Ethan Marcus Stands Up

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  But nope, it’s the usual boring old LA with the Delmanator. Today he’s wearing the tie that says LET’S GET SPELLBOUND. As in spelling, not spells. He thinks it’s funny. I know, because he showed it to a few kids before class started.

  “Get it?” he said, while pointing to the tie and grinning like a deranged comedian.

  I rolled my eyes on the way to my desk and muttered, “Let’s get hell-bound,” but I don’t think Delman or anyone else heard my crack. His ties would work better if he were actually funny. But when your life revolves around grammar and verb tenses and symbolism, I don’t think funny is in the cards.

  Around 2:40, I notice Ethan squirming in his chair and I think, He’s gonna do it! He’s gonna stand up again! But the Delmanator gives him the evil teacher eye and Erin gives him the evil sister eye and it obviously works, because he stays in his seat.

  It’s like the whole incident never happened.

  Except for the fact that around three o’clock, Mrs. D’Antonio walks in, stands in the back for a while with her arms crossed, then just leaves. She must’ve thought Ethan was gonna do something again. Fooled ya, Mavis.

  So I start drawing a picture of Jamie Pappas, who sits in the front row. Not that you’d know it was her from the way I draw. Jamie’s not one of those popular girls who’s mean. She’s nice to everyone. And did I mention that she’s stomachache pretty? Meaning I get a stomachache every time she’s within breathing space? Yeah, that kind of pretty.

  One time last summer, Gram took me for dinner at Jamie’s dad’s restaurant. Which I didn’t know was her dad’s until we got there or I wouldn’t have gone. Jamie was helping out. Gram was complaining about everything. The coffee wasn’t hot, there wasn’t enough turkey in her salad, she needed more dressing. There was even a draft right above us, apparently, but I didn’t feel it.

  I pretty much wanted to crawl under the table but (a) Jamie kept coming over and getting Gram whatever she needed, and (b) Gram has hairy legs and long toenails.

  And now Jamie wants to hang out with Ethan? I’d give anything to hang out with her. Maybe I should stand up and protest? Instead, which I find out when the bell rings, I fell asleep. And worse, I drooled onto the Jamie drawing.

  ZOE

  When I was walking to LA, Ethan was right in front of me. He’s tall, you can’t miss him. A lot of the seventh-grade boys are still short, so Ethan kind of stands out. Or up, I guess. Anyway, he wasn’t walking with anyone, so I took a deep breath, worked up my courage, and caught up with him.

  I told him I was really impressed by his protest yesterday and found it very inspiring.

  He shrugged like it was nothing and he did one every day. “I don’t know why everyone’s making such a thing,” he said. “To be honest, I just really, really, really needed to get up and that was all.”

  I touched his arm lightly and got goose bumps. “That’s the thing about protests,” I told him. “Sometimes, the least likely people are the ones who change the world without even meaning to. Just because they’re passionate about an issue.”

  He said he wasn’t planning to change the world but that his legs fell asleep a lot in class.

  I pressed a hand to my heart. “What do you mean? If everyone said that, nothing would ever get better! We have so much to do here! Do you know the kind of ecological damage that invasive plants cause to native habitats? What if people did nothing? I can’t bear to imagine what would happen!”

  He tilted his head, looked at me kind of funny. Which I get a lot from people.

  “Okay, well . . . ,” he said.

  We reached Mr. Delman’s room and I touched his arm again. More goose bumps! “Um, Ethan, I was wondering . . .”

  He stopped at the doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Would you be interested in joining the Be Green Club? We could really use someone like you.” (I thought it best to say “we” to make it sound like there actually is a “we.”)

  “Oh, uh . . .”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer right away, you can think about it.”

  He shuffled his feet. “Well, the thing is, I’m trying out for volleyball in a few months, so I probably won’t have a lot of time.”

  I smiled and nodded over and over so he wouldn’t see how disappointed I was. “Oh, no problem, it’s okay. I totally understand.”

