by Rachel Vail
It hit me in the eye.
OW OW OW OW OW.
I am not sure how I ended up on the floor, but Mr. Leonard scooped me up from there and carried me down to the nurse’s office. I might have gotten his shirt a little soggy from the eye juice or maybe I was crying.
“It’s okay, Justin,” he said. “I gotcha.”
I rested my head against his white shirt, which was soft and smelled like a pool. He had never called me Justin before. Only young man.
I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting in the nurse’s office with a bag of blue goo on my eye until my mom could get to school to pick me up. It didn’t hurt so terribly much, but still, Mom was already on her way.
I spent a little of my time on the nurse’s cot wondering what happened to Noah, if he was sitting in the Principal’s Office and if his mom would put him in trouble finally. Which might actually help him, in his personality department.
I spent a lot of my time there thinking about the spelling fact that Dad had taught me, the one about how that word FRIEND has the word END in it.
And also how the word NOAH is made of: Ah, NO.
December 11, Saturday
This weekend, I guess it’s my turn to have parents marching into my room for a talk, and Elizabeth to have Qwerty in her room to wonder together what the heck is going on in the other room.
I am starting to think soccer wasn’t the worst way to spend a weekend.
“How’s your eye feeling?” Mom asked, frowning at the little mark of bruise next to it.
“Fine. A little too big for the socket, still,” I said. “So maybe I can get an eye patch and be a pirate?”
“Justin,” Dad said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “What’s going on between you and Noah?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You said you would tell us more about what happened in the morning,” Mom said. “So. It’s morning.”
“You’ll tell Noah’s mother,” I argued.
“That’s not the issue here, Justin,” Dad said.
“Please don’t say anything to her, please? Do you promise?”
I waited, looking at Mom.
“Justin,” Mom said. “I don’t want to promise anything until I hear what really happened. That’s not tattling, it’s just … It’s—discussing. That’s part of my job, and your job too. We talk about stuff, even tough uncomfortable stuff, in our family, and we figure out how to make things better. Together. So after we talk about what happened, we’ll make a decision together about what to do next.”
“But what if your decision is to do something I don’t want you to do?”
“I promise I’ll tell you what I decide to do before I do it,” Mom said. “And I’ll listen, seriously, to any objections you have. And keep an open mind. Maybe even change my decision. How’s that? Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“Plus my decision might be just to listen to what’s going on with you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That might be all you have to do.”
She winked at me. “Cool. So?”
“It was no big deal anyway,” I told her. “Noah said he was going to shoot me with a rubber band if I didn’t talk to him, and I didn’t talk to him, so he shot me.” I left out the part about me saying shut up.
I took out some of my Knights to start a battle to the death.
“Did Noah say he was sorry?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said. “He never does.”
“This has happened before?”
“Not with a rubber band,” I said. Steeltrap stabbed Achilles Heel in the eye with his sword. Achilles Heel fell down in agony.
“But—Noah has hurt you before this?”
I shrugged.
“I thought he was your best friend,” Dad said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I sort of thought so too.”
Mom gathered me up into a hug and said stuff like, Oh, Justin, and Tsk and Ugh. But she knocked over a whole legion of Good Guy Knights with that hug. The Bad Guy Knights started their huge celebration even before Mom and Dad finally left my room.
December 12, Sunday
The lady at the supermarket checkout this morning asked me, “Hey, what happened to your eye?”
I said, “My ex-best friend shot me in it with a rubber band.”
On our way to the car, Poopsie said I should answer the next person who asks by saying, “You should see the other guy.”
“But the other guy looks fine,” I told him. “He needs a haircut, maybe, but…”
“So far, he looks fine,” Poopsie said. “But just wait ’til Monday when…”
“Stop it, you goose,” Gingy told him. “Justin, you look very handsome.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Like a Boss?”
“Like a tough guy who is really a good guy,” Gingy added. “Stay that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m trying.”
December 13, Monday
Mom made me a banana-strawberry smoothie AND Cream of Wheat with no lumps. My favorite breakfast.
“Is it my half birthday?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Mom said. “I want to talk with you.”
I slipped into my seat. She put extra sugar in the Cream of Wheat, then poured milk around the edge, to make a moat for the Sunset of Butter to melt into.
While I stirred, Mom sat down next to me, her coffee cup between her hands.
“Here’s what I think you need to say to Noah,” Mom said. “Just say, ‘Noah, I have asked you not to hit me, kick me, shoot me with rubber bands, or—’”
“I actually never asked him to not shoot me with a rubber band,” I interrupted. “He just knows I’m scared of getting shot by a rubber band. But I never actually—”
“Fine,” Mom said.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked. Because she seemed pretty mad.
“No,” she said, still sounding mad. “Okay. I think actually you can just say, ‘Noah, if you hurt me again, I am going to hurt you back.’”
“What?” I put down my spoon. I couldn’t believe it. “What happened to Use Your Words Not Your Fists?”
