by Anne Kalicky
It made me think of Zombieland, my video game. I was afraid a skeleton or something like that would crawl out of the hole. Since this whole thing had made me a little sad, at the end of the trip I went to a souvenir shop and bought key chains with the names of my parents and Marion.
The good news is that I found out the fur on my new down coat is removable. I took it off and, for some reason, left it on my bed. Later, I heard Grandma screaming in my room. When we came to see what was going on, she was hitting the fur with a broom.
Tuesday
Dear future human,
I’ll spare you the details about the return to school, because there’s something MUCH MORE important:
Yeah, I saw the commercial on TV! So as far as Christmas gifts are concerned, I need to make sure my game is under the tree. I figured this was a good time to ask my parents for a little raise in my allowance. First I just wanted to bring it up with my dad. We understand each other when it’s just us guys. But when Dad came home from work, he was in a terrible mood: his Russian clients canceled an order for one thousand sinks.
I wanted to broach the subject at dinner, but Marion beat me to it. She has to be telepathic . . . it’s not possible . . . I’m missing something! But when my dad started doing conversions in rubles, I let it go.
Friday
Dear future human,
This morning while thinking about this whole allowance thing, I told my dad that we needed to spend more time together. I suggested that he come pick me up from school and then we could go wash the car together. At CarClean, I began washing the rims with a little brush. Up to this point, everything was going great. Then my dad moved the car forward to go up on the rollers. I was waving my arms to guide him. Then he got out of the car before the big machine started up. We watched the car disappear into the tunnel. I suddenly realized that I’d left my window half-open . . . but it was too late—the inside of the car was soaked! But the worst part was that my backpack was sitting in the back seat. And when the dryers started, I saw all of my homework papers flying around the inside of the car.
To top it off, I watched in horror as the math test Mr. Tamisole had returned to us that morning became stuck to the back window.
Monday
Dear future human,
After this incident, I permanently abandoned the idea of asking my dad for a raise in my allowance. However, I just thought of the PERFECT idea for my Christmas gifts this year: I’m going to collect coupons! Nonchalantly, I went to see my dad and told him I’d get the mail every day through December. JACKPOT! He said yes right away. I started my collection with a couple that weren’t too shabby.
Wednesday
I just realized something: the month of December isn’t the best time to collect coupons. Of course! You think “marketing” folks are stupid? They know that, unless we do away with Christmas, people are obligated to buy something this month.
Result: if I just stick with my own mailbox, I won’t get very far. So, I decided to go door-to-door to the neighbors and offer to do little jobs in exchange for coupons.
So, I established a plan:
MONDAY
Mrs. Quinion—>bring in her mail
TUESDAY
Miss Roudan—>walk her dog
WEDNESDAY
Mr. Lopez—>buy his bread
THURSDAY
Mrs. Martin—>scrape her windshield
FRIDAY
Mr. Lupus—>prune his hedge
SATURDAY and SUNDAY—> rest.
Hey, hey! Don’t you think my intelligence is extremely evolved for my century?
Friday
Today, Mr. Lupus gave me a coupon that’s worth more than gold: a scratch card to possibly win a trip to a winter resort!
Thursday
Dear future human,
Today, the principal brought us all into the auditorium to talk about Operation Rice Bowl for next week. It’s a fundraiser for kids around the world who don’t have enough to eat.
He explained how it works: we all have to bring in a bag of rice and drop it off in the cafeteria. The Friday before winter break, we’re only going to be allowed one bowl of rice to eat in the lunchroom. The money saved on lunch will be used to buy food for underprivileged children or for orphans. If we’re really generous, we can also bring in canned food, boxes of pasta, or other “nonperishable” food to send to the children.
I thought this was a nice idea, especially since Célia and Naïs are in charge of keeping the list of collected food items.
Friday
Dear future human,
I dropped off my bag of golden rice in the cafeteria and a huge can of fruit in the collection box (my favorite kind, on top of that—with the maraschino cherries). Go figure that Enzo Danleau’s mom sent a note to the office that day saying that Enzo would eat “at home” next Friday because he is allergic to rice. . . .
Tuesday
I came home from school with Tom, and we were in a hurry because I had to walk Rocky, Miss Roudan’s dog. Tom said he’d come with me. You should know that Miss Roudan’s dog had an accident two years ago when a car ran over his back legs. Since then, he has only three legs, and he limps. But he’s still got to have exercise to stay healthy, so that’s why he needs to be walked often. Since I have the keys, I went to Miss Roudan’s house, I found Rocky, I put on his leash, and we went out for a stroll. But after about ten minutes we ran into Naïs and Célia.
