by Yee, Lisa
Max and I are silent as we watch a mob of kids congratulate Digger. I guess you don’t have to be likable to be popular.
The bell rings. As we throw away our trash and head to class, I catch a glimpse of an angel in white. It’s Emily Ebers. As I stop and stare, Max whispers “Hey, Keebler Elves and angels aren’t even in the same universe.”
“I’m not an elf. I’m Mr. Spock,” I correct her.
Max can be so annoying, especially when she’s right.
There’s actually a line to get into the midnight show at the Rialto. I’m manning the ticket booth as Mom’s spooky organ music spills out onto the street. Cedra is selling candy at the concession stand and the profits go to Dial-a-Ride. Dad’s in the projection booth.
“Three tickets, loser.” I look up to see the Gorn. They’re the scariest things I’ve seen all night and they’re not even in costume.
“That will be twenty-four dollars,” I tell the Gorn leader. His head is so big, I wonder if it’s hard for him to get T-shirts on over it.
“That will be free,” he tells me. “Right, Captain Kirk?”
Oh God, are they so stupid that they don’t even know I am Spock? Hello? I’m wearing my Spock ears and Spock shirt.
“Twenty-four dollars,” I repeat. The middle Gorn begins cracking his knuckles, while the small one takes his gum out of his mouth and sticks it on the ticket booth window.
Behind them, people are getting antsy. “Come on!” someone yells impatiently.
I can’t afford this standoff any longer. I pass three tickets out the window.
The middle Gorn grins so that his smile takes over half his face. He looks like a Halloween pumpkin, only not as attractive. “Thanks, lady,” he says. “You bought yourself a couple of days off.”
It’s after midnight. Halloween was a huge success. My parents are so happy. It isn’t often the Rialto is even half full. We should have Halloween every night.
I’m in the Transporter Room. I’ve moved the old radio from one of the offices in here. It’s covered with dust and I don’t even know if it still works. I turn it on and it’s all scratchy, so I take off the back and fiddle with the wires. There, it’s working now. I keep turning the channels until I find what I’m looking for …
“Hello, all you night owls,” a lady with a low soothing voice says. “Welcome to Love Songs with Lavender.”
Love songs? Why would Emily Ebers listen to love songs and tell me about it?
It’s been a couple weeks since Halloween, and the Gorn have resumed shoving me against the lockers, only with a fury they didn’t have before. Now and then, some wannabe baby Gorn will shove me too, and the bravest of the babies will go as far as to slug me. Still, their technique is not nearly as good as their role models’.
Today’s wannabe baby Gorn is strolling down the hallway with his buddies. (Gorn always travel in packs.) He stops when he spots me at my locker. I try not to make eye contact, but I notice that although he’s about half my height, he looks like he weighs twice at much.
“I’m going to make his life miserable,” he announces. A couple of eighth-grade girls nearby look in our direction before going back to gabbing. As his buddies close in around me, the wannabe baby Gorn gets in my face.
Great. I’m the punching bag for a second generation of Gorn. May as well help them out. I shut my locker and shake my head. “Okay, go ahead. I’m ready now,” I say.
“Ready for what?” the wannabe baby Gorn growls.
“Ready for you to make my life miserable. Go ahead, what’s it going to be? You want to shove me? Hit me? Spit on me? Your choice. But hurry, I don’t want to be late for class.”
He looks at his posse. They shrug. Then the wannabe baby Gorn shoves me into my locker. The other guys laugh as they walk away. My shoulder hurts a little, but not nearly as much as how it feels when I see the girls looking at me and giggling.
At least the eighth-grade Gorn have stopped chasing me after school. However, that hasn’t stopped me from running every day. Now I find that if I don’t run I feel awful.
It’s sixth period and there’s an assembly today. This is where AV Club shines. If we do our jobs right, then no one notices all the audiovisual support. We may not be the most popular kids on campus, but we’re the unsung heroes.
“Why aren’t AV guys more popular?” Ramen muses as we head to the auditorium,
“I know how not to be popular,” Max says.
“How?” I ask.
