Milo

by Alan Silberberg

  And then I see the folded piece of purple paper lying under my grammar book and I know instantly it came from Hillary Alpert, and even if I didn’t instantly know it, the words From the desk of Hillary Alpert at the top of the page would certainly clue me in. I bet the notepaper was a birthday present from her grandma, who had pads and pads of the stuff made for her, which sounds nice but gimme a break—who wants paper with your name on it for a present? Oh, right. Hillary would!

  Anyway, Hillary Alpert has been shoving these purple notes into my locker every couple of days, and I pretty much stopped reading them after I figured out they didn’t mean anything. I mean, if Hillary was asking me for the answers to the geography quiz, I could do that. If she wanted to find out if I had any gum, I could lie and tell her no. But her notes mostly just say things like, Hi and What’s up? and Hope you have a super Friday, and I don’t know how to answer those kind of notes—so I just crumple them up and chuck them in the trash.

  My sister keeps telling me Hillary’s notes are a “sign,” and when I look at her with my eyebrows squished, she laughs and says, “She likes you, doofus!” I explain how ridiculous that is because Hillary Alpert is weird and eats lunch at a different table every day and that it would be impossible to like her anyway—because I have already committed myself to someone else (I don’t say the name “Summer Goodman” on the grounds that my sister might use it against me).

  But my sister tells me, as if she’s the expert: “Look, you can’t let a girl think it’s okay to like you if you don’t like her back. Trust me. Tell this girl you aren’t interested. It’s the right thing to do, Milo.”

  That’s why I’m standing there crumpling that purple paper into a ball. If I want to put a stop to the note invasion and, according to my sister, “do the right thing,” I have to have a “Real Talk” with Hillary Alpert.

  Fine, I tell myself. Done deal!

  Then, for the reason that I really don’t want to start my homework, I do something I never do. Instead of making believe I’m a professional basketball player and using Hillary’s note to sink a basket with three seconds left on the clock, I uncrumple the purple ball. Maybe I am curious about what kind of dumb thing she wants to tell me this time, or maybe I hope there’s a ten-dollar bill taped inside the purple page. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter because as soon as I see what she’s written, I don’t even mind looking at all of her curly-girly handwriting with the dopey smiley faces that dot her i’s and j’s.

  She wrote:

  r.s.v.p. r.i.p.

  I’M IN A PICKLE.

  Literally.

  I’m inside a costume and it’s shaped like a pickle and I have to go to the bathroom but there’s no one to help me see where I’m going, and because the eye slits are about two inches above my eyes, I just keep bouncing off of things like a pinball and I know I am in trouble and there’s no zipper that I can find on the dumb thing, and all I can think about is: Why did I think a pickle would be a good costume?

  I wake up and breathe that sigh of relief that comes when you realize the terrible thing you just thought was real is really just a dream, and I am not in a pickle costume but in my bed and the clock says 6:52, which means I still have eight minutes to lie here before the alarm goes off and my dad pokes his head in the door and says, “Get up, Milo, and I mean it, right now, mister.”

  I have to use those eight minutes wisely, and it takes me two of those minutes to figure out how to best use the leftover six, which is to carefully weigh out the pros and cons of my current life situation.

  Here’s what I need to consider: Do I break up with Hillary Alpert right away or wait until after Summer Goodman’s party?

  It takes me about three and a half of my stay-in-bed minutes to realize that the answer is a no-brainer and that there’s no reason to rush into the mess of hurting Hillary’s feelings when I have more immediate things to think about, by which I mean: making sure everything is in place for me to go to Summer’s Halloween party.

  I start making a list of ten great costumes I could be, but before I even get past the first two—(1) a human calculator and (2) Mr. Potato Head’s cousin, “Señor Squash”—the alarm goes off, my dad’s head pokes in, and my day is no longer mine.

  And then, like dominoes, it all goes like this:

  Shower

  Breakfast (not Cheerios so I take the bus)

  School (no tests, just a pop quiz in English, which I ace because I rock!)

