Been There, Done That

by Mike Winchell

  FOR

  ART STAFFORD,

  WHO'S ALWAYS WATCHING OVER US.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  “Standing Tall” by Holly Goldberg Sloan is the basis for the novel Short, which will be published in January 2017 by Dial Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Penguin Random House.

  Collection copyright © 2016 by Mike Winchell. Cover illustration copyright © 2016 by Eglantine Ceulemans. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 9780515156447

  Version_1

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  FOREWORD

  Morning Routine

  Shaun David Hutchinson

  Class Has Started

  Howard Cruse

  Meg Medina

  Bruce Coville

  Pranks Gone Wrong

  Wendy Mass

  Jacqueline West

  Class Projects

  Bruce Hale

  Sarah Prineas

  Lunch and Recess

  C. Alexander London

  Vince Evans

  Nate Evans

  Varian Johnson

  Dances and Talent Shows

  Don Tate

  Kelly Starling Lyons

  Bus Ride

  Steve Sheinkin

  Ellen Yeomans

  School’s Out

  Holly Goldberg Sloan

  School Abroad

  Tommy Greenwald

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHORS

  Foreword

  At the start of each new school year, you have lots of questions. What will this year be like? Will you make new friends? And the teachers—what do they have in store for you? How about projects and assignments, or special events like talent shows? There’s so much to think about!

  To help you navigate through your school daze, an awesome collection of authors has shared their own school experiences. Then they showed how they’ve used those experiences to write some pretty cool stories. Some might seem unbelievable. Some might be exactly what you’re going through. And some . . . well . . . some might be downright weird.

  Happy reading,

  Mike Winchell

  Editor

  Mike Winchell

  Morning Routine

  The school day is about to begin. Are you already in your seat with your notebook out, pencil in hand? Or is it a mad dash to your first class, sliding through the door as the bell rings? Either way, the morning announcements wait for no one, so listen up!

  Shaun David Hutchinson knows all about the morning announcements, since he helped broadcast them daily in the television studio at his school. But in the story inspired by his experience, the announcements are a whole lot stranger.

  Shaun David Hutchinson

  WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

  UNSEEN

  I ran toward the library, my shoelaces untied, the corner of my algebra book poking through my backpack and jabbing into my hip. I stubbed my shoe and stumbled. After looking down for a moment to catch my balance, I ran into and nearly through Max. He was standing in the open doorway, wearing his you’re-so-freaking-late frown.

  Max had embraced his inner nerd—his jutting front teeth and conspicuous oversize, inch-thick glasses made it difficult to hide—and I wasn’t exactly popular, either, so we got along well.

  I followed him into the library and turned right down the hallway that led to the TV studio. I popped into the control room first, hoping it was empty so I could take a moment to breathe, but Jimmy was lounging in one of the two chairs, his enormous sneakers propped on the edge of the desk. Mrs. Moody stood behind him, lecturing him about something he’d done. If Max was our resident tech geek, Jimmy was our troublemaker, sarcastic and hilariously rude. Only his winning smile saved him from perpetual detention.

  Mrs. Moody was willowy, with a hair-sprayed helmet of brassy curls. The Warrior News Network was the only class she taught; she spent the rest of the day running the school library, which was a task better suited to her high-strung temperament. It didn’t help that Jimmy took sadistic pleasure from winding her up and watching her shoot off in whichever direction he pointed her. But I wasn’t in the mood to spend the morning dodging her anger, so I handed her a book she’d loaned me and asked for another, appealing to her librarian nature.

  The gambit worked, and Mrs. Moody left us alone.

  Jimmy thanked me. As much as he enjoyed tormenting her, he enjoyed peace and quiet more. His skin was tan from hours spent surfing before and after school, and his legs were yeti-hairy.

  I asked Jimmy what he’d done to get Mrs. Moody so riled up. He rolled his eyes. “Told Molly she has a face for radio.”

  I grimaced and shoved Jimmy’s legs off the desk so I could sit in the other chair. There were two control boards separated by three small monitors—one for each camera in the studio and one displaying our live broadcast. Max was the only person in our class who really understood what all the buttons and knobs did, and the only one Mrs. Moody trusted not to accidentally broadcast something that would get her fired.

  Jimmy was a senior who’d signed up for the morning news class because he thought it would be an easy A. The only equipment he knew how to use were the cameras, and all he had to do was point them in the right direction. He still managed to botch it up at least once a week. Unlike Molly, who took the class more seriously than anyone had a right to. We delivered the morning announcements, not breaking news.

  Mrs. Moody had been hinting to Molly that she needed to give someone else a chance behind the news desk, a suggestion Molly continued to ignore. Not that any of the rest of us were clamoring to take her place. Max loved working in the control room, Kara didn’t care where Mrs. Moody stuck her so long as she could spend the first half of the morning catching up on her homework, and no one was stupid enough to suggest letting Jimmy sit in front of a camera during our daily live broadcasts.