“Batman,” she answers.
“And Star Wars,” Ramen adds.
“And Star Trek,” I say.
For once we are all in agreement.
When we get to the auditorium, we’re all business. I’m in charge of the PA system. “Testing, one, two, three,” I say into the mike onstage. Mr. Jiang gives me a thumbs-up from the AV booth up in the balcony.
Troy and Patrick are responsible for the screen and the DVD player. Max and Ramen are manning the spotlights and making them go on all the walls, ceiling, and Troy’s butt whenever he turns around. “Stop goofing off and get back to work!” Mr. Jiang orders.
The auditorium is old and creaky. It reminds me of the Rialto, only it’s not quite as grand. As it fills up there’s the usual commotion. Kids are pushing and laughing and yelling. Teachers are in the role of sheepherders as they try to get their classes to proceed in an orderly fashion. I’m sitting in the AV booth now, so I can see everything from up here. I spot Emily waving to Stanford and his group. It figures they would know each other. I can see Stretch. Even without a spotlight, everyone is gawking at him as he looks around. When he spots Stanford and sits next to him, the girls behind them grin and nudge each other.
A few rows up, it looks like Digger’s telling a joke. Kids are laughing. I’ll bet it wasn’t even funny. The Gorn have their arms crossed and lean against a wall until a teacher makes them sit down. I wonder what it would be like to be a triplet, or a twin, or to just have a brother, or even a sister. There are four kids in Ramen’s family (he’s number three), and Max is an only child, like me.
The lights dim as Principal Haycorn takes the stage. Max’s spotlight hits the curtains, and for a split second I swear I see the Bat signal. How’d she do that? I blink and the spotlight is on Principal Haycorn tapping the microphone. “Is this on? Can anyone hear me?”
Duh. Of course it’s on and working. Why do you think I always do a sound check?
“We have a lot to cover during this assembly,” Principal Haycorn says. Today’s bow tie is red. “But first a few words from Coach Martin.”
Coach Martin bounds up the stairs to the stage. Instead of his usual shorts, he’s wearing track pants. Now that we’re into November, it’s been getting cooler outside. Coach Martin takes the microphone and taps it. Why do they all do that? Will someone please tell me?
“Hello!” he bellows. I adjust the volume on his mike. “As you Tigers all know, the annual Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot is coming up very soon. This year will be an extra-special one. That’s because the father of one of our students is donating this to the school!” Some kid comes onstage hauling the biggest trophy I have ever seen. “This,” Coach Martin proclaims, “is the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot Ronster Award! The winner will get to keep it for one year, then pass it on to the next year’s winner. Isn’t it a beaut? Digger, please thank your father for us!”
Digger stands and takes a bow. What a jerk.
Coach Martin exits the stage, and Principal Haycorn comes back. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Next, Principal Haycorn announces, “I have something very serious to talk to you all about today. It has come to my attention that Rancho Rosetta Middle School is not the paradise many of us thought it was.”
Are principals always the last to know?
He continues, “Recently, we’ve had reports of bullying.” I sit up. “Ask yourselves: Have you ever been the victim of bullying? Do you know someone who’s been bullied? Perhaps you yourself are a bully. Today we have an excellent m
ovie about bullies, how to spot them, and how to stop them….”
As he rambles on I can see the students fidgeting in their seats. Those who aren’t moving have fallen asleep. Even the teachers look like zombies.
“… and so, bullying is not to be tolerated at Rancho Rosetta Middle School,” Principal Haycorn says. I wonder if he ever bores himself. If he bored himself to death, would that be considered suicide? “Lights, please!” he shouts into the microphone. Ramen turns down the lights. Troy lowers the screen. Patrick starts the DVD. “And now, sit back and watch The Bully Amongst Us.”
As the movie plays I can feel my face burn. Good thing it’s dark, and I’m all alone up here in the AV booth. “Speak up,” a Hispanic girl with long brown hair is saying to an Asian girl in a wheelchair. The acting is atrocious. “A counselor, a teacher, your parents. Speak up.” Gee, I wonder if she was talking to Max. “Speak up,” the girls in the video begin to chant.
