carp’s office, Elliott walks in.

His shirt is soaked and covered with food stains.

I know that’s probably the only new shirt Elliott got this year. His mom rarely has money for extras like school clothes. And whatever he gets has to last all year, even if he outgrows it. Even if his former best friend ruins it with a tray full of gloppy joe and sliced carrots. I have the word “sorry” on my lips, but Elliott glares at me. If he had death-ray vision, I’d be vaporized. Then, secretly, he nods toward his hand, which is curled into a fist.

He lifts his middle finger. At me!

I don’t care that I ruined his stupid shirt anymore.

In Dad’s car in the parking lot, my shoulders relax a little, until I look over at him. There’s a deep crease above his eyebrows, and he’s gripping the steering wheel even though he hasn’t started the car yet.

Dad turns to me, glances at my T-shirt, then looks up at my eyes and says six soft words that pierce my heart.

“David, I’m so disappointed in you.”

When we walk into the house, I say, “Dad, Elliott tricked me into wearing a T-shirt today.”

Dad swivels and levels me with a stare. “Tricked you?
Tricked you?
First of all, David, you’re smarter than that. Second, I don’t care if Elliott told you to dance naked on Mr. Carp’s bald head. You had no right to do that. Elliott doesn’t have it so easy, you know.”

Neither do I!

“What the heck were you thinking?” Dad doesn’t wait for an answer. He shakes his head and stalks toward his office.

“Thanks for being such a good listener,” I mumble, and trudge upstairs.

Even though I know that Lindsay’s at school, I get a sinking feeling when I open her door and see that her bed’s made and her room’s empty. Downstairs, Bubbe’s apartment is quiet, and I remember it’s her day to volunteer at the library.

The person I really feel like talking to is probably still in
Mr. Carp’s office. His mom isn’t going to be able to get there as fast as Dad did. Ms. Berger is going to be pissed about having to leave work to get him. I’ve heard her say to Elliott about a million times, “If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.”

“It’s not my fault,” I whisper.

In the living room, I plop onto the couch, take a deep breath and look at Mom’s tuba. It looks lonely. My plastic tub of K’nex pieces sits on the floor next to it. I never put it away after that first day of summer, when Elliott and I went to the dumb mall instead of building something cool.

I pick up the red tub, and even though I think I’m carrying it upstairs to put back in my closet, I detour to the garage. I don’t turn on the light, so it’s dark, and it’s smelly as I lift the garbage can lid. K’nex pieces cascade against each other into the can. Then I drop the empty tub into the recycling bin and head to my room.

When I open my bedroom door, the first thing I see is the collared shirt from this morning. I hurl it to the floor, stretch out on my bed, glance at Hammy and remember the day Mom gave him to me. “Someone to love,” she said, handing me a trembling ball of fur. “I popped into Pet Palace for a minute and he looked so … so … lonely.”

A few days after that, Mom left.

I wonder if Mom got me Hammy because she knew
I’d
be lonely soon.

My throat tightens. I bite my lip, staving off tears, and remind myself that middle schoolers don’t cry over K’nex pieces and ex–best friends. And they definitely don’t cry about missing their moms.

I drag myself off the bed and take Hammy out of his cage. His whiskers twitch, and he seems happy to see me.
At least someone is
.

There’s a knock on the door. I hold my breath and say nothing, because even if Dad is ready to talk to me, I don’t feel like talking to him anymore.

My door creaks open, and Bubbe pokes her head in. “May I come in,
bubelah?
”

I shrug. When she calls me
bubelah
, it makes me feel safe and babyish at the same time.

Bubbe sits on the edge of my bed, looks into my eyes and pushes hair off my forehead, like Mom used to. “Bubelah,” she says, squeezing my knee, “your father told me what happened.”

I open my mouth to explain, but Bubbe isn’t finished.

“I’m sorry your first day went like that, Davey.”

Davey. Does she have to call me Davey?
The air leaks out of me, and my chest heaves.

Bubbe takes Hammy from my hands and puts him into his cage. She comes back to the bed and holds me in her arms just as Niagara Falls gushes out of my eyes.

“It was horrible,” I say into her shirt. “Ms. Lovely’s horrible. Elliott’s …” I blubber against Bubbe’s chest and my nose runs.

She rocks me and says, “Sha! Sha, bubelah. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

Even though I know that Bubbe is wrong and it won’t be okay, it’s nice to hear those words.

I just wish they were coming from Mom.