by Richard Peck
“What about the voice?”
“That’s just now happening. I’m up and down with it. But it’s pretty deep this morning, which is great since it’s the first day of middle school.”
Rub it in, I thought. “Great,” I said.
“And look here.” Josh pointed to his chin. “I’m about to rock some teenage acne.”
“Way to go,” I muttered, and he went.
Bells rang. Everybody was sitting. I looked for a seat over in the invisible section.
Nothing happened until a girl kind of slinked up to the next seat. Out of the corner of my eye she had more of a seventh-grade vibe. Was she going to sit down? She made a fist and popped me on the shoulder, hard. The pain was intense and knocked me half out of the chair.
Lynette.
“Lynette? Look at you!” I rubbed my shoulder in disbelief. There was less of her but more shape. I can’t describe it. She was still eleven, but twelve was clearly on the way.
I wasn’t familiar with her hair. “Lynette, what happened?”
“Camp happened.” She sat down, crossed a leg. “Weight-reduction no-carbs camp.”
“Wait a minute. It wasn’t vocabulary camp? Because I asked your dad—”
“It was fat camp with forced marches,” Lynette said.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to use the fat word.”
“You can use it now.” Lynette looked down herself. “I had to get all new clothes. I’m going for a skirt and boots look. Is it working?”
“I guess,” I said. “I mean yes. But what about your hair?”
“There was too much of it once there was less of me. I looked like a demented dandelion. After I got back to civilization, Mrs. Stanley took me for a cut and some feathering. Then we decided to tone down the color.”
“You dyed your hair?”
“Rinsed,” Lynette said, “with some lowlights. New school, new look, right? And how hilarious is it that Natalie’s new stepbrother is Jackson Showalter—probably still two feet tall and heavily armed! You can’t make this stuff up. Do you suppose the two of them were ring bearers at the wedding?”
“How did you even hear this where you were?”
“The paper. I read it online. We were really off the grid up there in the Upper Peninsula. It was like Hatchet, so if I hadn’t been reading the paper—”
“Right,” I said. “You and Josh Hunnicutt.”
Lynette pointed at the two teachers sorting us out. “You can see where that’s heading,” she said. “Three sixth-grade classes into two homerooms. Do the math. It won’t be just our Westside class. We’ll be divided up and mixed in with these other people we don’t know.”
I hadn’t done the math.
“Poor us,” Lynette said. “Poor troops. In case they split us up, meet me for lunch. Not the food court. It’s what they call the cafeteria, and I’m hearing the seventh graders are going to run it as a scam. They shake you down. They charge admission, like a cover charge. But we’ll only have lunch together today, because I’m going to have to find some girls to hang with. I’ve got some peer-grouping to do.”
Now they were getting ready to divide us in half. The woman teacher was Ms. Roebuck. I never knew who the man teacher was.
“And for your information,” Lynette said, “I’ve dropped the ette.”
“The what?”
“The ette. From now on, I’m Lynn, not Lynette. I was never a Lynette anyway. It was never me, and it’s not the me I want to be.”
“Is Mrs. Stanley going to call you Lynn?”
“Probably not. She’s too old to change, but you aren’t.”
Her eyebrows rose up. They were new too. Plucked or whatever. And more black than red. I squinted at her. “Who are you?” I said. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m Lynn,” she said, and made another fist to help me remember.
17
Lockers turned out not to be a problem. Eighth graders didn’t use them, and they’d won this battle long ago. Eighth graders liked the look of carrying all their stuff in a backpack from class to class all day. It worked with their casual image. Like they were just passing through. Like they’d be in high school before seventh period.
And what the eighth graders did, we all did.
But there are always myths about middle school. I can think of three, and one of them was about lockers.
MIDDLE SCHOOL MYTH #1
The administration claimed they had taken off the locker doors because people were leaving things in them, for months: smelly food, outgrown shoes, other stuff. But the story was that they’d taken off the doors when they found a human hand in a locker.
Gross, right? A human hand severed at the wrist and wearing a class ring. Sometimes an ID bracelet, but no ID. Sometimes it’s a foot, with a sock.
The rest of the story was that an ancient high school had stood here before they built the middle school. Then when they were digging up the old foundation to build the new foundation, they discovered a skeleton wearing nothing but a cap that read: “Class of 1917.”
In some of the tellings, the body is missing one hand. In others, both hands. Anyway, after they built the middle school, a human hand kept appearing in one locker after another. Mummified.
Annoying, and one of the main secrets of the Board of Education. You’ll notice they were able to keep it out of the newspapers, which everybody but me reads.
When they got tired of burying hands in the dark of night, on school property, they took the doors off the lockers. This has solved the problem, so far. But who can say for the future? This was a story we liked better than the truth, so we sort of believed it.
MIDDLE SCHOOL MYTH #2
And this is a total myth: that middle school teachers are smarter than elementary school teachers. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Mr. McLeod knew the most of all the teachers we’d ever had, put together. And he hadn’t even graduated yet. Also, Mrs. Stanley was smarter than we’d noticed. Just to make us learn things on our own, she’d pretended not to know. Ms. Roebuck didn’t have to pretend. Lynn Stanley and I ended up in her homeroom along with four Joshes, both Emmas, Esther Wilhelm, and Raymond Petrovich. And half the Eastside and Central Elementary people.