The movie bullies — one white, one black, one brown, all afflicted with the same overacting disease — are sent to the Indian principal. On the wall is a poster of an eagle and the slogan SOAR TO SUCCEED. Principal Haycorn has that poster in his office. “Can you see the error of your ways?” the principal asks as the camera cuts to her giving a look so sincere you’d think she was talking to newborn puppies.
“Yes! Yes!” the white bully cries. His hair is too neat and his white T-shirt looks like it was ironed. “I never realized how much my negative actions affected others … and my well-being.”
The camera moves in close as a tear drops from the bully’s eye. In the end, all the pretend kids are smiling as they skip across campus. The white bully stops and looks right at the camera. The music swells. “Hey, dudes, I was wrong to be a bully. I can see that now and I know my life is going to get better starting today. Totally rad, cool, and upright … that’s me now.”
He turns to one of the Hispanic girls he bullied and holds out his hand. She takes it and then all the fake kids join hands and walk off toward the sunset together.
Right. Like anyone would believe that crap.
Ramen brings the house lights back up. Principal Haycorn appears. His arm is all red. “No, my arm didn’t get attacked by bullies,” he jokes. “But this does have something to do with them.” He takes off a red rubber bracelet and holds it up. “Your PTA has generously created these Be a buddy, not a bully bracelets. We have one for each of you. The next time you see someone being bullied, be a buddy — because the next victim could be you!
“Now I want to see everyone wearing one of these. At Rancho Rosetta Middle School, we will not stand for bullying! Come on, everyone repeat after me …”
The audience chants, “Be a buddy, not a bully,” as the teachers pass out the bracelets. Good thing I’m way up here and too far away to get one. This whole thing is making me ill.
Even though school is dismissed, the AV Club stays behind to break down the equipment. Max rushes up to me. “Here,” she says. “I got you one.”
I push the bracelet away. “Why would I want that?” I ask, trying to gauge her reaction.
“I’ve got mine on,” Ramen says, waving his wrist in front of my face. “Be a buddy, not a bully.”
I ignore Ramen. “Forget it,” I say to Max.
She looks disappointed. Max slips the bracelet on her wrist, so now she’s wearing two. “I don’t get you, Marley. Did you even watch the movie? We can bring down those bullies. All we have to do is tell someone about them.”
My eyes narrow as I look at her. “Maybe someone already has,” I say accusingly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me, Max,” I answer. “You tell me.”
Before she can say anything, I exit the auditorium. The Gorn are nowhere to be seen. As I walk down the hallway, it’s empty except for some scattered papers on the ground and an old water bottle here and there. I turn the corner and stop cold.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the Gorn leader says. “Will you be my buddy?”
The three of them are standing in front of me with their arms up, like they’re surrendering. Only, they’re not. Instead, they are wearing a red bracelet on each arm. The bracelets look tight on their beefy wrists.
“Yes, will you be my buddy?” the small Gorn echoes as he bares his sharp teeth.
I turn to the middle Gorn, the one who gave me the black eye. “We don’t want to be bullies, we want to be buddies,” he says sarcastically.
“Well, guys,” I say, “I don’t want to be either.” And with that I take off with them in hot pursuit. It looks like the race is on again.
It’s Wednesday morning. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, plus we get Friday off too. “Well, Mr. Sandelski,” Coach Martin is saying. His beloved whistle hangs around his neck. As always, he’s wearing an orange Rancho Rosetta Middle School shirt with the word COACH emblazoned on it. “This afternoon is the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot. You game?”
I shake my head. “AV Club, I mean Technical Sciences, is videotaping the run. I need to be there for that,” I explain.
“I can get you out of that,” Coach Martin says. “I’ll talk to Jiang.”
“That’s okay. But thanks anyway.”
A lot of the kids are excited about the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot. It’s a really big deal at our school. No one in AV Club is into sports, unless you count video games or battling with lasers. Besides, sports always start sixth period, same time as AV Club. Me, I still run every day, and I have to admit that I’m getting faster. Not that speed matters. What’s important is that when I run, it’s like I’m orbiting through space at warp speed, and no one can stop me.
