“Told you,” Gus says. Barry laughs.
“It’s not a problem; I can quit whenever I want!”
“Yeah, right,” Barry says, walking into school with Chinh.
“Later, G!”
“Later, B.”
“Later, Chinh,” Gus says, waving.
“Hastah lego, G-money.”
Gus shrugs. “At least he tries.”
“Yes, points for effort.” We make our way up the steps and toward the building.
“So, what do you think Mr. Richt’s final semester project is going to be?”
“Oh yeah!” I say, thinking I should text Mom and tell her I remembered the social studies homework I have this week. I’ll do it later. “I have no idea,” I tell Gus.
“That’s the exciting part,” he says. “El misterio.” Gus makes a swooshing motion with his hands like he’s a magician. “Come on, Señorita Emilia.” He holds the doors open for me. “Another Monday at Merryville Middle awaits.”
“After you, good sir,” I tell him. “I insist.”
“I accept your chivalrous gesture.”
We switch places and Gus bows.
Once inside, we watch the other kids move in and out of the hallways.
“Those walls,” Gus says. “I mean, do they all have to be painted like that?”
Merryville Middle is big into school spirit. Each wall is either the color of a lemon or the blue Atlantic tide rolling in and out of Tybee Beach. There are giant banners with our school mascot, the Screaming Eagle, dangling over each archway. Why it’s a Screaming Eagle and not just an ordinary eagle is something I still haven’t figured out.
The first time I walked into Merryville Middle, it felt like the walls were yelling at me. At Merryville Elementary, we were just the Hawks and there was one picture of a hawk at the end of a soft-gray hallway. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess it makes sense. Screaming colors for a Screaming Eagle.
We get to homeroom and put our backpacks in our lockers. Mr. Richt is at his desk, like always, reading the AJC daily news on his laptop while the rest of the students file into class. Gus and I sit next to each other because his last name is Sánchez and mine is Torres.
“How was the goodbye with your mom?” Gus asks.
“I don’t think it’s hit me yet. It still just feels like when I get home, she’ll be there.”
“That makes sense,” he says. “Anyway, she’ll be back soon, right?”
“Right,” I say, suddenly feeling a little queasy. It’s like talking about my mom leaving has set a chemical reaction in my gut.
“But look at it this way: your dad will be home,” Gus says. “So that’s cool.”
“Yeah.” But that doesn’t make the chemical reaction stop. It only gets worse when I think about my mom and add how nervous and excited I am about seeing my dad.
I hope the two feelings don’t cause an explosion inside me, like the experiment we tried last year in science class. Our teacher took us outside and poured a half inch of lemon juice into an empty plastic Coke bottle. She added water until it was about half full and then took out a small box of baking soda.
“Does anybody know what will happen once I add the baking soda?” she asked.
Gus said we would have “rain de limón con Coca!” I was the only one who laughed. Our teacher looked confused and told the class to stand back and put on our safety goggles. Then she sprinkled the baking soda into the bottle, sealed it, and shook it like she was really angry. She placed it on the ground and we all watched as the bottle rattled before flying up into the air. Everyone cheered until the bottle exploded and sprayed our teacher with lemon juice.
“My hypothesis was correct, I guess,” Gus told me. “Lem-it rain!”
I wish Gus and I were in science together this year. After national testing, I got put in different math and science classes, so I have a separate schedule for some subjects. The strange thing is that Gus and I had really similar scores, but he wasn’t reassigned.
Anyway, that’s what I am feeling. I don’t want my emotions to explode everywhere. Mr. Richt turns on the television in the classroom and two eighth graders appear onscreen behind a desk, looking like news anchors.
“Okay, everyone, morning announcements,” Mr. Richt says. “Pay attention.”
The eighth graders start off by having us stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and then a moment of silence. Everyone closes their eyes, but I peek to see if anybody else has their eyes open. Gus lowers his head, like he does at church. Then he slowly turns and makes a scary face where his eyes, nostrils, and mouth go wide—like he’s possessed or something.
“Hello, Emilia Rosa,” he whispers in a throaty voice. “¡Soy yo!”
“Stop being creepy!” I whisper.
Gus relaxes his face and giggles. When he smiles, his eyes go wide again. But not in a creepy way this time. You can see every shade of brown in them.
The student anchors start again after the Pledge is over. They mention basic news about the country, then news about school, then they talk about all the clubs and activities happening this week.
“Man, I wish I could do AV club,” Gus says.
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t think I’m good enough yet.”
“Are you serious? No one knows more about making movies in this whole town than you do.”
“Thanks, amiga.”
The announcers say something else and Gus points at the television. “Uh-oh.”
I already know what Gus is referring to. I think about the flyers up on the bulletin boards and the posters taped to the walls.
“Get ready, Merryville Middle!” the kid announcer practically sings out. “At the end of the day, we’ll be Screaming Eagles!”
Oh no. I can already hear the rumbling and music that will come from the gym. It’s the one thing I dislike most about school. My doctor calls this one of my “sensitivities.” Sudden loud noises really bother me. They send my head spinning and make me want to hide in the custodian’s closet.
