President of the Whole Sixth Grade

by Sherri Winston

  So, I couldn’t help thinking about the latest baking session in my kitchen. It started off innocently enough. But after the way Becks flew off the handle about me not understanding what it was like to be fat, and Sara practically laughing in my face about my so-called style, I wondered if I had opened my own Pandora’s box. Mr. G. said after all the world’s evils flew out, one tiny bug with a smiling face came out. It was hope. Was there still hope for us as best friends?

  4

  The Republic of Rome

  Monday, October 20

  If I thought life would be simple once we came up with fund-raising ideas for D.C., I was tragically mistaken.

  My morning started at five a.m., at Wetzel’s Bakery.

  Three or four days a week, Grandpa drove me there to bake cupcakes. Luckily, Grandpa lived with us now. He said old people don’t sleep through the night, so he was up at that time of day anyway. He usually came into the bakery for coffee, and sometimes he sat around chatting up a few of the older dudes who worked there.

  I got my cupcakes going, made my frosting, and whipped up a batch of breakfast muffins—banana walnut and apple raisin.

  On a normal school day, I stayed until seven thirty. Then Weasel and I would walk to the bus stop together. But since the principal asked all class presidents, club presidents, and anyone else involved in a “leadership capacity” to meet at his office at seven a.m., Grandpa came back to give me a ride.

  When I got to school, I totally had a plan. I was going to rock it with the sixth graders today. My clipboard rested safely in my book bag, and my plan relied on me getting them to do what I wanted them to do.

  Assistant Principal Snidely scowled when I passed his office. “You’re late, Miss Justice.”

  I apologized and he pointed down the hall to a conference room, eyeing me like I’d been caught puffing an electronic cigarette in the girls’ bathroom. Principal Striker had his back to me when I entered. He was standing at a table pouring coffee. One quick look around the room told me I wasn’t late after all. The meeting hadn’t started.

  When I went over to get a cup of coffee, I received my second scowl of the morning. (A two-scowl morning. Should’ve been a sign.)

  “Do your parents allow you to drink coffee?” the principal asked. He was a tall man with hands the size of lunch boxes. It was rumored that he’d paid his way through the University of Florida by wrestling alligators.

  “As long as I don’t do it every day, it’s cool,” I said, and he filled my cup—halfway, at least.

  I saw his eyes stray from the tray of stale bagels on the oak-grain table to the Wetzel’s Bakery bag I was carrying.

  “Muffins,” I said. “Would you like one?”

  When I opened the bag, his dark brown eyes went soft, like he’d just seen the most amazing Cadillac in the world. (This was Detroit. Grown men have been known to get misty-eyed over the beauty of a Caddie.)

  I passed the bag around the conference table, and the muffins vanished faster than a cheater’s palm during a chapter test. Braxton Brattley, president of the seventh grade, glared at me, which made the whole muffin experience even more delightful.

  Braxton was a first-rate fungus, but a second-rate human being. Shaped like an evil rectangle with a piggish little nose, he’d been on my case since the day Mr. Galafinkis picked me to be president. Kept saying how his brother would be a better president and how he’d been hoping the two of them could be in charge of sixth and seventh grade at the same time.

  Over the next forty-five minutes, Principal Striker discussed how he expected all of us to conduct ourselves as leaders in the school and as positive representatives in the community. He also told us that he’d need to approve all fund-raising events in advance.

  His voice boomed in a thick baritone and his broad smile revealed two front teeth that had a small gap in between. “And as most of you may know,” he added, “many of us are looking forward to the big Old-School Jam concert taking place November twenty-second, so be careful picking dates for your events. You don’t want to book an event on a date when your chaperones have plans of their own!”

  I laughed to myself, thinking about how my parents were already excited about the Old-School concert. Music that existed back in the day before the Internet or iPods.

  After the meeting ended, we all hung around the front office until morning announcements. Each class president told his or her class during which period they’d have their assembly. When it was my turn, I told the sixth graders when we’d meet, then I told them not to worry.