Suddenly, it’s sixth period and we’re scrambling to get ready for the race. Our AV Club video of the Turkey Trot will be shown at the New Year’s assembly on the first day back at school. “Okay!” Mr. Jiang is saying as he stretches. When he gets stuck on his third deep knee bend, Troy helps him up. “We’ll work in teams. One person to videotape, the other to run interference. Keep in mind that the race is very competitive, plus it’s dangerous. Remember last year when a parent tried to take photos and got trampled?” Everyone but Max nods. She wasn’t here last year.
Mr. Jiang continues. “Troy and Patrick, you shoot at the starting line. Once everyone is running, take off and make sure you get shots of everyone, and not just girls like last year. Ramen and Max, I want you stationed at the finish line. It’s a 2K, so that means it’s 1.25 miles. It will go by faster than you think. Everyone ready?”
I raise my hand. “Mr. Jiang, what about me?”
“Marley, you’re my troubleshooter. I want you at the starting line and then once the race is underway, you go wherever you’re needed.”
There’s a lot of jostling for position at the starting line. Troy sets up the camera on a tripod. “Go stand by the starting line so I can get a white balance,” Patrick orders.
When I stand with the runners, I get pushed around. It’s okay. I’m used to it. Just as I am about to return to Patrick and Troy, Coach Martin appears. He blows his whistle and everyone freezes. I take a step and he barks, “Sandelski, stay where you are.”
“But —”
“But nothing, Sandelski. I gave you an order.” Coach Martin blows his whistle again to get everyone’s attention, then turns on his bullhorn. He looks natural hollering into it. I wonder if he uses one at home? At the grocery store? When he drives? I can just hear him, “Hey, you, the driver in the red Fiesta, speed it up!”
“Welcome to the 37th Annual All-School Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot Race,” Coach Martin blares. His deep voice, coupled with the high-pitched feedback he’s getting, makes him sound like a droid gone haywire. I look around and see Stanford Wong and the other basketball players clumped together in their basketball uniforms. The guys from the track team, led by James Ichida, are all wearing their running shirts and shorts. The girls’ volleyball team members are all in their uniforms too. I spot Julie and she looks through me.
; I try to leave, but out of nowhere, there’s a Gorn on my left, there’s a Gorn on my right, and there’s a Gorn behind me. The Gorn leader whispers, “Hey, little buddy, want to be friends?” The small Gorn laughs and the middle Gorn cracks his knuckles as the three of them close in around me. They smell like cabbage.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
“Runners, are you ready?” Coach Martin is saying. “Okay, on the count of three — one … two … three … GO!”
I have no choice but to run or get trampled. As I head out, I look for somewhere to duck out of the race, but there’s no escape. Parents and kids are packed along the route around school. People wearing Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot T-shirts motion to me and point to where I should go, where I should turn. I begin to pull away from the Gorn and the rest of the pack. Even Stanford Wong and the track team fall behind me. Suddenly, I’m alone. This is weird. People are yelling. What have I done wrong now?
I keep going. At first I feel funny that everyone is staring at me. Is it because I’m the only runner in jeans? But it feels normal. It should. I do this every day. The spectators on the sidelines blur. I can tell people are shouting, but all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing, like I’m in an echo chamber. Even though I am going fast, everything looks like it’s in slow motion. Up ahead I see Ramen videotaping. Max is jumping up and down. Coach Martin’s face is all contorted and he’s screaming at me. He holds up his stopwatch and points to it.
I cross the finish line and keep running.
I run and run and run and don’t slow down until I get to the Rialto.
I run into the building, through the lobby, and down the stairs into the Transporter Room. Then I wedge myself between two steamer trunks and slowly slide down to the floor and hug my knees.
Sweat is pouring off of me. My breathing is louder than Darth Vader’s, only faster, and I can’t seem to get enough air.
I can’t stop shaking. My legs have turned into Jell-O.
