Homeroom Diaries

by James Patterson

  I lean forward to peer through the window. “A concert, or something?” I ask. “This is going to mess up the rally.”

  “We should’ve checked the town calendar.” He turns down a side street, but cars are parked on either side. We end up parking six blocks away and walking toward the town green. I feel the sun slanting in toward us, and I wonder if some of the mist will burn off and the snow will melt.

  As we get closer, we notice a lot of familiar faces on foot. “Hey, man,” Tommy Marinachi says.

  “Where you headed?” Tebow asks, pounding Tommy’s fist and nodding at a couple of other guys from the football team.

  “Scream Out,” Tommy replies, and my surprise hasn’t even had time to wear off before we turn a corner and come to the town green, which is thronged. I mean THRONGED. Yes—it’s so crowded that I need an SAT word to describe it.

  Horns are blaring, and traffic is totally messed up, and I see Zitsy standing at the microphone, looking joyful. The crowd is even better than I had dreamed it—all the Nations are represented. It’s like the High School UN. Even the Haters are there.

  “Was anyone expecting this many people?” I ask Brainzilla.

  “Dude, we are going to have a serious cookie shortage.” Zitsy chews a fingernail, then spits it out. Disgusting, but I totally understand the sentiment.

  “Are these guys expecting a speech or something?” Flatso asks. “Or celebrities? Why are they here?”

  “I didn’t really prepare anything.” Brainzilla is holding her hand over the microphone. “I didn’t think more than twenty people would come.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, and say the first true thing that occurs to me. “You can handle it,” I tell her.

  She heaves a deep breath. “Okay.” Brainzilla steps to the front of the stage, and Zitsy hands her the mic. I see her hand shaking, but her voice is solid as she says, “Are you ready to scream?”

  A few people shout, “Yeah,” and I wonder if they only just realized that we were the ones who organized this event. Please don’t leave, I think, but nobody does.

  “I said, ARE YOU READY TO SCREAM?!” Brainzilla shouts into the microphone.

  And this time, the response is deafening.

  All at once, everyone yells, “YEAH!”

  Chapter 65

  SCREAMING IS THE BEST MEDICINE

  One by one, familiar faces step up to the mic. And as they speak, they become real people to me.

  The fog has burned off, and the sun is out. The day is warming up, and I have to take off my hat to keep my brain from melting. I’ve never listened so hard for so long in my life, and I start yawning uncontrollably. But I don’t want to go home.

  A Twinkie I don’t know—Jim? Jeff?—hands me half a chocolate chip cookie, and I sit down on the grass. The cookie crumbles as I take a bite, sinking my teeth into a dense chunk of dark chocolate. Instantly, I feel more awake, and I realize that Zitsy was right about the importance of snacks.

  I’m surrounded by kids who are planted on the grass, listening as everyone sounds his or her own barbaric yawp over the green. Some people cry. One girl even gets up there and sings an Indigo Girls song. And everyone listens.

  We just listen.

  It’s like group therapy for the whole school. With cookies. And it’s mostly very peaceful.

  Chapter 66

  MY NAME IS MARGARET, OR MAGGIE, IF YOU LIKE

  Go ahead, Kooks,” Flatso says as she hands me the microphone. “Tell them how it is.”

  I’ve been standing on the grass and listening for about an hour, and I somehow drifted into the speaker’s line. I didn’t mean to. Well, I don’t think I meant to.

  Did I mean to?

  Tebow notices my hesitation, and says, “You don’t have to,” in this really gentle way that kind of makes me want to hug him and burst into tears at the same time.

  I nod and hand the microphone back to Flatso, but I also walk out to the center of the stage, so I guess my brain and body are still not quite in synch. I’m a little worried about what might happen next.

  “Can everyone hear me?” I ask.

  “Yes,” the crowd choruses. “Louder!” someone shouts from the back.

  “Um, hi. Hello. I’m, uh—I’m—” What’s my name? I think. For some reason, I don’t want to say, I’m Cuckoo.

