by Eric Bell
Madison and Zack, finally united, both give me looks of horror. “Remember me as a hero,” I croak as I make my way down the row, past all the kids who are—
Who are clapping me on the back.
Who are yelling, “Way to go, Alan!”
Huh.
. . . huh.
EIGHT
“—no idea about public decency. I could have angry letters from every parent of every child in this school because of—of—well, I don’t have to repeat what you said, now do I?”
One month into middle school, and I’m already being yelled at by the principal, who, for the record, does not even let me get one word in when he marches me into his office. He’s pretty angry. Not, like, Dad levels of angry, but still angry enough to give me the shakes. Then again, wouldn’t you shake too, if you did what I did?
He doesn’t go any easier on Talia, who gets shuffled into the office right next to me. “And to think,” Principal Dorset continues, “a class president candidate spreading lewdness. In front of the entire student body!”
“I was saying the truth,” Talia says.
“And do you really think an assembly is the best platform for that?” he asks. “I should disqualify you from the election.”
She bites her lip. “I—I’m sorry.”
I’ve never heard Talia MacDonald apologize for anything in her life. That’s when I know we’re in it pretty deep.
Principal Dorset massages his temples. Another Dad thing. I shake some more, and when I speak, it comes out a little wobbly. But I speak anyway. “Principal Dorset, please don’t p-punish Talia. She was doing what you’re s-supposed to do at debates.”
“What you’re supposed to do?” Principal Dorset asks. “Young man, don’t you understand we can’t talk about these topics whenever we please? There are rules, and you’ve broken them.”
“She was doing what she had to. If you were up in front of all those kids, and—and people were laughing at you because you dropped your paper, and you wanted really badly to win the election and you cared so much that all you wanted was for somebody to ask you a question, just so you could answer it and show everybody how smart you were, wouldn’t you, um—wouldn’t you . . .” I lose the words, and I look down at the floor.
There’s a silence in Principal Dorset’s office. No ticking clock like at home. Just the distant hum of an air conditioner. Then a thought slaps me across the heart like an electric shock: Principal Dorset could call Dad over this. I grip the edges of the chair. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, I won’t ever have to go home.
Finally, the principal speaks. “Young lady, what you did was inappropriate, and you must be punished for it. However, I will not disqualify you from the election.”
Talia squeezes the bottom of her chair. I can practically hear her swallow. “Thank you,” she squeaks.
“But you both must be punished,” Principal Dorset continues. “I think a detention for each of you will do. That should give you plenty of time to think about what you’ve done.”
He dismisses us without calling home. I stop holding my breath. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath, but I was.
Neither of us talks in the hall. Talia doesn’t even look at me. When I finally get up the nerve to say something, even though I don’t know what it is (you’d think I would’ve learned my lesson), she walks away to her next class and leaves me behind.
She’s going to lose the election, and it’ll all be my fault. Maybe I should’ve let her get disqualified instead.
Well, it’s not like she would’ve won anyway.
That makes me feel a little better, at least. But only a little.
The weirdest things are always the things you don’t expect to happen. If it rained turnips and oysters one day, that’d be pretty weird, because it’s unexpected. If your fingers spontaneously turned into mini garden hoses that spurted out lighter fluid, yeah, weird, yeah, unexpected.
When I walk in to my third period class to spontaneous applause, that’s unexpected.
When I walk down the hall and kids yell things like, “There he is!” “Great question, Cole!” and “Best part of that assembly!”
When even the older kids start looking at me with smiles—and they’re not mean smiles.
When I’m treated like a celebrity by kids I’ve known since first grade but who’ve never said one word to me.
And the other kids, who come from other elementary schools, know my name, because Principal Dorset called it out at the end of the assembly. Everyone knows who I am.
That’s unexpected.
What’s even more unexpected than all of this, as if anything could be more unexpected than a popular ninth grader high-fiving me in the bathroom, is when I’m on my way to the cafeteria, and a hand reaches out and drags me into the same empty classroom as a few days ago.
“Al.”
Nathan doesn’t look too good. Marcellus, right next to him, crosses his arms. “What’s going on, goldfish?” my brother asks. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I don’t say anything.
“And you said I was the weird one in the family,” Nathan says to Marcellus.
Marcellus nods. “You are.”
Nathan holds up his hands. “I might be a little weird, but I’d never do what Al did. You seriously asked ‘Where do babies come from?’ in front of the whole school?”
I nod.
Nathan inhales. “Why?”
I pause. “I want to win.”
Marcellus whispers something into Nathan’s ear. Something that sounds an awful lot like “Told you.”
Like he’s a piñata I broke in half, Nathan opens his mouth a few times, but no words come out. Finally he shakes his head. “Enjoy it,” he spits. “Won’t last long.”
He shoves me out of the way with his shoulder, mutters “Come on” to Marcellus, and leaves the empty room. Marcellus looks back at me for a few moments, then he follows. And they’re gone.
Did you ever experience a new emotion? Like bits of your body start to stir like a vat full of magic potion, and what bubbles up is a totally new experience. Like when I breathe, there’s less stuff tethering me down. Like my eyes can focus on what’s directly in front of me and not have to scan sideways, just to make sure nothing sneaks up on me. Like my heart beats a little clearer with every step I take toward the cafeteria, like my legs make longer strides on the linoleum.
