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EXCERPT FROM HOW TO SURVIVE MIDDLE SCHOOL
(Copyright 2010 by Donna Gephart)
The noise in the cafeteria is rock band loud. It smells like Sloppy Joes and mold.
I’m hungry and the line to buy food is long, so I stand at the end of it. I touch the five-dollar bill in my pocket from Dad when the kid in front of me turns and says, “David!”
It’s Gavin from Longwood El. He and I were in academic games together last year.
“Yo, Gavin,” I say, high-fiving him. We both look around to make sure no one saw in case that’s something you shouldn’t do in middle school.
“What’s up?” Gavin asks.
I think of the humiliating T-shirt incident in Ms. Lovely’s class, cross my arms over my chest and say, “Not much. What’s up with you?”
He shrugs. “Nothing much.”
We stare at each other and nod, then Gavin turns back around and I feel alone again.
It takes forever until I move up to the front of the line.
“Ewww. Gloppy Joe,” a kid behind me says.
I stare at the silver pans full of Sloppy, um, Gloppy Joe and something that I think is spinach and another tray of sliced carrots. My stomach makes an embarrassing noise.
“Before tomorrow,” the lunch lady says, brandishing her long metal spoon.
“Carrots and Sloppy Joe, please.” This lady won’t be slipping me free ice cream on Fridays.
I grip my red plastic tray and scan the cafeteria. Other than Gavin, I don’t recognize anyone. That’s why Elliott and I were supposed to stick together -- because there weren’t going to be a lot of us coming from Longwood El. Most of the kids at Harman come from Trailside El because of the dumb boundary rules!
Gavin is already talking and laughing with a bunch of guys I don’t know, so I sit at a table near the door and dig my plastic spork into the Gloppy Joe.
My mouth is full when I see Elliott walking toward me. Even though I hate what he did to me this morning, a tiny spark inside hopes he’ll sit with me. We could work this whole thing out and be friends again by next period.
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 exactly 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 go wide.
I realize 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, his nostrils flaring. 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 pull 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 . . . 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 correct. Elliott has one parent.
As he’s being led away, Elliott glowers at me, food splattered on his collared shirt. I look down, knowing I ruined Elliott’s first day of school, too.
I’m hungry and the line to buy food is long, so I stand at the end of it. I touch the five-dollar bill in my pocket from Dad when the kid in front of me turns and says, “David!”
It’s Gavin from Longwood El. He and I were in academic games together last year.
“Yo, Gavin,” I say, high-fiving him. We both look around to make sure no one saw in case that’s something you shouldn’t do in middle school.
“What’s up?” Gavin asks.
I think of the humiliating T-shirt incident in Ms. Lovely’s class, cross my arms over my chest and say, “Not much. What’s up with you?”
He shrugs. “Nothing much.”
We stare at each other and nod, then Gavin turns back around and I feel alone again.
It takes forever until I move up to the front of the line.
“Ewww. Gloppy Joe,” a kid behind me says.
I stare at the silver pans full of Sloppy, um, Gloppy Joe and something that I think is spinach and another tray of sliced carrots. My stomach makes an embarrassing noise.
“Before tomorrow,” the lunch lady says, brandishing her long metal spoon.
“Carrots and Sloppy Joe, please.” This lady won’t be slipping me free ice cream on Fridays.
I grip my red plastic tray and scan the cafeteria. Other than Gavin, I don’t recognize anyone. That’s why Elliott and I were supposed to stick together -- because there weren’t going to be a lot of us coming from Longwood El. Most of the kids at Harman come from Trailside El because of the dumb boundary rules!
Gavin is already talking and laughing with a bunch of guys I don’t know, so I sit at a table near the door and dig my plastic spork into the Gloppy Joe.
My mouth is full when I see Elliott walking toward me. Even though I hate what he did to me this morning, a tiny spark inside hopes he’ll sit with me. We could work this whole thing out and be friends again by next period.
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 exactly 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 go wide.
I realize 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, his nostrils flaring. 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 pull 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 . . . 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 correct. Elliott has one parent.
As he’s being led away, Elliott glowers at me, food splattered on his collared shirt. I look down, knowing I ruined Elliott’s first day of school, too.