  I look out at the crowd. Nobody shouts anything. Nobody boos.

  And then my eyes light upon Winnie. He’s standing at the center of the crowd, but the sunlight is shining on his hair and it’s like everyone else melts away. He’s the only person I can see, and he’s smiling. I remember him telling me that I could talk to him, if I ever needed to.

  Just pretend you’re talking to Winnie, I tell myself.

  “I’m Margaret,” I say. “Maggie. And I want to thank everyone for showing up today. We”—I look over at the Freakshow—“we really didn’t expect it.”

  And then someone in the crowd shouts, “We love you, Maggie!” A few people clap. Not even my friends—just people.

  “I love you, too,” I say. My eyes seek out Winnie, and he nods. “And I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. Look, I’ve lost a lot this year. My mom left. I had to go to a mental hospital for a while. My foster mother died. My friend… got sick. And that was really, really terrifying. For a while, I was barely holding on. But Brainzilla—Katie—had this idea that we should try to make other people happy. That it would make us feel better to help others. So this whole year, my friends and I have been trying to bring the Nations together. Brainzilla, Zitsy, Flatso, Tebow, Eggy—all of us—we just had this cool idea that maybe school didn’t have to suck,” I say.

  The sun is really getting hot now, and I feel my tongue drying out. Zitsy hands me his water bottle. I take a grateful swig.

  “Anyway, we came up with this idea—this Operation Happiness. And we tried to bring everyone a little closer, you know? And it was a complete fail on every level. For months, it was fail after fail.” I look out over the crowd, and I can actually feel the energy. I can feel everyone listening, straining to understand. And just that—just everyone listening—makes me feel light and happy, like I’m a balloon that might just sail away over the trees and into the clouds.

  “We failed on every level,” I repeat, my voice stronger, “until today. And I just have to say this: I love all of you! Sorry if that sounds cheesy, but I really do. I love everything we share. Now that people are being brave enough to speak out, and brave enough to listen, I can see just how much we have in common. When you stop and think about it—it’s a lot. Nobody here has it easy. Nobody. There’s a lot more that binds us together than there is that drives us apart.”

  I step back. I forget to say, “Scream if you can hear me,” but it’s okay. We don’t all have to scream. Some of us can whisper.

  Winnie waves to me, and I wave back.

  Are people supposed to cry at rallies? Not really sure, but lots of kids are doing it. Even one of the guy gym teachers is boo-hooing up a storm. So, if we are gauging the success by the level of tears, I guess this rally is a triumph.

  It’s at least a start.

  Chapter 67

  BLOOM’S TURN

  No,” Tebow says suddenly, putting up a hand to block the next speaker. Flatso is still holding the microphone, like she can’t decide whether to hand it over.

  It’s Bloom.

  “Why not?” he demands.

  Brainzilla folds her arms across her chest. “You aren’t welcome here.”

  I hear a murmur from the crowd, and my stomach goes funny. Bloom is glowering, his eyes shifting and snakelike, and I’m amazed that I ever thought he was handsome.

  But he’s here, at the rally. And isn’t the point of the rally that we’re giving everyone a chance to speak?

  “Zilla,” I murmur, “come on.”

  She shoots me a warning look, like she knows what I’m going to say. But I say it anyway. “He deserves a chance. Everyone deserves a chance.”

  Br
ainzilla throws her hands in the air. “Fine,” she snaps. Then she draws a deep breath in and says, “Okay.” A little more softly, like she really means it.

  I nod at Flatso, who hands over the mic, and Bloom steps to the center of the stage. He clears his throat. “Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says, and I’m once again back in my balloon, floating and happy. We did it! We really did it! We have reached Marty Bloom!

  He looks back over his shoulder and catches my eye. Then he smiles, and turns back to the crowd. “I’m sorry you’re all such a bunch of losers.

  “Look at you!” Marty shouts. “Blubbering and telling us your pathetic secrets! God—keep it to yourselves! All this blahblah just makes me want to punch you! And these guys”—he jerks his thumb back at the Freakshow—“they’re the worst! I mean, Maggie is insane. She was in a mental institution—remember that part of the story? She’s probably heading back there after this is all over! Right?”

