Ethan Marcus Stands Up

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  Neither of us wants to go. Brett’s got wrestling, and I’ve got, I don’t know, but I don’t think it’ll be any better in Florida. The people there will be the same as the people at McNutt, only more tan. Everyone’s got their group.

  I’m brushing my teeth when Brett barges into the bathroom and throws his arms around my neck in a choke hold. It’s a takedown in two seconds, because I don’t even try anymore.

  “You suck, man!” he shouts. “This used to be fun, you and me messing around!”

  I stand and spit toothpaste at him. “It was never fun.” I rinse my mouth and go into my room, slamming the door.

  Sometimes I get so mad about everything—Mom leaving, Dad trying but coming off helpless and sad, Brett pounding me and thinking it’s brother stuff, plus every day in school being boring and pointless. I don’t even know what to do. I feel like those seagulls in the park, lost and living somewhere I don’t belong.

  I grab my pillow, then throw it across the room. It lands in a corner and a few feathers fly out. I watch them float to the floor.

  Gilardi has a blue knitted pillow on her chair. She made it, I think. Once, when I was mad about something—can’t even remember what—she told me to punch it. I didn’t. I thought that sounded dumb.

  But now, I pick up my pillow and ram my fist into it a couple of times. It does feel dumb. But also, good.

  The talks with Gilardi started when I was the only one in there for Reflection and she’d ask me what I thought about stuff. At first I didn’t even bother to answer, because I figured she was like every other teacher I’d had. They act like they care but they really don’t. They have their own crap going on. Their own lives. Everyone does.

  One day I answered her. I don’t even remember why I did, or what the question was. But we ended up talking about whether homework is good practice or just busywork, and unless she was great at faking it, she seemed interested in what I had to say. I was kinda floored. No teacher ever did something like that. Listened. Really listened.

  Then we started talking about other stuff. All kinds of stuff.

  Now I go to her room in the mornings, or after school if I want. I only talk when no one else is there. People don’t need to hear what’s going on in my head. I don’t even want to hear what’s going on in my head half the time.

  Yeah, when I wrestled, I was friends with those guys. We sorta talked, I guess. I was in their group. They think I quit because I kept losing matches. No. I quit because I hated it and was sick of what you have to do to make weight. They kept at it and I didn’t. Nothing in common anymore.

  Dad knocks on my door and comes in. “You okay, Wes?”

  “Never better.”

  He stands in the doorway. He looks thinner. “Want to chat?”

  “Why? What’s it gonna do? How’s it gonna help?”

  “Look, I know it’s been hard on you, but eventually, you’re going to have to accept—”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” I get up and close the door.

  I know he stands there for a few seconds, on the other side. I can hear him breathing. I almost open the door, but then it gets quiet.

  You know what my wrestling coach said my problem was? That my opponent could sense my weakness as soon as we stepped onto the mat. That he knew he could beat me before the match even started.

  And you know what else?

  I think that’s true.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Romanov

  ETHAN

  Monday, Brian and I are at lunch. Everyone sits at long tables with benches. It’s another rule. More square butt happening here.

  The cafeteria monitors walk around and blow their whistles at people for who knows what. They’re 100 percent serious about order in the cafeteria. They also have walkie-talkies to use when necessary.

  Erin and Zoe and their girl group are by the salad bar, giggling and talking in screechy high voices, like a table of monkeys. There are your usual other tables—the athletes, the mathletes, the theater people, the computer guys, the popular kids. You can get up to buy a drink or a hot lunch or throw your garbage away, but that’s about it. No goofing around, no throwing food, and we’ll all get along just fine.

  Brian’s sitting across from me. I lean toward him. “Okay, I thought about this all last night. You know what we need?”

  He’s lining up the contents of his lunch—yogurt, cheese, a hard-boiled egg, milk, a piece of chicken. “No, tell me, what do we need?”

  I look at everything on the table. “Wait, why do you have all this?”

  He peels open the yogurt. “My new plan. It’s all protein, to make me grow. Tomorrow I’m gonna be taller than you.”

  “Got it. Okay, good luck with that. Anyway, as I was gonna say, I think we need assistance.”

  Brian opens his milk carton and slurps it. “Agree. I’m thinkin’ we’re more like the idea guys.”

  “Exactly. We need someone who can help us make the desk-evator. Did Mark Zuckerberg design Facebook alone? No, he thought of the idea, then got genius-type people to help him make it happen.”

  Brian nods, keeps eating.

  “I mean, the whole point is to show people how great standing desks would be in school, but we can’t screw up the invention with some embarrassing piece of junk that doesn’t even work.”

  “Right.”

  I slap my hand on the table and the spoon falls out of Brian’s yogurt. “So what we have to do is to rent a genius.”

  He picks up the spoon and licks it. “Too bad there’s not an app for that. Maybe we should contact Zuckerberg.”

  “We don’t have to. Romanov is right here.”

  Brian’s mouth drops open and some yogurt dribbles onto his chin. “Romanov.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you nuts? One, he’s already doing his own project, and two, why would he help us?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he hates sitting too. Did you ever think of that?”