We have a pep rally at the end of the day.
The bell for first period rings and Mr. Richt turns to the board and starts writing without saying a word. He’s a big guy—tall with square shoulders and a perfectly groomed beard. Besides being the middle-school social studies teacher, he’s also the junior varsity football, basketball, and track coach. I think he likes teaching history best.
“Okay,” Mr. Richt says, facing the class. “Some of you in here are on the basketball team.”
Richie Barre and Jay Renter pump their fists in the air. Richie is really tall for a sixth grader. I think his mom played college basketball or something. He lives just outside of Merryville. Right near Park View. I know this because that’s where Gus lives. And Barry, too—they’re neighbors. Everybody knows Jay’s family because they own Renters’ Lumber Supply with several stores all over Northwest Georgia. Jay is supposed to be in seventh grade, but the administration “recommended” that he repeat sixth. I don’t think he cares he’s a whole year older than most of us. He likes to use his age to remind us that we should listen to what he says. Nobody really does.
“Yeah, yeah!” Jay cheers.
“Congratulations, Mr. Renter,” Mr. Richt says. “But I don’t care. All of you are expected to turn in your history project on time. Understand? If you play a sport and have practice, if you think you’re somehow going to make it on Broadway because you’re acting in the spring musical . . .”
Clarissa’s best friend, Lacey Roberts, waves to Jeff Samuels. They’re only in sixth grade but were both cast as supporting leads in the spring production of Oklahoma!
“I. Don’t. Care,” Mr. Richt continues. “This project counts for fifty percent of your grade, and no one gets a pass.”
There are a few grumbles in the classroom. Gus watches Mr. R
icht intently. Mr. Richt makes eye contact with me. I smile. He doesn’t smile back.
“Okay, here is your project.”
He turns to the board and writes down the project title:
The Merryville Tourism Guide
“All right,” he says in his deep voice. “I want you to pretend that you’re introducing Merryville to a visitor. What would you tell them about this town? What places should they visit? Pick an aspect of Merryville that you would want someone to experience or maybe it’s someone you want them to meet or learn about. Your guide can include places, people, or events. You’ll come up with a project proposal, which I will approve, then you will present a final project in front of the class in three weeks. Your proposals are due on Friday.”
“How long should the report be, Mr. Richt?” Clarissa asks, raising her hand but not waiting to be called on.
“I didn’t say report, Miss Anderson,” he says, adding, “and your guide can take the form of a poster, a flyer—”
“A film?”
“Yes, Mr. Sánchez, a film would be fine.”
“Awesome!” Gus gives a thumbs-up to Barry, who is sitting a few seats away, and then he turns to me for a high five.
“How long does it have to be?” Jay blurts out, sounding completely bored.
“Long enough to be substantial.”
“So, really long?” Jay says.
“Don’t waste people’s time—most important, mine. Don’t turn in filler or something that you get nothing out of, Mr. Renter.”
I would write down the assignment in my folder, but Mr. Richt doesn’t offer any specific instructions. There is nothing to tell me what to do or how to do it. I don’t like these kinds of assignments. And Mom isn’t even here to help me.
Everyone seems to be jotting down ideas already, but all I can do is tap-tap-tap my pencil on my notebook.
Maybe Gus and I can work on something together? He always has good ideas. It’s like Mr. Richt hears my thoughts, because he makes sure the rules of partnering are clear.
“Partnering is discouraged unless there is a compelling reason to do so,” Mr. Richt says to the class. When students ask what that means, he is quick to explain.
“You will present your own proposal for the project at the end of the week,” he says. “Once I have thoroughly examined your proposals, I will determine if partnering with a classmate makes sense. And suffice it to say, it won’t be because you’re friends. Understood?”
We all nod in agreement. Clarissa mouths something at me. Behind her, Lacey tries to get Clarissa’s attention. I think Clarissa wants to talk after class. I face forward, in Gus’s direction. He’s drawing something in his notebook.
“Oh,” Mr. Richt says. “Almost forgot. All of your research has to be conducted in the field.”
“How can we do that, Mr. Richt?” Jay asks. “It’s not football season.”
Mr. Richt sighs and shakes his head. He walks over to Jay’s desk and puts a hand on it. “Mr. Renter,” he says, “field research does not have to do with football. It means that you will all need to find information at the library, in the town visitors’ bureau, at the local businesses, interviewing people who live and work here. Places that you want to share with visitors. Understand?”
Jay nods.
“And,” Mr. Richt adds, “I’m going to do something extremely revolutionary here: absolutely no Internet use.”
There is a collective gasp from the class.
“How are we supposed to learn anything?” Lacey blurts out.
“The Internet has all the information in the world!” Braden McCarthy cries. “The whole universe!”
“No Internet,” Mr. Richt repeats. “Field research. Library. Town hall. Visitors’ bureau. People. Ask questions to actual humans. Not just Google.”