  “Sorry, Zoe. But good luck with the club.”

  “No worries!” I ducked into the room.

  And in my hurry to get away from the awkwardness of the situation, I tripped on nothing, whirled my arms in the air like a propeller, and finally crashed into Brian Kowalski, who was standing by his desk, staring at Jamie Pappas.

  Brian kind of pushed me upright, and I felt my face get hot and my underarms fill up with sweat. Jamie picked up the bottle of organic kale juice that had fallen out of my tote bag and handed it to me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I nodded and quickly walked to my desk, head down.

  All the boys stare at Jamie. She’s pretty and sweet and everything (meaning very developed), but think about this, okay? Does she even know what invasive plants are?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reflection Time

  ETHAN

  After school, it’s me and Wesley Pinto in room 9 with Ms. Gilardi, the eighth-grade science teacher who people actually like because she is a Teacher Who Cares (TWC). Word is, she’ll give you extra points if you stay after school and just talk science with her.

  Zoe can’t wait to get her next year. She told me she’s going to ask her mom to put in a request for her to get Gilardi and not the other eighth-grade science teacher (Mr. Berger, who is not a TWC). It doesn’t matter to me either way. They’ll both teach the same boring science stuff.

  Gilardi smiles at me when I walk in, then pats me on the back. “Welcome,” she says, like she’s glad I’m here to keep her company and this is a special treat. She has curly blond hair in a giant bun on top of her head with a pencil stuck in it. Blue polished nails and glasses with bright pink frames.

  “Find a seat,” she says. “Did you bring some homework?”

  “Yeah.” There are many seats to choose from, but apparently, I pick the one that belongs to Wesley.

  He strolls in. “You’re in my seat,” he says while hovering over me with a threatening look on his face. I move. Then he goes, “Oh wait, I think that’s my seat.” I move again. I’m not messing with him. He has one tattoo already (I’ve heard), plus a skull drawn on his hand in black Sharpie and these hiking boots that could easily put you on crutches after one swift kick in the shin.

  He sprawls in the chair and stares at me. I take my math homework from my backpack and start the first problem, but Wesley’s still staring like the second Gilardi turns her back, he’s gonna spit at me or tell me to meet him outside after Reflection.

  “Wesley,” Gilardi says. “Eyes to yourself, please.”

  He slowly turns away from me.

  “Did you bring homework?” she asks him.

  “Do I ever?” he cracks.

  So the next forty-five minutes of my life is this: impossible linear equations, Wesley’s eyeballs, and the sound of Ms. Gilardi’s knitting needles clicking together as she sits at her desk and squints at what might eventually be a scarf. Or sweater.

  And a nice bonus to all that: forty-five more minutes in a school desk and chair. The only good thing is that somehow, I get my math homework done.

  Wednesday, my second day of doing time, it’s more of the same. Me, my bud Wesley, and Gilardi with her knitting needles/scarf/sweater. I’m supposed to be writing my Reflection essay, which needs to be at least one page explaining why I was wrong to do what I did. I’ve managed to come up with one sentence.

  I am sorry for standing up and disrupting class.

  That’s it. I’m stuck, and have been for a while.

  Luckily, Wesley’s taking a good, long nap. Gilardi doesn’t seem to care. Weirdly, he talks in his sleep. Things like, “Get off me, Brett!” and �
��But I like bunnies.”

  I don’t even want to go there.

  When we have ten minutes left and I’m basically jotting down any random thought I can come up with for the essay, Gilardi sighs, stands, and wiggles her fingers, then stretches her arms over her head. “You know, boys,” she says, “I’ve been thinking.”

  That, for some reason, doesn’t sound good.

  She claps. “Wesley!”

  He jolts awake. “What?”

  She sweeps her arm around the room. “It’s my feeling that the students who are in here to do Reflection simply need to channel their energy in a more productive way.”

  That sounds like something Mom and Dad would say.