  “We may have gotten off to a rough start,” I said, trying to sound confident, “but trust me, I’ve got some ideas that’ll make us enough money for our trip. Trust me!”

  As soon as I got to the outer hall, my favorite seventh-grade bully blocked my path. “I saw you in there, Brianna Justice. With your little muffins!” said Braxton Brattley. Every time he talked, he made little snort sounds.

  “Um, yeah. I’m not invisible, Braxton. Everybody in the room saw me. My muffins, too.”

  I tried going around him, but he moved over and blocked me again.

  “Being a giant suck-up to Principal Striker won’t help you.” Snort! “You’re still going down. You wait!”

  “Do you hear yourself? You need a big cup of get-over-yourself. The sixth grade does not need you. Now GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

  This time he stepped aside, but not before saying, “Everybody knows how badly your first meeting went, Justice. Don’t be stupid. I’ll bet you don’t even have any ideas.” Snort! Snort! Snort!

  I spun around so fast his little piggy nose was still twitching. “Look, not that it’s any of your business, but we came up with some great ideas. We’re doing a Teacher Torture. We’re also doing a bake sale, because I am a professional baker, Braxton. And we’re doing ‘A Night of Stars,’” I said, recalling Sara’s idea to host a talent night that included a red carpet and photos with the “stars” of the show.

  Braxton looked at me with a cockeyed gaze. His thin, wormy lips tried to smile. On him, smiles were not a good look.

  The second bell was ringing, and I had to get all the way to the honors hall. I saluted him as I dashed off to my Civics class, feeling really good.

  When I walked into Mr. G.’s classroom, I could see he was all business. I slipped into my seat and began copying the notes on the board.

  After skimming his roll book, he asked, “Who here remembers our discussion on the Twelve Tables and what they meant in ancient Rome?”

  Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood for any foolishness. I decided it’d be best to look like I was paying attention. So I raised my hand.

  When Mr. G. nodded at me, I explained what I remembered about the lesson. How the Twelve Tables referred to the bronze tablets where all the rules and laws of Roman society were chiseled. Once the Romans got rid of their king and became a republic—a government where citizens can elect their representatives—writing down the laws was a way to show they applied to everyone from the upper crust to the plebeians.

  Mr. G. grinned, and I exhaled, thankful I’d gotten it right. Then, of course, he had to go and spoil it with an assignment.

  “Students, in your journals on ancient Rome, I’d like you to create your own Twelve Tables. Only, I want you to come up with the Twelve Laws of Middle School. By the end of the marking period, I want to see what you believe the laws of this school are—or should be.”

  Mrs. Galafinkis was Mr. G.’s wife. She could be just as intense as he was, but she was also just as good. Our class, Beginning Journalism, was mostly sixth and seventh graders. Much to my surprise, I loved it.

  Every day we read stories from the paper and discussed them. Like real human beings. My auntie Tina worked for the Detroit Free Press, so I grew up reading the paper. But reading it with the class felt different. More adult.

  Using the iPads that Mrs. G. had available for each student, we scrolled through the Detroit Free Press article we were instructed to read. It wa
s about the Oakland County sheriff’s office arresting a woman who was homeless and living in her car with her two kids. She had a job interview and left the kids—one was six and the other one was three—all alone. When she came out of the interview, they arrested her for child neglect.

  “So, reporters, how do you feel about the story?” Mrs. G. said.

  The way she peered at us through her glasses made us feel important. Also, she was only a little bit taller than me, which officially made her the shortest teacher at school.

  Anyway, once we read through the article, hands immediately went up. Several kids believed that the police were being cruel, arresting a homeless woman.

  I shoved my hand into the air. “Um, what were they supposed to do? She left them in a car. Anything could’ve happened!”

  Now several pairs of eyes turned on me. “You’re as bad as the cops!” said one kid. Several others started talking. Lots of heads bobbed in agreement.