One thing about Ms. Roebuck: She was totally absentminded. She drove a Chevy Volt, and it burned a ton of gas because she’d forget to charge it up. She’d come to school smelling like an oil rig because she’d carried a can of gas down the side of the road from the Shell station, back to her Volt.
We liked her fine. She didn’t yell and she never tried to tell us stories about when she went to school.
“Maybe she didn’t,” murmured Lynn Stanley.
I forget what she taught. It wasn’t computer science. Morning attendance was computerized in a system Ms. Roebuck never got a handle on. The first day she sent out a send-all e-mail to our parents, reporting us absent. All of us.
This could have led to a parent revolt and another lockdown. An Amber Alert. Anything. But lucky for Ms. Roebuck, Raymond Petrovich was there and ready.
She got out of his way, and he sent another e-mail to our parents, countermanding the first one.
“Thank you, Josh,” said Ms. Roebuck to Raymond, from the bottom of her heart. From Day One he was our permanent attendance officer. This didn’t solve everything. Whenever Ms. Roebuck even walked past the computer, she’d set it off. One time parents heard that we’d been sent to the nurse. All of us. One day we all went to the counselor. “It may have something to do with her magnetic force field,” Raymond said, and did what he could.
MIDDLE SCHOOL MYTH #3
If you tried to eat in the food court at noon, seventh graders would shake you down and steal your phone.
No, wait. That was no myth. That was the truth.
But Lynn Stanley had googled the school floor plan and saw that they’d dr
ained the indoor pool for insurance reasons. She figured the room with the empty pool would be a “dank and sequestered” place that would work for our lunch.
It was dank all right. We sat on a bottom bleacher in there that first noon. She looked into my lunch. “Are those croutons? I haven’t seen a crouton since June. All we ate at fat camp was kale. Bales of kale.”
“What is it?”
“Like lettuce but without the personality,” she said.
A chlorine smell in here reminded me of Holly on summer nights.
“You know why they drained the pool?”
“Insurance reasons?”
“Wrong,” said Lynn Stanley. “The girls didn’t want to get their hair wet. We may be lunching together permanently. I’m having second thoughts about peer-grouping with girls. I mean, have you seen them? And why are they all named either Sienna or Peyton? And what about the piercing on the girls from Central Elementary? What are they thinking?”
“Nothing?” I said.
“Exactly,” said Lynn.
She was never going to do a lot of peer-grouping with girls. It wasn’t her.
“What’s in that bottle you’re drinking out of?” I inquired.
“A wheatgrass smoothie.” She wiped off a mustache.
“What’s it taste like?”
“Like an open field,” she said, “with cow pies.”
Then out of nowhere she said, “I’ll probably marry Raymond Petrovich. It crossed my mind when he was canceling our absences on e-mail this morning. He’s a take-charge guy.”
“I thought you weren’t ever going to get married,” I said, “end of story.”
“I was in elementary school when I said that. I’ve moved on. And don’t throw everything I say back in my face.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m looking for serious, not exciting. And Raymond’s really smart.”
“A little nerdy,” I offered.
“And probably a future dot-com billionaire. We’ll probably be living somewhere in the Bay Area.”
“Maybe you’ll marry somebody you don’t meet till you’re grown. Would that be so weird?”
“You can wait too long, you know, and the good ones are gone.” She was looking back into my lunch. “Are you going to eat that last crouton?”
“It’s yours,” I said, and watched her make a meal of it.
“But what I wanted to say is, I’m sorry about your grandpa. I should have sent you a card from camp.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “He had a good life, and it fit him like a glove. Uncle Paul and I scattered about a tablespoon of him on Wrigley Field. Then we went for a burger.”
Lynn seemed to think this was fairly interesting. A lot of what I had to say didn’t interest her at all.
“Did I tell you Uncle Paul’s gay?” I asked.
“Did you need to?” she answered.
“Oh, right. I forgot. You know everything.”
“I know that,” Lynn said. “Where were you in second grade when Mrs. Canova read us Daddy’s Roommate?”
“I thought it was fiction.”
“Then that spring she read us And Tango Makes Three.”
“I thought that was about penguins.”
Lynn Stanley sighed.
So she wasn’t all that different. New name. New shape. But basically the old Lynette, always with a plan, always knowing everything. Always thinking she could see the future.
But she couldn’t.
18
Then in another week or ten days we were total middle-schoolers. We looked in the rearview mirror, and elementary school was a dot in the distance.
In homeroom we were even easing in with the other sixes, the ones from Eastside and Central. One of the Siennas—Sienna Searcy from Eastside—was a total Natalie Schuster clone.
“We’re cursed,” Lynn Stanley muttered. “We’re doomed.”
One of the guys from Central wore a T-shirt three days running that read:
ZOMBIES EAT BRAINS
SO YOU’LL BE OKAY
I wouldn’t say we all bonded, but we got through homeroom together every morning.