  Math (I want to make it illegal to use numbers in any way except to rate a movie)

  Finally, school is out—but because I go to Mr. Shivnesky’s classroom two days a week from 3:30 to 4:15, that’s where I end up. And it’s like torture because it’s just him and me and I can’t pretend I’m listening but am really drawing in my notebook; I have to pay actual attention because he’s right in front of me all the time, and the worst part is that when he talks, all I see is that big smooth head that sometimes has nubs and sometimes doesn’t. It’s weird. Today I see that his head is extra shiny and smells funny, and I worry he is using salad dressing on his scalp because his head-stink reminds me of going to an Italian restaurant. I am just about to ask him if he likes garlic bread sticks when he says, “Milo, you’re not concentrating.” And I realize that he says this exact thing to me so often that it should become his catchphrase and I want to get him a T-shirt that says, milo, you’re not concentrating. That, or find him a job on a sitcom where every week that’s the only thing he says and everyone in the audience would laugh.

  “Milo . . .”

  I know. I’m not concentrating, and he presents the problem to me again.

  I try to explain that my brain doesn’t work the way he wants, but he just smiles and asks me to try again and he’s so calm about it, I want to scream.

  Finally, it’s 4:15 and I get to ditch Egghead and catch up with Marshall at the Pit Stop. We have decided to make it our life goal to somehow try to stomach a whole Booger Breath Freezie before Halloween. It’s not a pretty sight (or smell) but we’re determined to do it because then we’d have something to brag about—but once again the taste is so much like boiled socks that we still only manage to drink half.

  “What if we ask Pete to skip the booger part?” Marshall suggests, but we both know that would be cheating, so we each take another sip before tossing the half-full stinky cups into the trash and rinsing the flavor out of our mouths by buying a quart of chocolate milk and passing it back and forth until it’s totally all gone.

  “Marshall,” I say as I wipe my chocolate mustache onto my sleeve, “I have some serious news.” And he knows I mean business, so he crosses his arms and listens real close. I tell Marshall about Summer Goodman’s Halloween party, and even before I get to the part where we start to brainstorm cool ways we could go as cyborg clones or human-size game pieces from Monopoly, he points out the obvious downfall of the whole plan:

  Poor Marshall. He doesn’t know that I know my invitation is in the mail—either that or it’s been stuffed by accident in a drawer somewhere or was left inside the wrong mailbox but is definitely on its way to my house, probably even while I stand there feeling sick inside.

  “Milo,” Marshall says, and I can’t figure out why he isn’t excited. But his words just stop like he ran out of them, and he chews on the inside of his cheeks in the way that tells me he’s thinking of something. Then the next thing is, he agrees he’ll go to Summer’s party even though he is positive it is way out of our league.

  I ask him what that means, but One-Eyed Jack just shrugs and says, “We’re doomed.”

  That night I spend two hours going through the recycle bin in the garage just in case my sister thought she was saving a tree by putting my Halloween invitation in the pile, but all I come up with is a paper cut and two coupons for meatball subs at the Pit Stop, which I will definitely use but only after they stop serving those disgusting Freezies.

  In between my ten-minute breaks, which I schedule every fifteen minutes, I thin
k about what Marshall said about Summer’s party being “out of our league” and decide there are two kinds of kids when it comes to going to parties:

  First there are the “Hey, I love going to somebody else’s house and hanging around with kids I see every day, eating potato chips and laughing at funny jokes” kind of kids. These are most of the kids you see every day in school who just know their whole lives are great and they never have to check to see if there’s toilet paper stuck to their shoe.

  Then there’s the second kind. These are the “Why would I want to go to a party with the same kids who point at me because I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe?” kind of kids.

  And then I get it. Marshall thinks we’re the second kind—but he forgets it’s Halloween, which means you wear a costume and can pretend you’re the first kind, and since everyone is in a costume pretending to be someone else, it’s an even score right from the start, which really only comes once a year and that day is this Friday and I can’t wait. And I can’t find my invitation either.