I was showing off a little with Rocky—like, “Look how good I am with animals.” Ladies love animals. Then I tied his leash to a post because the girls wanted me to look at the list of items for Operation Rice Bowl with them. I made sure they knew the bag of golden rice and the canned fruit WITH candied cherries were from me. I was showing off again because ladies love generous guys like me. They left, and when I turned around, Rocky was gone.
Tom and I looked EVERYWHERE, but there was no trace of him. Still, with his three paws he couldn’t have gotten too far. There was only one thing we could do: make posters. Tom and I booked it to my house and started drawing pictures of Rocky. The sketch wasn’t very flattering, but it would work.
I took some tape and hung up our posters everywhere—except for the route Miss Roudan usually takes to get home.
But after almost an hour, it was obvious the posters weren’t doing much.
Suddenly, Tom thought of something else: “What about the Japanese restaurant? I had heard a rumor that Japanese people apparently eat dogs!”
I grabbed Tom by his jacket and we bolted. As luck would have it, he was right! They had Rocky. They’d found him outside their door and were waiting for someone to claim him. . . . But, OK, I couldn’t shake the image of Rocky inside a sushi roll.
I brought him back to Miss Roudan at the exact moment she got home. While I was doing that, Tom was taking down all of our posters. To show my gratitude, I gave him the scratch card to win a trip to a winter resort. . . .
Wednesday
Tom and I went through the secret passage today, and we saw that the graffiti had changed yet again. It was weird—it said:
Between finding Rocky at the Japanese restaurant and Operation Rice Bowl, I’m beginning to ask myself some questions. . . .
Friday
Dear future human,
Operation Rice Bowl was today. We all went to the lunchroom—except Enzo Danleau. He was crying when his mom came to pick him up at lunch, because I think he really wanted to participate. In the cafeteria line they served us a big plate of rice, and the principal rattled off an ENDLESS speech on generosity. Célia and Naïs were
organizing the last of the donations in boxes. Naïs is so pretty. But that moron Lucas Saillard—you know, one of Raoul’s three goons—had stashed a chocolate bar in his coat pocket. He wanted to seem cool in front of Raoul and the two others, but his plan backfired. Raoul immediately went to tell on him.
Evidently, at that very moment, Célia and Naïs were standing next to the principal to give him the list of donations. In front of the girls, Raoul started bragging about how “loyal” he was to report those who weren’t “working for the greater good.” As for me, I think there’s nothing worse than betraying your friends.
December 23
Dear future human,
Ta-da! I am pleased to inform you that my collection of coupons is officially complete:
Lisa wanted to help out—she thought my idea was great. We wrapped everything and put names on all the presents. It’s gonna be a huge hit!
December 25
Dear future human,
My plan didn’t turn out AT ALL like I’d hoped. Since we put the named gift tags on the presents AFTER we’d wrapped them all, everything got mixed up. What do you think happened?
The cherry on top all of this was that Lisa thought my idea was SO great that she wanted to do the same thing. Except she’s only eight years old, and she isn’t exactly great at picking out gifts for people yet. So that means we all found ourselves with coupons for a free quote for roof restoration, a reduction on tree pruning, a complimentary property estimate, a trip to a mosque, and even a guided visit of a funeral home.
The whole thing completely fell apart. As for me, I guess it could have been worse. Marion gave me her eight-color pen, even though I haven’t wanted it for about three years.
In Grandpa Joff and Grandma Ragny’s present I found a big mouse head and a long body split down the middle with a zipper. They explained that it was a pair of pajamas. Grandma Ragny told me she bought it at the store and that, if I wanted to, I could exchange it for the hippopotamus version. When people say that age eleven is when kids become ungrateful, I CAN CONFIRM! I had only one more present to unwrap—the one from my parents—and in it I found . . .
I called Tom right away and asked him to come over and play my shiny new game. He told me that his parents had scratched the ticket for the trip to the winter resort . . . and they won!
Monday
Dear future human,
Here I am back at school, and it’s starting off GREAT! Mr. Schmitt announced that in April “pen pals” from England are going to visit us here in France. Each one of us will host a student for a week, but beforehand we’re going to write each other via email during technology class with Mrs. Boulauche. Since Mr. Schmitt wants to show off his “perfect” students, he came up with a new rule. When he enters the classroom, now we have to stand up. And when he says:
—GOOD MORNING, CLASS!
We have to respond:
—GOOD MORNING, TEACHER!
If you ask me, it’s pretty lame.