Two down, five to go.
Now that’s unexpected.
I wait in the lunch line, hungry yet again, when this horrible dying-lizard-in-heat sound penetrates my ear. “Hi, Zack,” I say without turning around.
“Dang,” Zack says. “Guess that only works once, huh?”
“Guess so.” We move up in line.
Zack smiles. “Looks like everyone’s talking about you. What kind of punishment did you get?”
“A detention.”
“Wow. It could be worse. They could’ve shot you out of a cannon.”
I hold my tray out to get food. “Yeah, that would’ve been worse.”
Zack thanks the lunch lady, then says, “I hope Talia wins.”
A little twinge disrupts my good feelings. “Me too.”
Before we get to the Unstable Table (but after we pass a group of kids wondering about the vending machine outside Miss Richter’s room), someone calls, “Alan! Hey, Alan!” I look to the voice and—oh my God—it’s Connor, sitting at the table next to ours, and he’s motioning me over, pointing to an empty seat next to his.
I stop walking completely, and Zack promptly crashes into my back, almost sending our food all over the place.
Connor Garcia wants me to—wants me to—
I can see Madison watching us from the Unstable Table, eating from his bagged lunch. I take a deep breath, mumble “Sorry” to Zack, and head toward the seat next to Connor, trying not to look back at my former tablemates. It isn’t until I get to Connor’s table that my gut does a backflip and I start wondering if I’m goin
g to be able to keep my food down.
And I thought the debate was bad.
“Hey, man,” Connor says with a big smile, one that’s directed squarely at me. “That was really awesome today. Guys, this is Alan, he’s in my ASPEN classes. He’s really cool.”
He’s really cool.
“What were you thinking today?” Connor asks. “Why’d you ask that?”
When the guy you like invites you to sit at his lunch table of popular kids and actually takes an interest in something you did—something you did—and asks why you did it, it helps to come up with a good answer. Something to make you seem really interesting and amazing and maybe even worthy enough to like. Naturally, all I can do is sputter, “It was funny—I mean, I guess. Funny. It was. Uh, pretty funny. Babies. I mean, babies. Funny. Yes.”
Connor doesn’t say anything for what feels like eighteen hours, then he half shrugs and goes back to eating.
I’ll take it.
The four other kids at Connor’s table—the Stable Table, I guess—don’t seem too interested in me. They start talking about soccer, and how both the boys’ and girls’ teams are going to slaughter Broadleaf Middle School next week. (I’ve learned over the past month that I’m supposed to hate Broadleaf. I don’t have anything against the school, until Connor calls them punks at the table, and then I despise them with all my might.) Then Connor asks me, “How’d you do on the English homework, Alan?”
“Uh,” I say, very aware of all these big tough jocks looking at me. “I did okay, I guess.”
Connor shakes his head. “I can’t keep all this simple, compound, complex clause stuff straight. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Hey, he’s a nerd,” one familiar-looking guy at the Stable Table says. “Nerd brains are like mini computers.”
I frown, but this guy doesn’t look away from me, and eventually my eyes drop to my lunch tray.
“Come on, Ron,” Connor says.
Ron raises his arms. “Just joking around. Besides, it’s true.”
“Ron doesn’t like it when people are better at things than he is,” Connor whispers to me, but not so quiet the rest of the table can’t hear. “He’s never happy.”
Ron tosses a ketchup packet at Connor, who laughs. I glance over at the Unstable Table. Looks like Zack is going on and on about something, and Madison is quietly eating his salad, probably doing his best to ignore Zack. I catch Madison look up at me once, and his eyes instantly drop back down. My stomach gurgles.
“So what’s your deal anyway?” Ron asks through a mouthful of french fries.
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Why don’t you know how to swim?”
Then I realize where I’ve seen Ron before: he’s in my swimming class. “I, uh, never learned.”
“It’s not that hard,” Ron says. “Every time I see you in class, you’re just splashing around. Looks like you’re not even trying.”
Connor pipes up, “Ron, come on, man.”
Ron raises a hand. “I’m just saying. Don’t they have pools in Dorktopia?”
Snickers from around the table. “I wouldn’t know,” I say with as much bite as I can muster, because I am an idiot.
Ron continues, “Didn’t your dad ever teach you? My dad taught me when I was two.”
In my head I can hear Dad grumbling about how I don’t have time to teach you and we’re never going to the ocean anyway, so why even bother? Those were the only reasons he gave to me and Nathan.
“Some people are scared of the water,” says a girl I recognize from Pine Garden.
Ron shrugs. “Some people are pussies.”
I can feel my face flush. This is not turning out the way I wanted it to. I look over to the Unstable Table again, and Zack is pretending to be an airplane, complete with arm movements and loud sound effects. Madison is staring off into space.
Eventually the conversation shifts away from me, and the other kids talk about other things. Connor taps me on the arm while I sit in silence. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Ron can be a jerk sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. I hope he doesn’t notice my goose bumps.
