CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
For more than forty years, Yearling has been the leading…
CHAPTER ONE: Fear of Flying
CHAPTER TWO: The Remains of the Tray
CHAPTER THREE: Positive Rewards, Positive Results
CHAPTER FOUR: Marked as an Unfortunate
CHAPTER FIVE: Helping Out Hope
CHAPTER SIX: Filling in the Blanks
CHAPTER SEVEN: Feeling Faint at Fiona’s Fashions
CHAPTER EIGHT: Positive Electricity
CHAPTER NINE: Measuring Up
CHAPTER TEN: Flour Power
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Olé
CHAPTER TWELVE: Defensive Pessimism
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Call of Nature
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Quest
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Rules Meant to Be Broken
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Bursting My Antibacterial Soap Bubble
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Saved by a Pleasant Peninsula
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Franklin the Brave-Hearted
Author Biography
Also by Sue Stauffacher Donuthead
Also by Sue Stauffacher Harry Sue
Other Yearling Books…
Copyright
For the Gilles boys—Roger, Max, and Walter—my treasures on earth
When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.
—Franklin Delano Roosevelt
For more than forty years, Yearling has been the leading name in classic and award-winning literature for young readers.
Yearling books feature children’s favorite authors and characters, providing dynamic stories of adventure, humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.
Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain, inspire, and promote the love of reading in all children.
CHAPTER ONE
Fear of Flying
In the course of human events, it is sometimes necessary to reduce one’s water intake to delay natural functioning. Using the boys’ bathroom at Pelican View Middle School was to be avoided whenever possible. I will spare you the details of my first visit; it’s enough to know that it involved me, Franklin Delano Donuthead, an industrial-sized roll of toilet paper, and an eighth grader’s knowledge of ancient Egyptian mummification techniques.
The problem is, the adolescent body is 75 percent water. And what goes in must come out. Just not in the boys’ bathroom. Note that I did not say “the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms.” All you need is a peek through the open door to realize that girls can attend to their business behind closed doors. I am still working through my feelings about this. Who decided—and then proceeded to tell generations of architects—that boys need less privacy than girls? Who? Girls are always saying they want everything to be equal. Hello? The restroom facilities are not equal.
Principles such as equality are as important to me as they were to my namesake, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. “Rules,” our late, great thirty-second president liked to say, “are not necessarily sacred. Principles are.” So I maintain a strict code of conduct based on my interpretation of the principles set forth by President Roosevelt in the New Deal. These include:
Mental Improvement
Health Promotion
Risk Avoidance
The sad state of boys’ bathroom facilities had not yet hit the national scene when FDR was in office. Understandably, he had to figure out the Depression and World War II first. Historians could also argue that FDR was more concerned with job security than risk avoidance. But I am living proof that times have changed, and the order of the principles needs to be shuffled around a bit for the new century.
So every time I stand outside the boys’ bathroom, health promotion and risk avoidance start duking it out in my mind.
Health promotion: Pee! You’ve got to!
Risk avoidance: Are you kidding? Protect your vitals!
Health promotion: Use the staff bathroom by the office.
Risk avoidance: What if Coach Dilemming’s in there!?
By the sixth week of sixth grade, my tendency to avoid risk was winning on a daily basis, and my lack of fluids was affecting my overall level of health so dramatically that I was forced to do what I try very hard not to.
And that is to interrupt the early-morning reverie of the chief statistician for the National Safety Department in Washington, D.C. Her name is Gloria Nelots, and I happen to know that at six-thirty a.m. she is at her desk at department headquarters, drinking a cup of very strong coffee with powdered cream and artificial sweetener and synchronizing her handheld to her computer’s notebooking system.
Gloria: This better not be you, Franklin.
Me: Is that how you answer an agency line, Gloria? What if I were your boss?
Gloria: I have it on good authority that he is on the tread-mill in the company gym at the moment. (Long silence. Gloria is a bit grumpy in the morning.)
Me: Gloria, have you ever heard of a condition called “paruresis”?
Gloria: I can’t say I have, Franklin.
Me: Really? I’m shocked.
Gloria: Well, are you going to enlighten me, or will I be forced to return to enjoying the early-morning quiet, which is the very reason I come to work before the rest of the department?
Me: Happy to. Basically, it’s a fear of urinating in public.
Gloria: Last I heard, that was illegal.
Me: I’m not talking about the alleys next to bars, Gloria. I’m talking about designated public places. I’m talking about bathrooms…public bathrooms…as in the presence of other…well, boys…eighth graders to be precise. Members of football teams.
Gloria: You’re having trouble letting it fly at school? Is that what you called me at 6:37 a.m. eastern standard time to discuss?
Me: Yes!
Gloria: My advice is, turn on the faucet before you unzip. Works wonders.
Me: But—
Gloria: The call buttons are lighting up here, Franklin.
Me: I don’t hear any ringing.
Gloria: Nevertheless. Busy, busy. Oh, I almost forgot. How is Sarah? Has she picked out a costume yet?