Kids in class shake their heads. Nobody seems to like Mr. Richt’s idea of “field research.” I can’t say I blame them. It seems a little ridiculous. Everyone uses the Internet! I look up at Gus to complain, but he’s still busy scribbling.
“Everybody got it?” Mr. Richt asks. “Present your ideas on Friday. Your projects are due in three weeks, and your final presentation to the class is due at the end of that week. Okay? And I reserve the right to ask you to share your progress with the class at any moment, so don’t leave everything to the last minute.”
More grumbles.
“Okay,” Mr. Richt says, writing on the board. “Let’s start our lesson on local government. Who knows about the school board vote coming up?”
We all start writing down what Mr. Richt says. It’s difficult for me to focus. I listen hard, trying to block out everything but his voice. I jot down notes without looking at my notepad, so I can concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth. It doesn’t matter if I have some spelling mistakes. That’s what Mom says. Just write down what you hear.
“Voting on local measures ensures that the voices of those who vote are heard,” he begins. “It affects what our laws are and, in this case, where we go to school. Who knows what redistricting is?”
What makes it onto my paper is:
voting in locl > laws & schols >> re districts
Mr. Richt goes on.
“Our school superintendent, that’s the big boss of our school system, has proposed to ease overcrowding and reduce portable classrooms by moving one thousand students from the Merryville neighborhood of Park View to schools located in the heart of Merryville next school year, Merryville Middle among them. Students in grades kindergarten through twelfth grade will be affected by the move. The proposal went to the school board in December and will be ready for a final vote in May. Now, does anyone know how the district chooses which students will move?”
No one speaks up. Everyone is still busy taking notes.
“It depends on where these students live,” he says. “In the simplest terms, that’s what redistricting is. The government has a big city map that they’ve divided into zones that determine where you go to school. They’ll redraw those zones.”
Clarissa raises her hand and speaks. “But how do they decide how to redraw the map? Do we get a say?”
“Excellent question, Miss Anderson. There will be a public forum to discuss the redistricting. That’s a resident’s opportunity to voice their opinion. Overall, I believe this is going to be great for the whole community. . . .” Mr. Richt continues. But honestly, I lose track of what he’s saying.
He hands out a flyer with details about the proposal. Some students nod as they read it and others shake their heads. I start thinking of my dad coming home and suddenly I get nervous and wonder where Mom must be at this moment. Maybe she’s landed in Phoenix? She had two connections. She complained about that this morning.
Outside the window, gray encircles the sky. I hope there isn’t turbulence on Mom’s flight. I flew once to visit my dad on base in San Diego and the plane suddenly dropped. It felt like my stomach was loose inside my body. The captain said something about “experiencing some turbulence.” I didn’t like it.
“Okay, everybody got it?”
I watch Mr. Richt then stare at my notes.
Prk View > studnts > 1000 > ?
What a mess. I can barely make out a thing. I put my head down.
There are twenty-nine students in my class and there are three sixth-grade classes in total, with an average of twenty-seven students in each class. Does Merryville have enough interesting things for approximately eighty-one student tourism guide projects? I wonder if Park View Middle is doing the same project. They have way more students than we do!
When class is over, Mr. Richt stops me and asks me if I need some guidance on my project.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“You sure?” he asks. “Remember, your mom said to ask if you have any questions in class. That’s what I’m here for
.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I got it. Thanks, Mr. Richt.”
“I’m excited to see what you come up with, Miss Torres.”
I have absolutely no idea what to do for my project, but how on earth can I tell Mr. Richt? He would just send a note to my mom explaining that I need more help, then Mom would worry and get distracted from her presentation, and if she has to speak in front of a lot of people, she’s going to mess up because she’s worried about me and my social studies project. I can figure it out. Maybe.
“Miss Torres?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, and smile, hoping he’ll let me leave soon.
“Have a good rest of your day.”
School has just started, and already I feel overwhelmed.
Two cheerleaders in uniform skip past me, and I remember that there’s going to be a pep rally today. I have the rest of the week to think about the social studies project. But right now I have to see how I’m going to get out of the pep rally during last period.
I have zero luck getting out of the pep rally. My science teacher, Mrs. Peters, loves them. She takes the class to the gym. I hesitate a few moments but am swept up as everyone pours out into the halls.
“Come on, y’all. Time to get your pep on!” she cries out.
I like Mrs. Peters when she’s teaching. But I really don’t like when she leads us down the halls to the terror of pep that awaits inside the gym, trying to pump us up along the way.
My brain starts doing somersaults as we get closer.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Every time the gym door opens, I can hear feet in the stands and it reminds me of all the festivals and parades that happen all year long here in Merryville. The biggest and loudest being the annual Fourth of July parade.
Fireworks make me panic. Clarissa says singing “Happy Birthday” to America shouldn’t bother me, but it does. My doctor says I process some sensory details differently than other people, so when there is a ton of noise around, it’s like my mind becomes a clown car filled with clowns. I don’t like clowns very much. They scare me. The Fourth of July celebration in Merryville is like one giant clown car barreling down Main Street. It’s hard to keep my brain from running away with the circus.
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