Friday
Dear future human,
I’ve been back in school for a week, and I can officially inform you that the gymnastics unit is over. Boy, am I happy! Now it’s time for the pool unit with Mr. Ramoupoulos. I have to say, I’m rather gifted in the art of swimming, thanks to Grandpa Joff. He was the one who taught me how to swim during our visits to Brittany. First, he had me make a starfish in the sand. Then, when he thought I was ready, he went to see his mechanic friend, Bruno, to pick up an inner tube. He would tie it to the roof of the car, and when we got to the beach, I used it as my life preserver. But one day, the inner tube flew off the roof without anyone noticing, and we never found it. Anyway, you could say I wasn’t exactly worried this morning. Unfortunately, that didn’t last for long. When I got to the locker room, I realized the swim trunks my mom had bought me were way too small. I guess it was sort of my fault because I hadn’t felt like trying them on in the store.
It took three good attempts to get my swim cap on, and I nearly lost an eye and caused some premature balding in the process.
I don’t know why, but public pools are always cold and scary. They must add some strange concoction to the chlorine or something like that, because when you breathe, it immediately gives you a panic attack!
But I think it was even WORSE for Enzo Danleau. His mom tried to get him a medical exemption, but no luck—his doctor was a strong proponent of sports and wasn’t hearing any of it. So, to encourage him, Enzo’s mom had bought him a swimsuit with Baywatch written on it. To be honest, Enzo looked pretty sharp in his swim trunks, but the poor guy’s teeth were chattering, and he was shaking so much that he slipped into the footbath.
Dear future human, the footbath is the stupidest invention ever. You’re supposed to dip your feet into it to clean them before you enter the pool water, but really every species of bacteria in the entire world is just splashing around inside it.
At least that’s what I thought. . . . I didn’t want to put my feet in there, not until Mr. Ramoupoulos pushed me in and explained that the footbath contains a disinfectant that actually kills the germs.
After that, Mr. Ramoupoulos was waiting for us, sitting on the edge of the pool. He blew his whistle and then introduced us to David, our swimming coach—a mountain of muscles with an enormous neck and a tiny little mustache.
He spoke loudly, informing the class that we were going to take a swimming test that would separate us into groups by skill level. I told myself that I’d start slow, not showing what I was capable of right away. In the shallow end, I pretended not to be able to swim. I flailed my arms and legs around wildly and spat water. I was placed in the group—the one staying in the shallow end—with Enzo Danleau. Tom found himself in the yellow group, for average swimmers, and Raoul Kador was in the red group. For a second I relaxed. Then all of a sudden, Enzo inexplicably started sinking . . . even though he could touch the bottom. Courageous as I am, I didn’t hesitate to help him.
I’m familiar with the rescue hold, because last year Marion got her lifeguard certification and she practiced on me. I dived to the bottom and grabbed Enzo under the arms. I then heroically brought him up with all of my strength, and I swam back to the steps with him in tow. For a minute it felt like I was in a TV show: tropical ambience, sunset, palm trees, and plenty of girls admiring my bravery. Just as I was hoping Naïs hadn’t missed A SECOND of my rescue, suddenly I heard Mr. Ramoupoulos’s deadly whistle. From the edge of the deep end, he gestured for me to join the red group.
Thursday
When I woke up this morning and painfully dragged myself to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and saw that I had an enormous zit on my nose . . . right in the middle! Absolutely hideous . . . I’m positive I caught this thing at the pool. Dear future human, I hope that in your time, researchers have successfully modified human DNA to permanently remove the “acne” gene that’s been ruining my life for the past few months. I dug around in my mom’s makeup bag and stumbled upon a tube full of beige cover-up cream—which I was sure would save the day. I put a little on my nose, spread it around, and then checked in the mirror. It worked! It was hardly visible. I left for school. Tom wasn’t at our meeting spot, so I sent him a text.
And on the wall of the secret passage, there were red swim trunks drawn with “S.O.S.” written underneath. . . . It reminded me of Enzo Danleau’s pair. Strange. The mysterious graffiti artist couldn’t actually be Enzo, could it?
With Tom being absent and still no explanation for the perplexing graffiti . . . the day wasn’t off to a great start. All day long, I had the feeling that everyone was looking at me funny, staring at my nose. Some people, like Rami Nouch, were totally fixate
d on it. Well, Rami Nouch is nearsighted, and he’s squinting half the time, so that doesn’t really count. Anyway, I told myself it was all in my head and that I just had to stop thinking about my pimple, especially since it was well hidden under my mom’s cover-up cream. But in the middle of Mrs. Boulet’s French class, I heard people whispering my name. I started wondering why Lucas Saillard kept chuckling and calling me “Tigger.”
I pretended not to hear or let it bother me . . . but when I got home, the miserable reality was blindingly obvious, especially when Marion busted out laughing upon seeing me. . . .