On the Friday before Labor Day weekend the printer on Ms. Roebuck’s desk spat out a message from the office. Ms. Roebuck wasn’t safe around the printer either. It started printing out copies for all of us till Raymond Petrovich stepped in.
Working off the printout, Ms. Roebuck said, “Class, when you come back on Tuesday, we’ll have a new member. A foreign student named Hilary Evelyn Calthorpe.”
Raymond was keeping busy around her, computing the morning attendance. “What are these words, Josh?” Ms. Roebuck showed him.
“It looks like differently abled,” Raymond said. “We could use a new ink cartridge. I’ll print myself a hall pass and get one out of supplies.”
So after the holiday, we’d be having a new foreign, differently abled classmate named Hilary Evelyn Calthorpe.
“Is that it? Is that all we know about this person?” Sienna Searcy barked out. “I mean, what are we supposed to do, lead her from class to class? Honestly, we already have too many people in this homeroom.” Sienna looked around at us. “And most of them are people you never even heard of. Seriously, what next?”
But Ms. Roebuck didn’t know anything. At her elbow the printer began printing out hall passes for us all.
• • •
Then it was Saturday. Dad and I were in a rented 4x4 with a trailer hitch, pulling the vintage Nash Rambler, bound for the automobile museum in Kenosha. We were a little worried that you needed a permit to tow a vehicle on the interstate. Or as Dad put it, “Let’s get an early start and hope for the best.” We were wearing swim trunks under our shorts in case we found a lake to jump into.
So far so good as we pulled off for a quick breakfast. Right away the Rambler drew a crowd of car freaks with their cameras out. It never looked better: the turquoise and cream paint job, the rustless chrome, the upholstery hand-sewn by Dad.
And when we got to Kenosha, the museum people were pretty excited. There was paperwork, and Dad is more businesslike than you’d expect. He showed me the check, and it wasn’t bad for a summer’s work. “Better than working the night shift at Jack in the Box,” as he said.
By afternoon we were heading west on 50 toward Lake Geneva. Uncle Paul had rented a cottage up there for summer weekends, but hadn’t invited us. Were we inviting ourselves?
“Are we going to Uncle Paul’s place?”
“We might drop by,” Dad said. “There’s plenty of day left.”
We came up over a rise, and there was the lake. Blue, almost black, with little white sails like sharks’ teeth. Puffy clouds. Blue sky. Another perfect place, like Wrigley Field.
We crept through the town traffic. Then we were over on the Williams Bay side. We’d been up here in the winter for ice boating but now it was dense and different. We turned off the road and bumped down a track. A bunch of little cottages clustered around a pier. Two cars were pulled up on the side. One was a beat-up Kia. The other was Uncle Paul’s car, a white convertible Audi A3, turbocharged. Custom cherry upholstery. Basically a dressed-up VW, but very hot, very cool.
The path between the cottages dropped down to the pier. There sat Uncle Paul in trunks and a canvas hat next to an ice chest. His feet were in the water. Another guy was on his other side, also with his feet in the water. They were sitting close, and their heads were closer.
They both looked up when they heard us. The other guy was Mr. McLeod.
I didn’t see this coming.
Did you? Because I didn’t.
Did they see us coming? Probably not, and Uncle Paul looked really surprised. He’d rubbed sunblock over his shoulders. He’d definitely been working out. Needless to say, so had Mr. McLeod.
“Hey, guys, sittin’ on the d
ock of the bay?” Dad said, which may have been a code.
What were we up to?
Dad eased out of his shorts, shirt, shoes. He made a pile of them on the pier and folded his shades on top. Then he dropped into the lake in his baggy trunks.
“Hey, Uncle Paul,” I said.
“Hey, Archer.” He put up a big hand. He was friendly, but it was like Dad and I were crowding him a little bit.
I pointed out past the pier. “Hey, Mr. McLeod. North, right?” Since he loves directions.
“It’s east, Archer. Good to see you. How’s middle school?”
“We haven’t learned anything yet,” I told him. “We could use you back. And the brownies.”
I made a pile of my clothes and jumped in the water. Dad was out there, just climbing onto the float. He has his own swimming style, but he gets there.
I don’t exactly cut through the water, but I get there too. I pulled up on the float that had a little bounce to it. There’s just room for two. The sun was dazzling, like diamonds on the water. We were already half dry and wouldn’t be here long without sunblock. We stretched out on our stomachs.
I almost dozed, but said, “Dad, Uncle Paul said he loved somebody. You know what? I bet it’s Mr. McLeod.”
“You may be onto something, Archer,” Dad said.
The sun was intense, but this was the last day of August. There was a little hint of something else in the air. Change.
“Dad, we didn’t come up here just to jump in the lake, did we?”
“No,” Dad said, “but it’s great.”
“And we didn’t come up here just to remind Uncle Paul he’d forgotten to invite us, right?”
“No,” Dad said, “but you’re getting warmer.”
“Dad, let’s not play games. What’s happening?”
“Your uncle Paul has a long history of talking himself out of relationships. He cuts and runs.”
“Why does he do that?”
Dad was up on an elbow, looking back at the pier.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe because he hadn’t met Ed McLeod yet.”