Me: I’m afraid we’re having a little trouble in that department as well.
Gloria: Really? You’ll have to fill me in on that later. I’m still good for the bill. Have Julia send me the receipt straightaway.
Me: The trouble is…
Gloria: Good-bye, Franklin.
Why Gloria and my mother are so wrapped up in Sarah Kervick’s life is a complicated matter that I haven’t yet been able to completely puzzle through. Sarah arrived in Pelican View eleven months ago, during our fifth and final year of elementary school. At that time, my mother helped her out with certain…difficulties. Sarah does not at present have a mother, so she relies on mine to consult with about hair, clothes, and her overriding passion—figure skating. Gloria has also taken an interest and helps pay for Sarah’s training and other expenses. I cannot for the life of me figure out why these two women should exercise what little maternal instinct they have on Sarah Kervick when clearly I, too, am in need of a mother’s loving care.
Especially now that I am in middle school.
But every time I turn around—Sarah Kervick! For example, out of the blue, my mother informed me that Sarah and I would be performing our community-service activities together. As part of Pelican View Panthers Civic Pride Week, which is always the first full week after Labor Day, each sixth grader must sign up for twenty hours of community service to be completed during the school year to show that we are doing our part to make the world a better place.
When I tried to protest, my mother said: “You have to find something to do together because my new schedule doesn’t give me enough time to take you separate places. Need I
remind you, Franklin, that it’s a requirement? And Sarah has to meet all school requirements in order to skate.”
So there we sat at the kitchen table, my mother and Sarah unwrapping Twinkies at a rapid rate and sprinkling sticky crumbs all over the list of volunteer options.
“This one looks like fun,” my mother said. “We could all do this together. They need three volunteers to stamp hands at the Lions Club Charity Carnival for Kids.”
I happen to know that my mother’s boyfriend, Paul Bernard, belongs to the Lions Club. Honestly, it’s like she has antennae for anything that will get her more face time with Paul.
“Sure,” Sarah mumbled, her mouth full of Twinkie cream.
“I think not,” I told them. “I just heard on the news it’s going to be a banner flu season.”
“So?”
At times, it was necessary to connect the dots for Sarah.
“All those germy little hands would put us at high risk for infection.”
“All right, all right.” My mother’s finger traveled down the list.
“What about raking leaves for the elderly? You can’t catch anything from leaves, can you?”
Sarah shrugged. She couldn’t think of anything. Once again, it was up to me.
“Certain forms of mold can be very hazardous to your health. A pile of leaves is a veritable breeding ground for mold spores.”
My mother gave me that look, the one where she raises both eyebrows half an inch. She returned to examining the list.
“Here’s one: Search the Internet from your home computer for possible health threats. Then tell other people in agonizing detail about the many ways they can die.”
“Very funny.”
Sarah, who had just taken a big swallow of milk, managed to choke it down before bending over in her chair and cracking up at my expense.
“Or at that Lions Club thing,” she said, “I can dip their hands in bleach before Franklin stamps them.” This got my mother going.
Study after study has shown that a good sense of humor aids longevity, so I was willing to overlook the general gaiety at my expense. However, I did not understand why this was funny. Since I’d begun middle school, my risk factors had skyrocketed. Who could blame me for trying to stay safe during extracurricular activities?
You see, while there are many opportunities for mental improvement, health promotion and risk avoidance are very difficult to attain in the middle-school environment. Instead of one classroom and one teacher, I now have seven classrooms, seven teachers, and approximately 478 students to jostle past on any given school day. This last figure takes into account students in more than one class and students within range of my locker. Believe you me, 478 is a conservative estimate.
And that’s just standing still. When I’m on the move, things get even more hazardous. We have a mere four minutes between the end of one class and the beginning of another. Due to a bizarre growth pattern, which I am charting for scientific purposes, I find it difficult to “make tracks” in the hallway. You see, one side of my body is longer than the other by almost half an inch. My left arm and leg are outpacing my right arm and leg, making balance, coordination, and participation in any gym or sports activities very difficult for me, though I have yet to convince anyone else of this belief, including Ms. Wolf, our gym teacher.
I do the best I can with what I’ve got, but on my very first day, I got tangled up in what I call “The Ponytail Express,” a complicated relay of feminine persons darting back and forth across the hallway. I have observed that a girl with new information to convey has the right-of-way despite the general traffic pattern. Smacking up against unfamiliar girls who act as if I’m the one at fault is really quite stressful. And I haven’t even mentioned the lunchroom, or the boys’ locker room. Or any of the three boys’ bathrooms.
As you can see, simply getting through the day intact had become my new challenge. And every time I thought things couldn’t get worse…they did.
On Tuesday morning of the sixth full week of middle school, I found my way to Miss Mathews’ homeroom and took my assigned seat opposite Sarah Kervick. I sit next to Sarah Kervick in five of my seven classes. My mother calls it fate. I call it administrative tampering at the highest level. You see, while Sarah has taken it upon herself to keep me safe from the criminal element at school, I am to make sure that her grade point average doesn’t travel south of a 2.0 or C, which is the requirement for participation in the Greater Pelican View Amateur Figure Skating Association, otherwise known as the GPVAFSA.