  But Mrs. G. said, “Let Brianna make her point.”

  I blew aside a wisp of hair from my messy top-knot. “Look,” I said, “it’s too bad the lady is homeless or whatever. But wrong is wrong. That’s why we have rules. Laws. You can’t go around leaving little kids alone like that. It’s dangerous. What if some creepy guy had seen those kids by themselves?”

  Another girl clearly disagreed. “No! You’re wrong. Look around. How many people in Detroit are homeless? How many houses are abandoned? It’s on the news all the time. You’re wrong, and so is the sheriff’s department.”

  Then the chant began.

  “Point-counterpoint! Point-counterpoint! Point-counterpoint!” and on and on, until Mrs. G. smiled and raised her hand, putting a stop to it. It was settled. I would write a counterpoint essay—the opposite opinion of the girl scowling at me.

  I wasn’t worried. Mine would be better. Because I was right.

  Click, a kid in the class, came over to my desk. Julio Ramon Garcia, aka Click, was a quiet kid who liked making little movies and building stuff with Legos. He’d been carrying Lego pieces around with him since kindergarten. When he wanted to really make a point, he’d click the pieces together. You know? For emphasis.

  “What?” I said. He grinned. Bounced his eyebrows up and down. Click-click! went the pieces.?

  I really liked Click. He was so quiet, but when you got to know him, he was like this creative genius.

  “You think we should make a mini-movie about the point-counterpoint?”

  Click. Click. Click.

  Every week he and I worked on a mini-movie as part of our journalism assignment. We did something called stop-motion, where we took like a gazillion photos, moving the LEGO pieces one foot after the other, snapping each photo, then putting them all together. Click usually edited the final project, but I was trying to learn to do more of it. Then Mrs. G. showed the mini-movies on Fridays during the morning news show. Kids loved ’em.

  The bell rang, and Click was still at my desk when Sara came crashing into the room.

  “Excuse me!” Mrs. G. said, eyeing Sara.

  “I’m sorry!” Sara said. “But this is important.…”

  She looked frantic. Sara got right in my face, ignoring the monster scowl Mrs. G. was throwing behind her huge glasses.

  Sara said, “Brianna! Girl, we’ve got problems!”

  She went on to inform me that Braxton Brattley, that dirty little fungus, had stolen my fund-raising ideas!

  The seventh graders had met with President Brattley during third hour and that louse presented MY IDEAS as his own! With the assembly just a few hours away, I was shaking in my bright red Chuck Taylors. Seriously, what was I going to do?

  I plopped down at center stage in the auditorium, watching the seats fill with sixth graders.

  I felt like an army of ants was charging across my intestines. I was pretty sure they were ninja ants. Mean and nasty, with knives.

  This was supposed to be a great moment. Me and my good luck clipboard, waiting for a second chance to address my classmates. They were here today because on the morning announcements, I’d promised that I wouldn’t let them down. I’d promised that I would deliver a bunch of moneymaking ideas sure to get us all to Washington, D.C.

  But I hadn’t figured on the Brattley Factor. Dirty little sneak.

  I sat bouncing my knees up and down, trying to calm myself. Mr. Galafinkis knelt and touched my shoulder.

  “Hey, so you made a mistake. That’s how we grow. You’re gonna do fine today. Trust me.”

  My stomach twisted into knots. What was I going to do?

  My lucky clipboard lay on the floor beside me. I’d already failed once in front of these kids.

  Mr. Galafinkis went to the podium. Slowly, I pushed myself up from the floor. Standing in the center of the auditorium stage, I felt like my bright purple pants were starting to glow.

  When Mr. G. started talking, most of the students went silent. They looked from him… to me.

  My mouth felt like I’d brushed my teeth with dryer lint. Nightmare in the Auditorium, starring Brianna Justice…

  Light applause drifted up to the stage. Mr. G. introduced me and I felt a greasy sickness slither into my stomach.