  And I hadn’t seriously considered it, either. I definitely didn’t want to be like Molly. She was always throwing herself in front of a camera or microphone, because she believed with her soul that she was destined to become the next Mariah Carey or Julia Roberts. Maybe both if she was lucky. Either she didn’t know or didn’t care that everyone laughed at her behind her back, including me, which made me feel like a jerk because I was too scared to pursue my passion for writing with the same blind enthusiasm. I never admitted it, but I sort of admired her.

  Plus, people knew who she was, and I told Jimmy so.

  He blew me off.

  Jimmy and I weren’t friends—I wasn’t dumb enough to believe sharing a class together meant h
e would ever acknowledge my existence outside of the control room or studio—but he was easy to talk to, mostly because he never took anything seriously.

  I asked him if he’d ever just wanted people to see him, to know who he was. I asked him if he’d ever felt invisible. Which, of course, he hadn’t, because he was good-looking and popular, and guys like him assumed that everyone was looking at them all the time.

  People like Jimmy couldn’t understand what it felt like for people to look through them as if they didn’t exist. But I did. Sometimes I’d walk down the halls, on my way from one class to the next, and I’d want to stop and scream as loud as I could so all the students and teachers would see me. Really see me. So that they’d know who I was and that I existed.

  When I explained some of what I was thinking to Jimmy, he told me that I thought too much. It wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation, but he wasn’t wrong, and I decided that I was going to tell Mrs. Moody I wanted to get in front of the cameras and read the announcements. I wanted people to remember me as more than the kid who nearly broke his nose when he ran into a cement column in the hallway, or the kid who slept in class so often that he had the impression of a spiral ring from a notebook permanently etched into his cheek.

  I left the control room and wandered into the studio, where the lights were brighter and everything felt more real. Molly was going on and on about how boring the announcements were and how we should spice them up by adding a musical number. I tried to interrupt, but they didn’t notice me.

  Molly could have gone on for hours listing all the ways she could improve the program. Most of her suggestions likely would have served to showcase her varying talents, which seemed limitless in her own mind. Mrs. Moody finally and thankfully cut Molly off and told her to write down her ideas so she could evaluate them at a less hectic time.

  “You know what would make the announcements better?” Max said from behind the camera, where he was on one knee messing with the cables. “Vampires. Robots, too, but I doubt we have the budget for them.”

  Classic Max. We were also on the debate team together. People teased him for looking weird and talking openly about his love of science fiction and computers, but he was actually a pretty cool guy. Mrs. Moody, however, didn’t appreciate his humor. She turned to me and asked me what I wanted.

  This was my chance. Her being annoyed with Molly could only improve the odds she’d agree to let me read the announcements. Even though the idea of sitting at the cheap desk and speaking at the camera while the whole school watched scared the pants off of me, I knew if I did it, people would see me. They would remember me instead of forgetting me the day after I graduated. But when I opened my mouth to ask, the words dried up. I shook my head and told her it was nothing.

  Mrs. Moody nodded, clapped her hands, and told us to prepare for the broadcast. We were on in fifteen minutes.

  I could always tell her tomorrow. Yeah. Maybe tomorrow, I thought.

  The problem with tomorrow is that it’s always tomorrow and never today.

  Shaun David Hutchinson

  THE STORY

  PLEASE REMAIN CALM

  I clear my throat and look into the camera. Skye Bolton is sitting beside me, her bright green hair tied into a ponytail, her cheeks round and high, her perfect teeth filed to perfect points. Nelson stands behind the camera, holding three fingers out at his side. His wavy brown hair hangs over his eyes, and he watches me with a goofy grin.

  Two . . .

  One . . .

  The red light begins to blink. Oh, how I loathe that red light. Life becomes more real the moment it begins to glow. Second chances evaporate when the camera is on, while I evaporate when it’s off. I feel the eyes of every student at Sprawl High School turn toward me, watching, waiting for me to screw up. I can’t actually see them, of course. The camera beams my face into a hundred classrooms on campus, but the process doesn’t work in reverse. Still, I imagine them staring back at me. The only reason I do this is that, despite my anxiety, despite the fear that crawls like a hundred azagoth spiders up my legs and back and arms, I know that this is the only time I’m truly seen.

  Skye kicks me under the table.

  “Good morning, students, teachers, and nonhuman friends. I’m Colt Favre, and this is your Sprawl Morning News. Please remain calm.” My voice is froggy and thick. Ms. Briar hovers behind the glass in the control room and flashes me an exaggerated clown smile, miming with her wrinkled, blue-veined hands for me to do the same. I force my lips apart and raise my cheeks, but I feel like an orangutan baring its teeth.

