The Detention Club

THE
DETENTION
CLUB

DAVID YOO

Dedication

For Griffin Young Yoo

Contents

 

 

W
HY IS IT THAT WHENEVER KIDS
do something wrong, their parents always tell them to think about what they did? As if the only reason
(insert bad thing)
happened was because the kid simply didn't stop to consider the consequences before doing it. I guess it makes sense if your kid's under the age of three, tops. Say a toddler, for instance, sees an outlet in the wall and immediately sticks a metal fork in it—in that scenario I can see how his parents would wrongly assume that the kid wasn't thinking when he did that. But the truth is, even at age three, the little kid knows
exactly
what he's doing when he sticks the fork in the outlet. I know this for a fact because ol' Electro Boy was me, and I remember that I had a decent reason for doing it, too (I was trying to make my fork come to life).

In my own parents' defense, all semester I've kinda helped them believe that I don't think whenever I do something stupid, because anytime they ask me why I did something that upset them, I always answer, “I don't know.” We just got through another one of those Q&A sessions a minute ago. They really put me through the wringer this time, asking me questions about everything that happened this semester, and each time I just kinda looked up at them dumbly and repeated the same answer. Here's a sampling of our deep conversation:

 

M
OM
: Why did you steal the poisonous chemicals from science class?

M
E
: I don't know.

D
AD
: What about the talent show—why would you put your life in danger like that?

M
E
: I don't know.

M
OM
: Why can't you get your act together with your schoolwork?

M
E
: I don't know.

D
AD
: Well then, how did Drew sprain his ankle?

M
E
: I don't know.

M
OM
: Why did your sister—

M
E
: I don't know.

D
AD
: At least tell us why you started that fire on school grounds?

M
E
: I don't know.

 

Here's a secret: I know the answer to
all
of these questions, but I had no choice but to play dumb. I know my parents, and the truth would just make them more mad or sad or confused, so I just play dumb in order to spare them the additional heartache. In that sense, it's nice of me that I always pretend not to know why I do these things, isn't it? It makes me look like an idiot, which technically makes me a martyr.

My parents tried every trick in the book to get me to answer their questions. They threatened that they're going to have to send me to military school if I don't shape up. Actually, the threat wasn't even a trick—I might not have a choice, the way things are going. They got so desperate, they even promised me at one point to take me out for ice cream if I just answered their questions. That was their best move, and I almost broke down because I'm really in the mood for ice cream right now. It would help wash out the flavor of my mom's ninetieth horrible dinner in a row (I keep track), but I didn't budge. Finally my dad shook his head and said what he always says in the end when they finally give up:

“Young man, I want you to sit here and think about what you did.”

He glared at me one last time before following my mom out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Then they marched straight into my sister Sunny's bedroom next door and tried squeezing some answers out of her.

I gasped for air—apparently I'd been holding my breath this whole time. I crept over to the wall between our bedrooms and cupped my right ear against it. My parents' low voices were muffled, but I could make out Sunny chirping, “I don't know,” just like me, and despite everything that's happened this fall, I couldn't help but smile, because it was officially the first time in my sister's life that she didn't have an answer for everything.

I
FIGURE THIS STORY BEGINS ON
the last weekend of summer vacation, because that's when I received an important letter in the mail, so let's start right in at breakfast on Saturday. The big news in the Lee household that morning was that on Thursday, classes were going to begin, and I was going to be attending the same school as my sister for the first time since we moved here. Sunny was going to be an eighth grader at Fenwick Middle, while I'd be starting sixth. She hated that we were about to be going to school together. I knew this because I caught her glaring at me from across the table, and when I asked her what her problem was, she said, “I hate that we're going to school together.”

“Why's that, honey?” Mom asked.

“Because he's an utter moron,” Sunny replied.

“Why don't you tell me how you really feel?” I said.

“Peter Lee, quit being smart,” Mom said.

My mom tends to favor my sister, and it shows in moments like this.

“I'm confused,” I said, repeatedly pinching my chin and then pulling my hand out and looking at it, as if I have a really long beard (it makes me feel older when I do this). “Surely I can't be both, so which is it? Am I smart, or am I a moron?”

My mom's face changed from annoyed to concerned.

“Oh, sweetie, you're not a moron,” she said soothingly.

“I wasn't actually confused,” I muttered.

“Sounds like mom thinks you're a moron, too,” Sunny said, smirking at me.