  “No. Things like that don’t bother Romanov. He’s a machine.”

  We look over to the table by the vending area where Romanov sits. He’s on one end, and this kid with big hair is at the other end. That’s it, no one else. Romanov has what looks like a package of sushi in front of him, and a black water bottle to match his black skinny jeans. He’s reading. I can’t tell what, but it’s a book with about four million times more pages than The Carrot Seed. After a few minutes of watching the guy, I can tell you he hasn’t raised his eyes from the book once. Excellent focus. Just what we need.

  Brian shakes his head. “I don’t know. If I was Romanov, and I’m glad I’m not because I would be scared of myself, why would I bother to help two guys like us?”

  “Because maybe we’ll be the first people in school history who talk to him?”

  “He doesn’t care about that, obviously.”

  “Everyone cares about that. Anyway, the thing is”—I lower my voice—“after yesterday, I’m not sure we can make the desk-evator without a brain like him.”

  “Good point.”

  I get up, and Mrs. Hinkley, one of the monitors, eyes me. “I’m just going to talk to someone,” I say.

  Hinkley brushes her hand like, be quick about it.

  I start walking toward Romanov. The guy doesn’t glance up once, not when it’s pretty clear I’m heading his way, and not when I sit down across from him.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  “How ya doin’?”

  He flicks his eyes from the book like I’m barely worth his time. His eyes are dark brown, almost black. I can’t even see the pupils.

  “I’m Ethan Marcus,” I start, and then he goes (still not looking at me), “I know who you are.”

  Not like that’s creepy or anything.

  “Well, so I was wondering if you might give me and my friend Brian Kowalski a hand with our Invention Day project. We’re trying to make something so kids can stand at their desks—”

  He carefully fol
ds over the corner of the page he’s reading, then closes the book and sets it down. “I do my own projects.”

  “I know that, but we just need some advice, a little guidance, maybe. You can still do your own project. I’m not asking you to—”

  He shakes his head, but not in a normal way. Just one slight motion to the right and an even slighter one to the left. “I don’t give advice.”

  “Okay, not advice. We just have a few questions, and I thought—”

  His shoulders drop and he does this long sigh, like I’m annoying him and he wishes I would leave. “If you can’t do your project, you should not be doing Invention Day. There is no room for people who are not serious.”

  Whoa. Okay. I go for the Hail Mary. “You could, like, hang out with me and Brian. I have a really cool basement—”

  “No.” He picks up the book. It’s Shakespeare; an old, thick, worn-out gigantic book that looks like it’s actually from when Shakespeare lived. I guess that means this conversation is over?

  I stand. “Nice talking to you, Marlon.”

  I hurry toward my table before Hinkley can nail me. Then I see my sister—and a few other kids, including Wesley—staring at me. Erin’s shaking her head the Erin way—disgusted, aggravated, mad.

  “How could you?” she mouths.

  I shrug like I don’t know what she means, and then she whips around so her back is to me.

  When I reach my table, Brian goes, “Went well?”

  I nod. “Very.”

  “Back to you and me, engineer brains that we are?”

  I grit my teeth. “We’re gonna do this. Somehow. We’re going to make a desk-evator. I promise you.”

  He fake-coughs. “Like you promised I wouldn’t get sick on that upside-down roller coaster?”

  “This,” I say, “is different. I don’t want to win, I want to change the rules. For me, for you, for kids in school everywhere.” I make a fist. “Our time has come. Scoma time.”

  Brian claps. “Nice speech.”

  “Are you with me?”

  He glances in Jamie’s direction. “Sure.”

  I plunk onto the bench. “Thanks.”

  “Ah, forget about Romanov,” Brian says. “He’s weird and we don’t need him.”

  “You bet we don’t. We got this.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Big Deal

  ERIN

  What in the world was my brother doing? I know he has a thing about me getting better grades, and generally being an all-around more together person (never late with assignments, never lose homework, always working ahead), but I never dreamed he would go this far. Talking to the enemy? If Ethan told Marlon anything about my Invention Day project, this would absolutely be the worst thing he’s ever done to me.

  When I get home after school, he’s not there. Of course, he’s walking. I pace around the kitchen, eating an apple, rehearsing what I plan to say the minute he comes in the door. He strolls in around four thirty with his jacket unzipped and his shoes untied. I pounce. “Ethan! What were you doing at lunch talking to Marlon Romanov?”

  He gives me that chill, unworried look of his. “Calm down.”

  “Don’t say that. I am not calming down. Please explain!”

  He opens the fridge and takes out something wrapped in foil. “Is this the pizza from last week?”

  I stamp my foot. “I don’t know!”

  He unwraps the foil; it is the pizza, and he takes a huge bite. “Stop freaking out, Erin. I just thought Romanov could give us an assist. We’re having some issues with our project, and I asked if he could help us.”

  “But . . . I offered to help you.”

  Ethan shrugs, eats more of the pizza.

  “Besides, you know that’s against the rules. You and Brian signed up together; you can’t work with another person. And why would you go to him, of all people? You know Marlon’s my archenemy.”