  “The singularity in the quantum physics lab has been contained. However, if you see Dr. Eisenhauer anywhere on campus, do not approach him under any circumstances. Especially if he’s still glowing blue.” I shuffle the papers on the desk in front of me. The pages are blank. Empty. Much like the minutes and hours and days of my life when I’m not in front of the camera.

  “During the azagoth mating season, students are reminded that the tennis courts are off-limits. You know how hungry a breeding azagoth can be.” I say the last sentence with a chuckle. “Seriously, though, eight students were cocooned and eaten during last year’s mating season, and Principal Blake is hoping we can keep that number under five this year.”

  Nelson gives me a thumbs-up to let me know they’ve switched to the camera focused on Skye. The red light is still glowing, but I breathe a little easier.

  “Now for sports,” Skye says. She enunciates each syllable precisely. I once caught her in the girls’ restroom drinking black tar from a stone bowl before repeating, “Theophilus Thistler, the thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve of unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb,” seven times. Ms. Briar would have given her detention for sure if she discovered Skye offering a sacrifice to the Dreadlies before a broadcast. Not that I would have snitched. I value my life, such as it is.

  “Your Mighty Leviathans boys’ basketball team massacred the Jupiter High Warriors after last night’s devastating 98 to 22 loss. Better luck next time, boys!” Skye mugs for the camera like this is some worldwide broadcast rather than a lame high school news program that students only watch because their teachers chain them to their desks.

  “The Lady Leviathans fared far better in their matchup against the Arkham Angels, bringing home a 65 to 48 win. However, Genevieve McMurtry lost a leg during the game, a crippling injury that will likely bench her for the remainder of the season. But don’t worry, she’s got three more, and the fourth should grow back in time for her to play next year.”

  Even with my anxiety in front of the camera, I become invisible when it’s not focused on me. I disappear. If it weren’t for the Sprawl Morning News, I don’t think anyone at this school would even know I exist. They walk right past me in the halls, and teachers never call on me to answer questions, even when I raise my hand. I feel like I could fade away into nothing, and not one person would miss or even remember me.

  Skye continues. “Tryouts for wrestling are being held Thursday in the gym. All supplicants are required to provide Coach Shelley with parental and medical consent forms, your blood type, and two kittens. Preferably alive.

  “And I’m happy to report that the cross-country track team placed third overall in last week’s meet. Though parents were initially skeptical about Coach Villanova’s plan to incorporate zombies into her training regimen, the surviving runners certainly proved them wrong.” She glances at me. The spotlights reflect off her teeth, and I swear I can still see a little speck of tar on her canine. “Back to you, Colt.”

  Taking this class was a lark. My choices were the Sprawl News Network or Life Skills, and I wasn’t keen on taking a class with a body count higher than Genghis Khan’s. I didn’t know how much I would grow to crave being in front of the camera. It was pure luck that Ms. Briar even allowed me to try out for the anchor position. Martina, who’s in the control
room with Ms. Briar, was the more logical choice. Her voice sometimes causes hallucinations and psychopathic tendencies, but only in boys who are especially susceptible. Before taking this class, my sole ambition was to survive until graduation, and I’d never given a single thought to what might happen after. Not that anyone could blame me. With a mortality rate hovering around 30 percent (still better than the district average), few students really think about the future until they’re certain they’ll live to see it.

  And yet, as much as I despise that despotic, bloody light, I feel like I’ve found my calling. Unlike Skye, I don’t crave glory or fame; I simply want to be seen.

  I cough to cover the dead air, and continue. “The theater department’s performance of A Delicious Murder is being held this weekend in the Stoker Auditorium. Tickets are seven dollars in advance and ten dollars at the door. In this bold and inventive original murder mystery, audience members will help cast members solve a grisly homicide, and one lucky audience member will even have the opportunity to be the victim. All students must provide a parental consent form and next of kin when purchasing a ticket.”

  Skye croaks out a strangled laugh. “If it’s anything like last year’s production of Little Shop of Horrors, I’d advise attendees in the front row to bring a raincoat.”

  “You can say that again, Skye. I never did get the bloodstains out of my jeans.”

  I hate when she improvises. She only does it because she knows it throws me off, and everyone at school knows she has a compulsive need to be the center of attention. Last year, when Christye Bingham was crowned Homecoming Queen, Skye hid out behind the gym, raised a netherbeast, and set it loose in the gym. Then she tried to kill it on her own—she didn’t even have a proper silver athame—so she could parade around as a hero and steal the spotlight from Christye. It didn’t turn out quite the way Skye planned. Devin Moskowitz ended up taking down the netherbeast, and Skye lost a couple of toes. Unlike Genevieve’s leg, Skye’s toes won’t regenerate.