  She takes two pieces of paper from a stack on her desk and walks toward me. As she hands me one and Wesley the other, she gets this gigantic beaming type of smile. “What if the two of you participated in our upcoming Invention Day? It’s fun and rewarding and altogether fabulous!”

  Wesley snorts. “Are you kidding me? Did you just say ‘Invention Day’?”

  She bobs her head excitedly. “I did. I absolutely did. You heard right.”

  I hold up my hand, hoping to stop her right there. “Ms. Gilardi, I’m not good at that kind of stuff. Making things or doing science projects. I never was one of those Lego or Minecraft guys, you know?”

  “Nonsense!” she cries, stamping her foot. The pencil slides toward the edge of her bun and almost falls out. “We’re all makers! Science is life! Life is science! Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Wesley and I actually glance at each other, and it’s clear neither of us know what she’s saying. Wesley sums it up. “Not a clue, Ms. G.”

  “A lot of my students tell me that—‘I’m not good at science, I can’t make things.’ But—here’s a secret—it’s only a matter of being curious about the world. That’s what makes a good scientist.” She pivots toward the window. That pencil is hanging on by, like, one hair. “Every single day, something incredible is waiting to be discovered! Or invented. By makers like you.”

  Erin would be loving this speech. She’s done the science fair every year since preschool, I think. Maybe she was even working on her first experiment when she was a baby—I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “The thing is,” I start to explain, “I’m kinda better at math.” Gilardi doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s on a roll.

  “Science is a way of thinking! It’s not about why, it’s about why not?” She gestures to me, then Wesley. “I’m willing to bet that if you two put your heads together and directed your energy toward solving a real-life problem, you could come up with one terrific Invention Day project.”

  She did not just say that. “Us?” I choke out, with a quick side glance at Wesley. He’s biting the skin on his thumb.

  Gilardi nods happily, like this is the best idea she’s ever had in her years as a science teacher.

  “I got better things to do with my time,” Wesley scoffs.

  She lowers her glasses and looks at him. “Like glue bubble wrap to the toilets in the boys’ bathroom?”

  He shrugs. “They never proved that was me.”

  Oh man, I remember that. Hilarious at first, then it quickly became an investigation and ended with the banning of bubble wrap at McNutt.

  I glance at the paper, which, as I figured, is the form to register for Invention Day. It says, in giant letters at the top: HAVE YOU ALWAYS DREAMED OF BECOMING A YOUNG INVENTOR?

  The short answer? No.

  My sister’s answer, which she says on a daily basis: “Only all my life.”

  Last night Zoe came over to our house, and she and Erin spent an hour brainstorming ideas to beat Marlon Romanov, the seventh-grade genius/rumored computer hacker who took first at last year’s Invention Day, beating them by just a few points. He talks to no one, not one single kid at McNutt, and always has his hair slicked back with thick gel. I’ve never seen him wear any jeans other than black skinny ones.

  If you’re ever in a locked room with Marlon Romanov and Wesley Pinto, I don’t know which kid would scare you more.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t think this is for me.” I try to give Gilardi the form, but she puts her hands behind her back, shakes her head, and refuses to take it.

  “Think about it,” she insists. “Better yet, sleep on it.” She winks and gives me a smile that doesn’t look at all fake. “You know, sometimes, it’s a good idea to work within the system.”

  I’m not sure what that means, but it’s four fifteen at last. Our time is up. Wesley walks out without a word, leaving the form. Gilardi sighs, picks it up, and returns it to the stack on her desk.

  Then I feel bad and don’t want to do the same thing, so I stuff the paper into my backpack and give her my essay.

  “Have a good night, Ethan,” she says, putting her knitting into a bag, then signing my Reflection form next to Mom’s name to prove I was really here.

  “Uh, yeah, you too.”

  WESLEY

  The best thing about Reflection? No Brett. And once in a while, there’s even a decent kid there.

  You know sometimes I go even when I don’t have to? Gilardi’s cool with that. She’s okay, for a teacher. You didn’t hear that from me, though.