  The next day is Wednesday, so it’s an excellent day already because I don’t have to see Mr. Shivnesky’s head after school and it gets even better because right away, before I even undo my locker combination, I see Summer walking right toward me. She’s with Felicia (who they say is really nice) and Darcy (who isn’t), and the three of them fill the hallway with the sound of clicking shoes and the smell of strawberry gum.

  Because they’re so busy talking and laughing, I get to stare extra long at Summer, which I do from behind my geography book, and I imagine she is laughing and talking about me and how she can’t wait to see the fantastic costume I come up with for her party.

  “Just you wait, Summer,” I by accident say OUT LOUD, and I say it just as she passes me, and all of a sudden my heart goes nuts because she stops and looks right at me.

  “What?” Summer Goodman says, and she is actually saying this to me. And all three of them are staring at me and I can’t believe it, so I try to look extra supercool and lean against my locker, which unfortunately is about a foot farther away than I thought, and the next thing I know, I am on the floor and she’s laughing and it’s a beautiful laugh even if it does make my face really red.

  Dabney St. Claire whispers in my ear, Stay cool. You meant to do that. So I strike a casual pose, as if falling on the floor is the most natural thing to do ever, which for me it kind of is.

  Before I can say anything, Darcy tugs on Summer and then all three click-clack off, and it’s just the smell of the gum and my red face that’s left behind, but that’s still enough to remind me that Summer Goodman spoke to me today, which makes it a memory even if my butt bone still hurts.

  Spanish class. Señora McCarthy is busy reviewing verbs, which gives me time to work on my Halloween costume list, which I try to do en español just to be fair:

  hombre del palo

  una hamburguesa

  el Godzilla

  lápiz gigante

  When Señora McCarthy walks past my desk, she isn’t as impressed as I think she should be because even if I wasn’t paying attention, I was doing it in Spanish, so I think having to do extra homework is muy, muy unfair.

  That night I check our mailbox three times. And then I go up and down the street checking other mailboxes just in case, which was a waste of time and I hate barking dogs.

  Thursday. I tell Marshall a lie just so he can relax and not break out in hives, which WebMD says is a nervous disorder that can be painful.

  “Yup. The invite came in the mail yesterday.” This is my lie, and I say it so loud that even Hillary Alpert hears me and then later I find a purple note in my locker. At first I am afraid it is yet another love note, but in truth all it says is: Heard you’re going to the party. Do you guys want a ride?

  Even though I know I have to break things off with her, when I see her in the hallway, I casually tell Hillary, “Sure, catching a ride to the party would be great.” Then I tell her she better watch out when she sees my costume, and when she asks what my costume is, I realize I don’t know and then it hits me that I’ve been too busy searching for the missing invitation and making lists of great costume ideas that I haven’t actually made a costume yet and a tiny panic sets inside my stomach.

  “My costume is a secret,” is what I say, but what I think is: I am starting to break out in hives.

  jell–o brains

  THE BIG NIGHT ARRIVES, AND I’M STILL mad at my dad because I’m sure he’s the one who threw my invitation away just so my whole life could be ruined. And I’m mad at my sister because she didn’t stop my dad from ruining my life. And I’m mad at my mom for not being here to make me a costume at the last minute like she always used to do when I was a kid.

  At 6:15 Marshall comes over, and he’s a scarecrow. I give him an A for effort, mainly because of the real straw pieces coming out of his shirt and the plastic crow his mom sewed on to his shoulder, even if it keeps drooping over like it’s dead.

  “Cool costume,” I say.

  “I’m itchy,” he says back. “Real, real itchy.” And then he takes a piece of straw out of his shirt and uses it to try to reach around his back for a scratchy spot, and I envy him because at least he has a costume and I’m just standing there in my normal clothes.