  Ethan rolls his eyes. “Your archenemy? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

  “No, not at all. So that’s it? You didn’t tell him anything about what Zoe and I are doing?”

  “I didn’t, I swear. You actually think I’d do that?”

  “I wasn’t sure what was going on!”

  “Well, don’t worry, he blew me off. Barely said a word.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He opens the fridge again, then closes it. “Can I ask you something? Why are you always so mad at me?”

  “Not always. Just, a lot. And it’s . . . well, if I had to sum it up, it’s because of how you are.”

  “How I am. What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. You do stuff, and things happen, or don’t happen, and you’re all like, no big deal, no worries, and you charm everyone, it always somehow works out, and Mom and Dad end up thinking you’re the best son ever.”

  “Okay, that makes sense.”

  “Come on. Like when you broke that vase after Mom told you over and over not to play volleyball in the house. You ignore her, shatter the vase, then put a twenty-dollar bill on her desk and get a tear in your eye and tell her how sorry you are. And she’s all like, ‘Thank you for being honest and owning up to your mistake.’ ”

  “Why would you be mad at that? It had nothing to do with you.”

  I shake my head. “Then there was that time at Mom’s friend’s outdoor wedding.”

  “What?”

  “The puppy, the pond?”

  “Oh yeah.” He starts laughing. “It was drowning.”

  “It was not drowning. Dogs can swim, and you did not have to jump into the pond in your suit to rescue it. You’d think everyone would’ve been mad, but somehow they found it hilarious. Someone posted a video, remember? It got hundreds of likes.”

  He grins. “What can I say?”

  “The worst, though, is when we stayed in that hotel and you were obsessed with the waffle machine.”

  “Yeah. Good times.”

  “WAFFLES!” I shout. “You were so busy making waffles for everyone in the breakfast area, and then Dad joined in and he lost track of the time, and do you remember how we ended up missing our flight?”

  Ethan groans. “That happened, like, two years ago. You’re still mad about it?”

  “It’s just, everything! And now, you go ask Marlon for help, not even thinking how it’ll make me feel?”

  “You’d be mad no matter what I did! And with the waffles, what was the big deal anyway? We got on the next flight, right? We got home.”

  I can’t help it, I start to cry. “See, there you go. You’re doing it right now—the ‘What’s the big deal?’ thing. Did you ever stop to think that what’s not a big deal to you might be a big deal to me?” I grab my backpack and start to leave the kitchen.

  “Just say it, Erin. You hate me.”

  I stop, turn back, swallow hard. “It’s more like grate.”

  “Great?”

  “Grate on my nerves. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  He nods. “I’m fingernails on a chalkboard. Thanks.”

  He goes down to the basement and I go upstairs to my room, then shut the door. I try not to give in to the crying because I don’t like when that happens.

  That day? The waffle/missed flight day? I’ll tell you what happened. My best friend at the time—a girl I’d known since second grade—was moving away, and I told her I’d be back in time to say good-bye. When we finally got home, I ran the entire four blocks to her house. She was gone. No moving van, no cars. Nothing.

  Her house was sad and lonely, and I couldn’t even bear to look at it. We’d spent so much time there. We had so many inside jokes and memories.

  I’d bought matching friendship bracelets on our trip, one for her and one for me, and I was so excited to give her the bracelet as a good-bye gift.

  On the walk back to my house, I threw them both as far as I could. I didn’t even watch where they landed. Hopefully in someone’s trash.

  I sobbed about
it to Mom, and she said she felt terrible. But the thing was, it happened and it couldn’t ever be fixed.

  I didn’t bother telling Ethan. He wouldn’t have understood. And besides, even if I had, what difference would it make? He’s the way he is and I’m the way I am and it’s never going to change. We just don’t get each other. Our brains don’t work the same way.

  I admit there’ve been times I secretly wished I was an only child. I look at people who are close with their siblings and hang out with them all the time, like Zoe and her little sister, and Parneeta and her older brother. Then I’m not mad, just really, really sad. And I realize how much of a big deal it is, having a brother like Ethan.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Glaring and Staring

  ETHAN

  Brian and I try more, and fail more. Whatever we make either falls apart or doesn’t work. It’s time to phone a friend.

  I stop at Gilardi’s room one morning and tell her I’m having trouble. She gives me a list of websites to check out and suggests I ask the librarian for some books on simple machines.

  “Think pulleys,” she says. “Or perhaps, levers. Then, if you’re still stuck, what I like to do is get away from it for a while. I often find that the best ideas come when I’m not trying so hard.” She holds up her knitting. “Some people walk, others do yoga. I knit.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, walking out. I kind of get what she’s saying, but yoga? Knitting? Uh . . . I don’t think so.

  Brian and I find a bucket of Legos in my closet that somehow escaped Goodwill, and we build a desk-evator model. We get really excited; then we look at it and go, okay, now what? How do we translate it to the real thing?

  “Maybe we can use this?” Brian says.

  “At Invention Day?” I ask. “No.”

  Brian’s mom takes us to her office so we can see an actual standing desk. But the one she has isn’t what I imagined. It’s big and has a separate tray for her keyboard and looks even more complicated than the one the guy made on YouTube.