President of the Whole Sixth Grade

by Sherri Winston

  What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t admit any of that. Not without looking like a total loser.

  Daddy looked so hurt and disappointed, I did have to tell him something that wasn’t a complete lie. So I told him how concerned I’d been about my speech and how worried I was about trying to raise enough money for our trip. He kind of bought it, I think, because he wanted to.

  Mom, on the other hand, would have put me right in prison if one would’ve taken me. And I was in trouble at school, too.

  Anyway, after several days of no TV, no music, no baking for fun, Daddy said if I wanted to go do some work for fund-raising, I could.

  Grandpa barely said two words to me, though, as we drove around collecting cans. That was tough. I loved Grandpa so much. I’d never thought about how crappy it’d feel to disappoint him. My whole body was starting to ache, no doubt from guilt. I’d done something really stupid and now my whole family was looking at me like I was brain damaged.

  School was just as bad. I was virtually Mrs. Bwöring’s servant. I had to apologize in front of the whole class and move my desk up front. Next to hers. Like I was planning a jailbreak and this was her version of maximum security. Still, I felt way guilty about mouthing off to her the way I did. It was just like going off on that kid on the bus—only ten times worse.

  And after my mother informed Principal Striker about me leaving school without permission, he decided that it, plus talking back in Mrs. Bwöring’s class, should get me a five-day in-school suspension. That meant during lunch I had to sit onstage with other school law-breakers.

  Yep! Onstage in the cafeteria. No eating with your friends. You just sit there in a chair with your lunch while everybody walks past looking at you. It was like being in a horror movie and a jail movie, combined.

  Sharing the stage of shame with me were several kids I knew, including a dude in the seventh grade who thought it would be hilarious to buy one of those electronic cigarettes and bring it to school. Then record himself puff-puffing away in the boys’ bathroom. Another kid, another sixth grader, was on lockdown for skipping school. Unlike me, though, she didn’t get busted by her mother. Oh, no! Like the smoker, she got busted because she was posting photos of herself online. When she was supposed to be in class. How did I end up in this group? I felt so stupid.

  Just as I was feeling even more sorry for myself, I heard “Pssst! Pssst!” and looked down. Lauren was at the foot of the stage. If one of the cafeteria monitors caught her, she’d be toast.

  My eyebrows knotted. I whispered, “What?”

  “Paul Geidel!” she whispered back.

  Paul who? I shrugged, unable to hide my smile. Lauren was so… Lauren.

  She said, “Paul Geidel holds the record for the longest time served in prison—sixty-eight years, two hundred forty-five days. Maybe I could put a nail file in your cupcake and you could pick a lock to freedom.”

  Her shoulders bounced up and down as she laughed at her own cleverness. Oh, that Lauren.

  She looked around and spotted Mr. Ortiz holding one boy practically by the collar. Lauren glanced up at me on the stage. She whispered, “You heard from Sara or Becks today?”

  I could tell she had something else to say. If you knew Lauren, you could always tell when something was up.

  Lately, Sara and Becks had been almost invisible. I didn’t see them in the halls and they didn’t even answer my texts much anymore. Not that I’d had a chance to text all that often. All I’d been allowed to do was go home, to school, and to work at the bakery. Because I had to skip newspaper club, Amanda Keene had been forced to give my assignment to someone else. I’d texted with Sara a few times, but Becks had not texted back. And at school she was becoming more and more distant.

  “What’s up with them?” I half whispered down to Lauren.

  Before she could answer, Mr. Ortiz placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Going back to my table, Coach!” Lauren said, without looking at him. He glared at me, then turned his back. Lauren looked back, then mouthed, “I’ll text you.”

  Mr. Ortiz got a call on his radio. It crackled loudly. The voice was Principal Striker’s.

  “Could you send Brianna Justice to my office?” he said.

  Even though I wasn’t wearing handcuffs or shackles, I felt restricted as I trudged down to Principal Striker’s office. I also felt hot and cold at the same time. Principal Striker made me wait five minutes, sitting right in front of him, while he shuffled some papers around and ignored me.