  He stands there a moment, like he expects a response. But the crowd is completely silent. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.

  Finally, I step forward. I touch Bloom’s shoulder, and he turns to look at me, smiling a hideous smile. I want to hit him. I want to claw at him. I want to scream. I want to say something brilliant and witty and devastating. But, in the end, I say the only thing I can think of.

  “Boo,” I say.

  Bloom laughs. “What?”

  “Boo!” Eggy shouts. “Boooooooo!”

  “Cut it out, loser,” Marty says, but, suddenly, the entire crowd is booing and hissing, and shouting for Bloom to get off the stage. He tries to say something else, but I can’t hear him—the crowd is too loud. Someone actually throws a shoe at his head. Flatso and Tebow don’t need any encouragement—they escort him from the stage.

  As I watch Bloom get booed off the stage, I feel both disappointed and relieved, which surprises me. Relieved?

  I can give up on him now.

  That thought is like a door opening.

  He isn’t going to change, no matter what I do.

  I couldn’t change Bloom. And I can’t change my mother. The only person I can change… is me.

  Wow.

  Chapter 68

  INNER CHILDREN

  Do you know what situational irony is? Ms. Olsson pop-quizzed us on it a couple of weeks ago. It’s when you expect one thing to happen, but something completely different happens.

  The Scream Out gave me a mini revelation about how I couldn’t change people. And then this happened:

  Ironic? Or just weird?

  Everyone in the class is staring at the chalkboard. Nobody speaks. I think most people are too afraid to ask if she really means it about the pop quizzes. Because—you know—what if she doesn’t?

  But I have to know. “Um, excuse me, Ms. Olsson,” I say. “Did you write that on the board? About the pop quizzes?”

  “I don’t remember calling on you,” Ms. Olsson snaps.

  I put my hand in the air.

  “Yes, Ms. Clarke?” she says, starting the conversation over from the beginning. So I repeat my question.

  “Yes, I have written that on the board. It has come to my attention that pop quizzes are a great deal of pressure—perhaps more than necessary. My main objective is to be sure that you are completing and comprehending the reading. So I am instituting a new policy: I will assess your understanding of the reading by gauging your participation in classroom discussion. Every single person in this room is expected to make at least one comment per class. Your grade depends on it.” And then she smiles at us.

  Tebow makes a low whistling noise, and I realize that Ms. Olsson is serious. This is a bit of a shock to my system. I feel a little like you do when you jump into a cold pool—at first, it takes your breath away. Then you realize that you feel pretty good. Ms. Olsson just wants us to talk about books? I can handle that.

  I can more than handle it!

  Some of the teachers were at the rally, and everyone must have heard about it, because there is definitely a kinder, gentler vibe in school. In math, Mrs. Rosewater gives us a pep talk. Well, sort of. She reads from Oh, The Places You’ll Go!, which is one of my favorite books. It kind of makes me feel like I’m back in kindergarten… in the best possible way.

  “Do you think this is because of the rally?” Brainzilla asks me during PE class, where our dodgeball unit has somehow been converted into a unit where we help one another over a wall, perform trust falls, and work together to untie human knots.

  “That or a full moon,” I reply, casting a sideways glance at Bloom, who has managed to avoid making eye contact for the entire day. I guess it’s the best we can hope for from the Haters. And it’s fine with me.

  We didn’t change what we’d expected to—but we did change something. So I’d give our Operation Happiness an A-minus. And that’s not bad.

  Chapter 69

  GETTING GOOGLY

  Studies show that periods of unstructured time lead to periods of greater creativity.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Ms. Kellerman asks me. Yes, I’m back in her office by executive order.

  “Didn’t you hear the Google lady?” I ask.

  Ms. Kellerman writes something on her yellow pad (probably subject is hallucinating), and I explain, “The lady from Google, who came to talk to us last week? The Future Careers Club organized it?”