Honestly, I don’t know whose task is more difficult.
“Well, what did Gloria say?” she whispered as Miss Mathews carefully arranged herself in a seated position on the table near the whiteboard, her grade book at her side.
“She said you better get your costume or you won’t have one in time for the exhibition,” I whispered back. “Or the regionals!”
Sarah gripped the edge of her desk. “Not about that! About…you know…the other thing.”
Was it a clear view of Miss Mathews’ knees or Sarah mentioning “the other thing” that caused me to suddenly feel like my face had a tropical fever? Miss Mathews was a recent graduate of Michigan State University with a dual degree in English and science education. While I had no quarrel with her credentials, both her age and her style of dress made it difficult for me to think of her as a teacher.
In fact, it was Miss Mathews in a wrap skirt and sleeveless blouse that sent me to WebMD.com to find a remedy for the vessel-dilating response known as blushing. Blushing results from the severe dilation of the small blood vessels in the face. We blush when we’re uncomfortable, or in response to undesired social attention. Blushing is most common during adolescence—yes, the middle-school years!—when social anxiety is at its peak. I’m sorry to report there is no cure for blushing, leading me to wonder how all this redirection of blood flow would affect my overall level of health.
I turned back to Sarah. “She said I should turn on the faucet, okay?”
“That’s what I told you!” Sarah said, squeezing my arm like a python. She seemed to forget we were in the center of a crowded classroom with a teacher up front taking attendance.
“Samantha?” Miss Mathews cupped a hand behind her ear and leaned forward. “Do you have something to say to us?”
Sarah slumped down in her seat and glared at Miss Mathews.
“It’s Sarah, not Samantha.”
“Sarah?” Miss Mathews consulted her grade book. “I’m sorry, I was thinking of third period. Samantha Edwards sits in that seat third period.”
“Whatever,” Sarah responded.
Miss Mathews looked as if she’d hoped for more, so I added,
“A completely natural mistake,” and the roll taking continued.
“It’s not like you can set the mood when football players are jostling through,” I said to Sarah, keeping my voice low.
“We’ll do it right after lunch, then. At that one by the gym. Nobody’s over there after lunch.” Sarah ran her hand through her long blond hair and sighed. “Just meet me there, okay?”
I had my doubts about the bathroom by the gym, but as FDR says, “It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something.”
For now, it was important to push aside thoughts of a restroom break and prepare for health class, which was taught by none other than our youthful homeroom teacher. Currently, we were finishing up our unit on environmental hazards, a subject in which I am quite interested. In fact, I would be a lively participant in health class if it weren’t for Miss Mathews, who seemed to think that skirts above the knee, leotards, and low-rise khakis were appropriate teaching attire. It made me a bit wistful for Ms. Rita Linski, my fifth-grade teacher, whose polyester pantsuits just made me feel itchy.
I pulled my notebook with the color-coded vertical tabs that read TAINTED WATER, AIR POLLUTION, and PESTICIDES out of my backpack. At my dining-room table, I
had assembled a similar notebook for Sarah Kervick while she amused herself trying to clamp a couple of chopsticks from Yen Ching, my mother’s favorite takeout place, beneath her upper lip.
“Check it out,” she’d said. “I’m a walrus.”
“Where is your notebook?” I whispered to her now. “She’s going to check it today!”
Sarah looked dreamily out the window, clearly in another world. Most likely it was a frosty one where figure skaters flew at dangerous speeds over the ice.
“What?”
“The notebook with all the handouts. It’s worth fifteen percent of your grade!”
Sarah looked at me in confusion. Clearly, she hadn’t read over the syllabus in preparation for class.
“Look in your backpack,” I ordered her, yanking it out from underneath her chair. Unfortunately, it was not zipped and the contents spilled into the aisle between us.
“Sarah? Franklin? The way you two go on, I’m beginning to think a presentation is called for. Our next unit will be: How to Tell If It’s Really Love.”
There was a burst of laughter and the sound of denim sliding over plastic as the entire class shifted in their seats to look at us. I lost all feeling in my fingers and my toes as the blood that belonged in other parts of my body rushed to my face. Ducking down, I yanked the notebook from the bottom of the pile and placed it on Sarah’s desk.
All eyes, as they say, were upon us. Two of those eyes belonged to Glynnis Powell, a young woman of fine character whose attentions I hoped someday to enjoy. I imagined her pained confusion at that moment. Hadn’t we exchanged tokens in the form of organic fruit rolls back in elementary school? What about those milk-money quarters I’d shined especially for her?
Sarah attempted to stuff the guts of her backpack under her seat before returning to her slouched position and shooting menacing glances at the kids who were still watching her. A Sarah Kervick stare is very effective at making students turn around.
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