  As I began talking, some kids looked really bored. But most looked curious. Almost… interested.

  And then I got an idea.

  My knees knocked and dots danced before my eyes.

  I held up the clipboard.

  “When I came to school today, I was all set to share some big ideas I’d brainstormed with my friends. I was so confident. Then…” I drew a deep breath and slowly blew it out.

  “… and then, I allowed myself to be tricked by the president of the whole seventh grade. You know him, right? Braxton Brattley!”

  The greatest thing in the history of the world happened—they booed Braxton Brattley. Delicious!

  “Can you believe I fell for something like that? What was I thinking?” Heads nodded. Kids sat forward. They were hooked; they were interested. I explained how he’d taunted me, making me so mad, I told him my ideas.

  One boy I didn’t recognize yelled, “Aw, girl, you fell for that?”

  I said, “I know, right?” shrugging my shoulders.

  Then I told them that we—this group of sixth graders—should come up with new fund-raising ideas. Together.

  It wasn’t long before they were chanting, “SIXTH GRADE RULES! SIXTH GRADE RULES! SIXTH GRADE RULES!”

  In the audience, Click sat at the far end of the front row. When I looked over, he waggled one of the LEGOs at me. He smiled, and that made me smile, too.

  I asked Lauren, Becks, and Sara to come onto the stage to help me keep track as students started shouting out suggestions.

  I wondered if the president of the United States ever got tired of smiling. I was grinning so hard that my cheeks hurt. Jumping around like a talk show host.

  Click’s hand went into the air. I shushed the room. “Hold on, you guys, I need to hear,” I said. Click told me his fund-raising idea. And it was amazing!

  He suggested that we provide yard work and garage cleanup services. “Especially in the Oak Woods neighborhood. Mi abuela, my grandma, lives in a neighborhood where a lot of, um, older people live. I know she’d pay us to clean out her garage,” he said.

  “I love that idea, Click,” I said. And I meant it.

  By the end, we had plenty more excellent ideas. Mr. G. actually high-fived me.

  “You did great!” he said.

  My entire body buzzed with adrenaline. I couldn’t believe it. I’d expected to be booed off the stage. Instead, I’d gotten a bunch of ideas that could raise a lot of money for us.

  And I realized that buzzing feeling came from more than getting new ideas, even better ideas than before. I was feeling all jazzed up because… because I had actually motivated the kids to want to work. I’d never really thought about what it was like to motivate someone. It felt really good.

  The class meeting gave me a boost. I felt co
nfident we could raise all the money we needed. Still, I couldn’t shake the memory of how Braxton Brattley tricked me.

  Was he determined to tank the sixth grade?

  And if so, what dirty trick would he try next?

  Civics Journal

  Ancient Rome and Middle School

  Middle school and the Republic of Rome really do have something in common.

  Ancient Rome was a kingdom before it was a republic—ruled by a king. In a republic, people vote for leadership.

  The Romans, especially the lower class, thought it was awesome getting rid of the king. They liked the idea of being able to vote because it meant they would get a chance to be heard.

  Okay, so technically we didn’t have an election. Mr. G. appointed me to be president. Still, after the assembly today, it was like everybody was involved and they seemed to like it.

  I learned today that kids, like Roman citizens, seem to care more when they feel included.

  5

  Don’t Rest on Your Laurels

  Tuesday, October 21

  The room had a strong scent of plants and leaves.

  Of course, that could have been because every place I looked, all I saw were plants—and leaves.

  Turns out it was one of Mr. G.’s classic lessons. He asked me and several others to take a seat.

  “Quickly, quickly,” he called to no one in particular, his eyes focused on the mounds of leaves.

  Civics was the last room on the hall in Lame Land, the oldest part of the school. In this section of the building, radiators were loud and windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Outside, the morning sky was watery gray, and damp clumps of leaves swirled across the lawn. Despite the loud radiators and asthmatics, I liked it here.