  A phone buzzed on his desk. He answered, listened for a second, then said, “Bring them in.”

  He stared at me over the top of his glasses. His eyes were dark and stern. When the door swung open, his voice boomed, “Come in.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Braxton and Beau.

  Braxton looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. After a second, he spoke first. “Principal Striker, thank you for seeing me and my brother,” he said, glancing over at me, scowling.

  He said, “I just want to do what’s right for the school, Principal Striker.” Then he went on to make this speech about why Beau should be appointed president of the whole sixth grade because I was a bad role model.

  It almost made me laugh, until I saw the look on Principal Striker’s face. A cold line of sweat popped onto my forehead. I felt myself start to shake on the inside.

  What was happening?

  I’d worked so hard.

  My heart raced and I crossed my ankles to keep my knees from knocking. Did Beau Brattley want to be class president so badly that he’d gone to his brother to cook up this… this foolishness? I was about to say something, but Principal Striker cut me off.

  He said, “There’s no question that Miss Justice has exhibited behavior unbecoming of a class official.”

  I wanted to protest. But my throat was so dry. My face felt hot, but my skin felt cold.

  What Principal Striker said next left me feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach.

  He looked right at me. “Brianna, maybe you shouldn’t be president of the sixth grade.…”

  I felt myself getting light-headed. My heart raced.

  Then everything went dark.

  Civics Journal

  Ancient Rome and Middle School

  Julius Caesar was a total bada#%—Uh, I mean, tough dude.

  See, he was a general in the Roman military and he led many great battles. But he was famous because he listened to the problems of Roman people and promised them a better life.

  But wouldn’t you know it? A bunch of stuck-up senators, afraid they’d lose their power if Caesar kept getting stronger, started plotting against him.

  Well, you can guess what happened:

  Like I said before, on the Ides of March, 44 BC, Caesar was assassinated. And the republic died, too. Which meant that Rome became an empire, led by a few, rather than a republic led by the many.

  10

  The Baths

  Sunday, November 9

  A furry lion pawed at me with its huge claws.

  Principal Striker? Is that you?

  Wait! The lion was trying to tell me something. Had to write it down. Oh, yeah. Lion wants to go to the museum. What long whiskers you have, Principal Striker. And what a fluffy tail, too. Never noticed that before. My eyes burned. So did my throat.

  Sooooo tired. Still… have an idea. A really, really good idea.

  Nice lion. Nice lion. You’re very wise. Now, please, Principal Striker, don’t eat my face.

  Trembling fingers. Mine. A keyboard. A message. A lion’s paw? I definitely was not in the principal’s office anymore.

  Voices floated around the room.

  “… exhaustion…”

  “… high fever…”

  “… worn out…”

  Phrases broke apart like bits of paper, ripped up and tossed like confetti. My language arts teacher would be very proud of how poetic my mind was while in the throes of fever. I felt too tired to mo
ve.

  In my mind, I was waving frantically for them to come closer. Wanted to share my idea. But my eyes felt glued shut. Maybe a nap instead…

  By Thursday the fever was gone. I was still tired, but the worst of it had passed.

  Dad said he’d received a call telling him I fainted at school. He took me to the hospital and they pumped me full of meds and sent me home. He was told my temperature was 107 degrees.

  “Any higher and you might’ve had brain damage!” he said.

  Katy said, “Daddy, are you sure you got to her in time? In fact, are you sure she didn’t already have some sort of fever before?”

  I made a face at her, but she smiled and squeezed my hand. Her scruffy cat was sitting on the bed, a wreath of yellowish fur around its face making it look like a tiny lion. A lion? A memory tried to struggle up from the fuzziness of my brain. But I couldn’t quite make it out.

  Katy said, “I know how much you hate the animals. Don’t worry, I’ll get her out of here. But while you were knocked out, we couldn’t get her to leave your room.”