Connor motions toward the Unstable Table, where Zack is pointing at me and waving me over. “I think you’re being paged,” Connor says.
I stand up. The rest of the Stable Table doesn’t even notice.
“Hey,” Connor says before I leave. “I don’t care what Ron says. I think you’re awesome.” He lightly punches me on the arm.
I float back to the Unstable Table, barely aware of my feet on the floor. “Hey,” Zack says from a quadrillion miles away, “I was telling a great joke and I thought you should hear it.”
“Well,” huffs a Madison-shaped cloud, “I guess you’re not quite so cool that you can’t sit with us anymore.”
Zack watches me. “You look different.”
That reaches me. “Huh?”
“You’re smiling,” he says.
I move my mouth a little. Sure enough, my lips are curved up. I’m smiling.
I’m smiling.
Madison doesn’t seem to notice. He grumbles, “Today I’m going to my family’s health club. That’s going to be unpleasant. There’ll be lots of running and swimming and possibly protein shakes, and none of that sounds fun at all.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Swimming?”
“Yes,” Madison continues. “There’s a pool. I like to swim, but after already doing it during school I’d rather not.”
The gears in my brain turn fast. “Do you still want me to be your pupil?”
Madison leans into the Unstable Table. “Go on.”
The school week is almost over. Two days into CvC and I’ve somehow set plenty of things spinning into motion: hidden papers, lucky underwear, rapid ascents to popularity, and even a “fitness consultation” (in his words) this weekend with Madison, at this private health club. He was practically giddy about it. He can’t be a worse swimming instructor than Marcellus, right?
We’re about to leave ASPEN English class, the last class of the day, when Principal Dorset comes on the loudspeaker. “I would like to announce the results of our class president elections.”
In the front row, Talia hunches over.
“The Shrub class president is Kelly Richards.”
Clapping and cheering from down the hall.
“The Sprout class president is Darnell Simmons.”
Talia rolls her pencil back and forth between her fingers so hard they almost catch fire.
“And the Sapling class president is”—long pause— “Talia MacDonald.”
A loud gasp comes out of Talia’s mouth, and she practically slumps over in her desk. Mrs. Ront, our English teacher, leads us in applause.
Principal Dorset continues, “Congratulations to our winners, and to our runners-up for trying their best. All class presidents should report to my office first thing Monday morning.”
I tune out the loudspeaker and stare at Talia instead. She looks stunned. More than stunned—like this outcome was so far removed from possibility, it broke her brain a little. Like she’d given up.
People congratulate Talia as they leave the room (Rudy says, “How could I not vote for you after that answer?”). But our class president only wants to talk to one person, and she makes her way to my desk. “Alan Cole,” she says.
“Hi,” I say.
“I won.”
I nod.
She breaks the stare. “I would have . . . not won, if you hadn’t asked your question.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t patronize me. I stunk up the auditorium like bad gym socks. I’m not . . . all that good with big crowds. But I told myself I was going to answer the next question truthfully, no matter what it was. I blanked out, and I went for it, and—and that’s why I won. No other reason.”
Talia adjusts her glasses. “Of course, this creates a problem for us.”
Uh-oh. “A p
roblem?”
“I owe you,” she says. “I’m in your debt. Not just from the debate, but also from when we were in the office. I would’ve been disqualified if not for you. I owe you a favor, so tell me what you want soon, so it can stop hanging over my head.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I always pay back my debts. That doesn’t mean I enjoy doing it, though. Think it over.”
She turns to leave the room, but stops. “It’s not easy for me to admit when I . . .” She trails off. “Thanks.”
Unexpected things can be good or bad. But sometimes getting something good at all is unexpected, whether it’s becoming the most well-known kid in school, or winning a class election, or getting to teach someone something you’re good at. Or getting called awesome and cool by your crush.
Sometimes, when it seems like the whole world is against you, something unexpected—something good—can happen. Maybe it’s those moments that make everything else seem less bad. Maybe it’s those moments that make you smile.
NINE
“Tomorrow’s the company dinner,” Dad says. “Hannah Jackson’s kid won the county spelling bee.”
Before Dad even finishes speaking, Nathan bursts out, “Ursprache. U-R-S-P-R-A-C-H-E. A hypothetically reconstructed parent language. Balalaika. B-A-L-A-L-A-I-K-A. A Russian stringed musical instrument. Psittacine. P-S-I-T-T-A-C-I-N-E. Of or relating to parrots. I can keep going.”
(He could. And has.)
“You’ve got your best jewelry?” Dad asks Mom.
Mom nods. “I have Mommy’s cross.”
“Your mother’s jewelry?” Dad shakes his head. “You should wear the one I bought for you.”
Mom doesn’t look at her plate this time. Instead she says, “That cross—that cross has special meaning for me.”
“Old memories,” Dad replies. “We made new ones together. I don’t want Mr. Harrison to meet a wife who clings to the past.”
“There’s nothing bad about clinging to the past,” Mom says. “To happier times.”
My eyes, and Nathan’s eyes, bulge out of their sockets, ping-ponging back and forth between our parents.
Dad laughs a chuckle made of sandpaper. “What happier times?”