  “Oh,” Ms. Kellerman says, scratching out what she had written on the pad.

  “She said that everybody at Google gets time to wander around and create or just think or whatever for an hour or so every day. They actually get paid for it. So—that’s what my diary is,” I explain. “It’s just my unstructured brain. It’s not for sharing. I can only be relaxed and honest in my diary when I’m sure nobody is going to look at it.”

  Ms. Kellerman is doodling something on her pad. Then, suddenly, she seems to realize what she’s doing. She looks at her goofy little flower doodle for a moment, then looks up at me. “I think I can understand that,” she says slowly.

  We sit in silence for a moment. Mr. Tool is still insisting that I come talk to her for an hour a week, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should give Ms. Kellerman more of a chance. Maybe if I talk to her a little, she’ll see I’m not as crazy as she thinks.

  “I’m not going to show you my diary,” I tell her, “but maybe I could tell you what I’m thinking, sometimes.”

  “I just want to help you, Margaret,” Ms. Kellerman says. “You’ve been going through a difficult time. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

  And—in that one moment, a space shorter than a second, really—I realize that Ms. Kellerman and Ms. Olsson have been making the same mistake. They’ve been trying to squeeze my thoughts out of me. But I don’t need to be squeezed.

  I can just talk.

  Chapter 70

  ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?

  I’m not sure I am.

  I go on another date with Tebow.

  And Laurence.

  This time, we go ice-skating. I’m a pretty poor ice-skater, so the whole thing involves a lot of falling over.

  “Are you okay?” Tebow asks, reaching for my hand. He pulls me upright, then takes both of my hands in his. “You just have to relax. It’s like walking—the more you think about it, the more awkward it is.” He begins to skate backward, pulling me with him, and for a while, we’re doing pretty well.

  “Hey!” I say after a moment, surprised by my forward motion.

  “You’re doing great,” Tebow says, and just then, my skate hits a gouge in the ice and I fall over, taking Tebow with me.

  We land on the ice in a heap, but we’re both laughing.

  Tebow makes me get up and try again, and after about a million more falls, I finally start to get the hang of it. Afterward, we go get hot chocolates from Insomnia Coffee. I’m sitting there with whipped cream on my upper lip, laughing at something Tebow has just said, when I realize, This is not a date.

  It isn’t a date, be
cause I don’t want to be on a date with Tebow. I’ve been trying so hard to figure out what Tebow was thinking that I forgot to think for myself. But here is my thought: If Tebow becomes my boyfriend, we might have to break up someday.

  And I never, ever want to break up with any of my best friends.

  Chapter 71

  BEFORE THE PROM

  Twirl,” Marjorie commands, so I do. When I come full circle, I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. I feel like I haven’t really looked at myself in months. And here I am—in a pale peach tulle dress, with a sparkly barrette in my hair.

  I think I’ve mentioned that Marjorie has some surprising talents.

  “Three years sewing costumes for the drama department of a community college,” Marjorie says as she fusses with my right sleeve, “come in surprisingly handy. Take it from me—everyone should do it.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Oh, I have lots more advice,” she tells me.

  “I meant—thanks for making me the dress. Although the advice is helpful, too.”

  Marjorie seems surprised and pleased at the compliment. Her wild hair is held back by a headband, and I can see her face. She looks a lot like Mrs. Morris. That shouldn’t be surprising, but it is.

  Marjorie gives me a hug. “It’s my pleasure, Cuckoo,” she whispers.

  She finished just in time, because ten minutes later, the Freakshow is at my front door. They’ve pulled up in a limo (a gift from Eggy’s parents).

  I have to say that all my friends look incredibly beautiful. Even Zitsy looks gorgeous, although how he is managing that in a powder-blue tuxedo is a mystery for the ages. Brainzilla is wearing white. Not the Vera Wang wedding dress, but close. Flatso is wearing midnight-blue velvet and looks like a goddess. Tebow is predictably handsome. And Eggy is wearing a vibrant, anime-inspired sequin gown that looks like it came straight out of Lady Gaga’s closet.