  One time, she asked how come I had a red mark on my arm, and I got weak for a second. Told her what goes on at my house, how my brother’s a state wrestling champion and I’m his personal home opponent. Or so he thinks.

  My dad’s still disappointed I quit wrestling. He doesn’t exactly say it, but I know he thinks it. It woulda been good for me, right? Straightened me out, kept me focused. The discipline and hard work and commitment and all that. Yeah, that’s what they tell you.

  But it’s a bunch of guys acting like they’re so tough, wearing those stupid singlets, grabbing each other in headlocks, shouting, spitting out their saliva, standing in line to get weighed, spending hours in a gym that reeks.

  A couple of them go here. They pass me in the hallways and I know they see me. I can tell. It’s the puffed-up chest, the side-eye, the you’re a loser smirk.

  Be a part of all that? No thanks. I got better things to do with my time.

  Wrestlers don’t have the corner on toughness, you know.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  And So . . .

  ETHAN

  When I get out of Reflection, Brian’s leaning against the row of lockers across the hall. He grins. “Been waitin’ for you to get out of the slammer.”

  I laugh. “It didn’t end up being that bad. The worst part was writing the essay.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Just like, how I won’t disrupt class again and I’ll respect authority and all that junk.”

  “What they want to hear.”

  “Pretty much.”

  We pass the office. Mean Secretary, surrounded by her cactuses/cacti, is still glued to her chair. She shoots us an angry glare for no reason. Then we go out the front doors and cross the street toward the park across from McNutt.

  Brian kicks a pile of leaves by the curb. “I hate how someone tried to take a stand—ha-ha, right, a stand—and all they do is shut you down. You know what we should do? Start a petition like Zoe always does! Hold a rally! Demand that they let us stand—hey, that rhymes—during our classes if we want to. Say it’s a basic human right or something. You know, my mom got a standing desk at work, and she says now her back doesn’t hurt anymore. She said it’s basically saving her life.”

  “This is McNutt we’re talking about here.”

  “So?”

  “Gilardi’s suggestion was that I do Invention Day.”

  Brian stops. “What?”

  “No joke.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “To channel my energy in a, uh, more productive way.”

  “Ethan, listen to me very carefully. Kids who invent things know about stuff like computer chips and solar energy and quantum physics. They shouldn’t even be in school, they should be
running their own tech companies. You, my friend, are not that kind of kid.”

  “I know, believe me. It’s like she thought I was Erin. Gilardi thinks science is the answer to everything.”

  Brian’s mouth drops open in fake shock. “Wait, you mean it isn’t?”

  We walk through the park, which is deserted except for someone sitting on a bench, feeding some big white birds. They’re going nutso, squawking and pecking their heads at the ground. I can only see the back of the person, but then I realize I recognize his shoes. Or rather, his hiking boots.

  I elbow Brian. “Isn’t that Wesley Pinto?”

  He squints. “Yeah, I think.”

  “Is he feeding . . . what are those, seagulls?”

  “Seems to be the case.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  Brian rolls his eyes. “Who knows? He’s probably poisoning them or something.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Maybe that’s what he likes to do with his time. Without even saying anything to each other, we turn and go the long way around the park so he doesn’t see us. I don’t need any more encounters with Wesley today, that’s for sure.

  “Little-known fact about seagulls,” Brian says. “People call them garbage cans with wings.”

  “Okay. Uh . . . why?”

  “They eat garbage, duh. They’re one of the best animal scavengers out there.”

  This is why Brian and I are friends. Who else remembers that kind of stuff and can recall it at just the right moment?

  “Now you know,” he says.

  “Glad I do.”

  We knock shoulders and split at the corner.

  When I get home, Erin’s in the garage, arranging things on the long folding table we usually only use for holidays when our cousins come over. She’s got a bunch of small glass bottles evenly lined up and a pile of branches and leaves. Plus random things like eyedroppers and a plastic spray bottle and a bunch of black Sharpies on top of a pad of paper.