  And that’s when I break the news to him. “Marshall, I kind of lied,” I say. “I can’t find my invitation. I don’t think we can go.”

  My pal, One-Eyed Jack the Scarecrow, doesn’t bat an eye, though he does keep scratching himself all over. “Oh. No sweat,” he says, and I think he’s smiling. And no sooner is he pulling handfuls of itchy straw out of his flannel shirt than the doorbell rings, and my heart soars because it has to be a special delivery mailman who is here to apologize about my Halloween party invitation being found stuck to the bottom of the mailman’s bag, and they really should be more careful about these things and I hope he got a post office detention.

  The bell rings again and I open the door, but it isn’t the mailman—it’s some crazy gypsy who has a wart on her nose and two gold teeth. So I just close the door fast.

  “Milo!” the gypsy screams, and then I think, Oh no, she’s somehow read into my mind! So I open the door and see the gypsy is really Hillary.

  “Come on. My dad’s waiting,” Hillary the Gypsy says.

  “Sorry. We can’t go,” Marshall tells her. “Milo can’t find the invite.” And he says this not in a way that sounds disappointed, more like he just said, Let’s all watch Zombie Bats II on cable!

  Hillary looks at Marshall, who still scratches all over like crazy, and then at me, who’s not even in a costume, and says, “You don’t need an invitation if you walk in with me.”

  Marshall says, “Well, actually—”

  And I jump in and finish his sentence by saying, “That sounds great!”

  And the next thing I know, I’m up in my room grabbing anything I can find to make an instant costume, and I think I do pretty good too, even if Hillary’s dad keeps looking at me weird in the car’s rearview mirror.

  Summer Goodman’s house is all lit up outside with orange lights and blinking ghosts. There are six perfectly carved pumpkins lining the walk to the front door, and only one of them has a face that has started to rot—so I know they follow the pumpkin rules pretty closely. We get out of the car and say “thanks” and then follow the line of kids in costumes toward the front door of Summer’s house.

  Standing in the middle of goblins and devils and witches and the one kid who is a refrigerator, I realize I don’t recognize a single person, so I immediately feel like a million bucks.

  “I dunno about this,” Marshall says, looking at all the kids waiting to get inside.

  We follow Dracula and two cowgirls, who clearly showed up in the same store-bought costume and are not happy about it. The line to get into the house moves slowly, which I finally see is because there’s a princess at the front door and the princess is Summer and she’s being pretty and making sure no one tries to snea
k in.

  We’re finally next to get in. I can hear cool music and can see into the house, where it looks like a real live party, the kind kids on TV go to, and there are cobwebs and dangling spiders and tons of kids wearing scary stuff, or silly stuff, or in the case of Mark Tompkins, just a fedora-type hat and a black turtleneck, which is just totally lame.

  And then the line moves forward, and there we are—over the threshold and in the presence of the princess. I smell hot cider and popcorn and am standing next to Summer, who looks incredible, even though I’m pretty sure it’s a costume that you rent, which is one step better than one that you buy, but nowhere near as good as a homemade one.

  “Hi, Summer,” Hillary the Gypsy says, and Marshall is busy scratching, and I stand there and let my costume speak for itself even though I’ve already lost one of my sock tentacles.

  “Hillary!” Summer says. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  Did you hear that? Dabney St. Claire whispers to me. She thanked you for coming. In my mind I tell Dabney St. Claire that she actually thanked Hillary for coming, and then he tells me to just “go with it,” and the next thing I hear is Hillary saying . . .

  “Summer, this is Marshall and Milo. They came with me.”

  I watch as Summer’s princess face scrunches up like she just got asked, What is the square root of 756? And then Summer says, “Oh, I don’t think I know them. . . . But have a good time!”

  And even though we’re now officially inside the party, I suddenly feel like maybe being home would be a better place to be. But then I realize I’m sure it was my costume that got in the way of Summer knowing me, and then I wish I’d used the costume that Mark Tompkins used, which is no costume at all.