On this point I had to agree with her. I touched my pancakes to see if they were cool enough to squeeze into doughy balls, but they were still too hot. I always smush them into balls because they taste better that way. I do this with pretty much all bread products.

“Nobody in this family's a moron. Look at this, I even have proof!” my dad announced as he entered the kitchen. He handed me an already opened letter. “Son, you've just received some wonderful news from the school. Go on, share it with everyone.”

“Ahem,” I said, then coughed a couple of times, because that's what people seem to do right before they start reading something out loud in front of a big group. And then I began reading:

“I can't believe they chose you,” Sunny said the second I finished reading. “Must be a weak incoming class.”

“Sounds like you're jealous,” I said.

Sunny laughed. It was her way of dealing with pain.

“You don't actually think you're smarter than me, do you?” she asked.

“I aced all my classes last year, too, and I didn't have to study all the time like you had to,” I pointed out, and her face turned red because she knew it was true.

“You were in elementary school—that's not even real school! You got good grades for being able to write in cursive and color between the lines and stuff.”

“And I didn't have to stay up late at night practicing coloring between the lines, did I?” I replied.

“Stop arguing,” Dad snapped. “For once, I'd like to eat breakfast without the two of you going at it.”

I turned my chair to face him so we could have a little one-on-one.

“So what do you know about this Schoonmaker lady?” I asked him.

“Sunny, would you please explain to your brother what the T.A.G. program is?”

“You're in the program, too?” I groaned.

“Of course I am. It's
supposed
to be a club for the smartest kids in school, although it sounds like they're changing the prerequisites,” she said. “Last year we discussed current events and then competed in the Middle School Academic Bowl in the spring.”

I'd forgotten about the Academic Bowl, because it was just one of a zillion activities Sunny participated in last year. Believe me, it's hard to keep track.

I felt bummed that Sunny was already in the program, but at the same time the fact that she was in it kinda made me feel that getting selected was that much more impressive, since she's basically considered the smartest student in the history of Fenwick. I looked at the letter again and got the chills—here was written proof that I was considered one of the smartest kids in school!

“I always knew you were special,” Dad said, patting me on the shoulder.

“Maybe he should be put in special ed, then,” Sunny said.

“He doesn't mean that kind of special,” Mom said, quickly adding, “although there's nothing wrong with that.”

I resumed smushing my rubbery pancake into a ball before eating it.

“Don't play with your food,” she said.

“But you know this is how I like it. We've gone over this before, Mom. Sheesh.”

“Maybe he's just invented a new kind of pancake,” Dad suggested.

“You're right!” I held up the rubbery ball and stared at it. “All this time I had no idea I was sitting on a gold mine eating them this way. This thing's going to be worth millions.”

“My son, the inventor!” said Dad, but when I offered to make him one, he immediately shielded his plate from me and muttered, “Ugh, no.”

Sunny grimaced as I chewed on my pancake ball.

“There's nothing wrong with eating pancakes the boring old way like everyone else,” I told her. “I'm sure you'll come up with some fine inventions on your own. Food's just not your thing, maybe.”

“Maybe they'll start a caveman club for you to join,” she suggested.

“Not to sound cocky, Dad,” I said, ignoring her. “But I have to admit, I've always kinda known deep down that I was really special.”

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Sunny said.

“If you don't have anything positive to say to your brother, you can be excused,” Dad said, cutting up his pancakes that old boring way.

“Fine, I'm out of here.” Sunny pushed her chair back. “All I'll say, Peter, is that you're going to be in for a rude awakening on Thursday.”

“Maybe this afternoon I'll help you work on your inventions,” I called out after her. “It's no problem, really!”

Her bedroom door shut upstairs a couple of seconds later.

“I don't like that woman,” I added, but my parents didn't nod in agreement like I wanted them to. Instead my dad sighed and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Blood's thicker than water, Peter, you know that,” he said.

That was another one of his sayings. Dad always said it whenever Sunny and I fought. What he didn't realize was that the only thing my sister and I had in common was that we were related by blood—otherwise we couldn't be more different. The only other thing we had in common, I suppose, was that neither of us could stand the other. But of course that's not what my dad meant by giving me the ol' “blood is thicker than water” line. It's supposed to mean that since we're related we should be able to get past our differences, but I figured maybe the person who made up the saying meant it just technically, in which case I admit it's true. Blood
is
thicker than water. Woopity doo. So's orange juice.

Mom turned to me.

“Your sister's just—”

“Jealous,” I finished her sentence for her. “I know.”

“Actually, I was going to say she's stressed about school starting,” she said.