  My hands shot out and scooped up the cat before she had the chance to remove it.

  “No!” I said, holding the cat close to me. My voice was hoarse and thick. “I want to keep her!”

  The room went silent. Dad came and put his hand on my forehead. Mom squinted, looking worried. She said, “Brianna, are you sure you’re all right?”

  I let out a long, shaky breath. “Fine, Mom. It’s just… I’ve kinda gotten used to the ratty old thing. I want to keep her. I’m going to name her Angel.”

  They all looked at me for a long moment. Then Mom nodded. “That’s fine, baby. We’ll talk about it later.”

  She started telling me about Mr. G.’s visits to the house.

  “He’s been here a few times. He’s really worried about you. Your friends have been here, too!”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Sara, she showed up with some fuzzy concoction on her head, bright red lips. With those skinny legs, she looked like a chicken,” he said.

  Mom swatted him on the shoulder.

  They stared at me. Mom said, “I think you need more rest. You and… um, Angel, should just be calm. I’ll bring you up some juice and crackers.”

  I tried to object, but found myself drifting off to sleep again before they were even out of the room. By Friday, I felt much better, but Mom and Dad still wouldn’t let me have any company. They wouldn’t even let me use the computer.

  “We should’ve been keeping a closer eye on you,” Mom said. She had her stern-mama face on. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground. No wonder you’ve been acting like you’ve lost your mind lately. You’ve driven yourself crazy with exhaustion.

  “No computer, phone, nothing before tomorrow. If your temperature continues to be good, we’ll let a few folks stop in to visit,” she said.

  Even after I told her, “I love you, Mommy!” she wouldn’t cave. She just kept telling me to take a hot bath. Said the heat would sweat out the last of the fever. I felt like a pickle.

  Saturday was the Michigan vs. Michigan State game. My folks were letting a few of my friends stop by.

  That was when I finally got information about what was going on.

  First of all, Mr. Galafinkis had, indeed, been to the house. He told my parents that he was very proud of the work I was doing. Huh?

  Then he sent an e-mail that blew my mind:

  Your fund-raising ideas are excellent. Thanks to a lot of good students and your friends reaching out, we have accomplished a lot. I am so sorry if the stress of making our trip possible contributed to your ill health. However, rest assured, we are working hard on your behalf. The event should be spectacular. Reaching out to the Detroit Institute of Arts and getting their approval like that, Brianna, was pure genius. The entire sixth grade owes you a debt of gratitude. Get well soon!

  Sincerely,

  Mr. G.

  P.S. Thanks to an anonymous e-mail that Principal Striker received about some underhanded work on the part of Braxton Brattley, rest assured that neither he nor his brother will trouble you again.

  I reread the e-mail several times.

  What idea?

  And the Detroit Institute of Arts? What was that all about? Again, a memory stuffed deep in my head struggled to free itself. Something to do with an idea that came to me when I was sick. Only I couldn’t quite remember what it was.

  Dad told me that he’d spoken with Principal Striker, too. Principal Striker told Dad about Braxton’s attempts to overthrow the sixth-grade government. The principal wasn’t going to make me step down. In fact, he’d received an anonymous tip that Braxton Brattley was “misappropriating” school funds. Misappropriating was a fancy word for stealing. So now Braxton was on probation.

  I wondered, who ratted him out?

  Maybe I’ll send him a muffin basket. Or maybe not.

  Down in the family room, finally out of bed, I was dressed in pajamas with a sweatshirt over the top, two pairs of socks, and fuzzy slippers. I wasn’t cold, but Mom had turned into her superhero alter ego, Overprotective Mom.

  “DAD!” I whined. More like rasped, with my scratchy-sounding voice.

  “Jean!” my dad said to my mom. “Give her some room. And maybe she doesn’t have to wear two pairs of socks AND the slippers.”

  I sank down on the deep cushions of the sectional and read Mr. G.’s e-mail for like the eleven hundredth time. The stuff about Braxton I got; but the business about the fund-raising idea, that was still fuzzy.

  Then I heard the kitchen door open. Next thing I knew, footsteps came racing from around the corner.

  “Bree-Bree! Bree-Bree! Bree-Bree!” shouted Liam. My father tried to catch him by the coat, but the little squirt was too fast. Liam flung himself against me, burying his face into my neck. I could smell the cold air from outside on his clothes, could almost taste the sunshine on his moon-pie cheeks. He was delicious!

  “Bree-Bree, guess what?” He slid off me just far enough to look in my eyes. His knit cap was navy blue to match the marshmallow-puff jacket he wore.

  “Come on, little man,” Dad said. “Give her some space. She’s still recovering.” My cousin was an excited blur of fast talking and big, dimply smiles. He told me all about his big news—how his teacher was planning to buy a whole box of my cupcakes from Wetzel’s.

  He grinned. “I told her you were my cousin!”

  I couldn’t help laughing. I put my arms around him and squeezed.

  As the day went on, a constant stream of visitors popped in to check on me. Katy came in, snapped a photo of me with Angel on my chest, and said she was making a poster of it.

  “My sister, the heartless mogul, turned into an animal lover. Yes, my work here is done. Thank you, thank you!”

  When Sara and Becks came over, Sara hugged me and said, “Sweetie pie, we’ve got your back, all the way!”

  She and Becks told me that after Mrs. Benson from the Henry Ford Museum called the DIA, they had been able to set my idea in motion.

  When I stared at them blankly, they misunderstood at first.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Bree. We know how you like to do things a certain way. So we followed all of your instructions. Soon as you come back to school, you’ll be back in charge,” Becks said from the doorway. She was scared I might be contagious, even though my dad told her I was cootie free. You can’t catch dehydration, anyway. But like I said, Becks had always been a little paranoid about germs.

  “Do what a certain way?”

  Sara finally realized I had no idea what she meant. She grabbed my clipboard and flipped back several sheets. “Your dad said you must’ve come up with this just before you conked out,” she said, showing me the date next to some scrawly-looking handwriting. “You don’t remember?”

  Daddy stuck his head into the room and said, “When you should have been passed out from being pumped full of fluids, you somehow managed to make a phone call. You called Mrs. Benson, the woman from the Henr
y Ford Museum. She called the Detroit Institute of Arts and they ultimately called your teacher.”

  Sara picked up the story. “Your idea is genius!”

  I squinted, reading the clipboard.

  Old-School babysitting

  What if we hold a massive babysitting service for all the people going to the Old-School concert?

  Try to get a venue to donate their space, like Henry Ford or DIA. (DIA better because it’s so close to where concert is being held.)

  Contact all the elementary schools with little kids who’d need babysitting.

  Kids must be at least four, no more than ten years old.

  Concert starts at 8. We could keep them from 6 p.m. to 7 a.m.

  Kids must bring sleeping bags. Will be separated according to age group.

  Ask Mr. G. a fair price to charge for the service.

  Only have a few weeks to pull this together. Set up way to take early registration and payment. Online?

  Then the memory came back. Me with my voice all scratchy and hoarse on Monday when I’d stayed home sick, calling the museum lady from Henry Ford. I laughed to myself. The cat was sitting on my chest when I called her. The memory was getting clearer. Then I turned to Sara.

  “And this is what you guys have been working on all week?” I asked.

  “Sweetie, they’ve been working like dogs,” said Becks.

  “Does Mr. G. really think we’ll be able to raise enough money to make the trip happen?” I asked, turning back to her.

  She nodded.

  “He thinks it could be our biggest moneymaker ever. But Bree, there’s still A LOT to do. So get better soon.”

  I couldn’t help feeling a huge dose of love for my friends. To do this, to work this hard, it made whatever we’d been upset about before seem stupid.

  That’s what it meant to have friends, I told myself. When you really need help, true friends are the ones who show up.