“You will be using your words,” Mom said.
“To threaten to use my fists!”
“But—”
“I’d get in big trouble, Mom!”
Her shoulders slumped. She stared into her coffee.
“Plus,” I said, “wouldn’t it just be wrong? To say I would hurt him, and especially to then actually hurt him? Because, remember? Violence solves nothing. Right?”
“Sure, Gandhi,” Mom answered. “But meanwhile, here you sit, my baby, with a black eye, so…”
“Gandhi?”
“Never mind.”
“Did you just call me Gandhi?”
She sighed.
“My name is Justin.”
“I know,” Mom said. She kissed my cheek. “You’re a good boy, Justin. But here is an important rule. You listening?”
“Yep.” I took a sip of the smoothie. It was delicious.
“You are not allowed to let anybody hurt you.”
I was still sucking down that smoothie, so I didn’t say anything.
“You understand?” Mom asked me. “You are not allowed to let anybody hurt you. It’s a rule. A very important rule. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
I was thinking, as I tied my sneakers, what a weird rule that was, but by the time I got to school, I was thinking the opposite—that it was a pretty good rule to lean on.
But Noah wasn’t in school, so I didn’t have to make any choices about how to deal with him. Instead me and Xavier Schwartz and Cash and Montana C. talked a lot about tools, and not the kind that Mr. Leonard means, like transition words. The kind that is called screwdrivers. And what an awesome, hilarious prank we could do if we make The Screwdriver Club. And how sorry Noah would be if we really do it.
December 14, Tuesday
The reason Noah wasn’t in school yesterday:
He was susp
ended for shooting me in the eye with a rubber band.
He had to write me an apology note before he could come back to class 4-L. Mr. Leonard brought the two of us right to the school psychologist’s office, even before morning announcements, so Noah could give me the note he wrote at home last night.
I had to read the note right there in front of Noah and the school psychologist. The note said:
Dear Justin,
I am sorry I shot you in the eye with a rubber band. But I am sorry for what you did, too, which is be mean to me and exclude me and bully me all year.
Your friend?
Noah
Then we had to shake hands and say we would try to be better friends.
But what I was actually thinking was:
That was the lousiest apology I ever saw.
December 15, Wednesday
Mom agreed.
She brought me to school this morning and was waiting there to speak with Noah’s mom. When they walked toward 4-L, Mom said to Noah’s mom, “May I speak with you please?”
Noah and I walked into the classroom without looking at each other while the moms talked. They have been friends forever too, those moms—just like me and Noah. Before we even got to our desks, the moms were yelling so loudly at each other, they had to be escorted by the hall monitor to the Principal’s Office.
Cash whispered to me that he was pretty sure my mom could take Noah’s mom in a fight.
I usually hate when my mom is at school, but I liked it when she yelled, “Justin has nothing to apologize for AT ALL!” right before the hall monitor grabbed her by the elbow.
I also liked the idea of her and Noah’s mom being put in trouble, sitting sad and sorry, slumped next to each other in the Bad Kid chairs outside the Principal’s Office with Ms. Robitel frowning down at them.
“Do you think they had to shake hands and say they’ll try to be better friends?” I asked Noah as we lined up for recess.
“No,” Noah said.
Out at recess everybody was crowding around me saying how cool my mom was. “Justin’s mom could beat up Mr. Calabrio!” Xavier Schwartz yelled. Unfortunately, Mr. Calabrio was right behind Xavier when he said that.
So Xavier had a nice little sit-down-on-the-cold-grass time while the rest of us tried again with lacrosse and a few of us whispered in between plays about The Screwdriver Club and what to do if we are not allowed to use our dads’ tools but we need a screwdriver to be in the club. (Ask for one as a present is the answer everybody agreed on, probably because Cash suggested it.)
December 16, Thursday
Everybody has opinions on how I should act to Noah:
Dad thinks I should take a break from him because he is making unkind choices.
Mom thinks I should tell him he is not allowed to hurt me.
Cash thinks we (The Screwdriver Club) should unscrew all the screws on Noah’s chair so when he sits on it, it will collapse and he will fall on the floor and it will be hilarious.
Xavier Schwartz thinks yeah.
Montana C. thinks I should give Noah the warning first of he better leave me alone. Or. Else. And the Or. Else would be The Screwdriver Club plan of unscrewing his chair.
Daisy thinks I should ask Noah why he’s being rough lately, because maybe he is having personal troubles. (She is way too nice to be in The Screwdriver Club, obviously. So it is secret from her too.)
Snakey thinks I should bite Noah.
Steeltrap thinks I should jab him with a plastic sword.
Wingnut thinks I should be patient and gentle.
Achilles Heel thinks I should be brave.
Elizabeth thinks I should kiss him, because kissing people makes them run away from you.
Qwerty agrees with everybody.
The only one who has no idea what I should do is me.
December 17, Friday
I sat down next to Noah at the lonely end of the lunch table. I plopped my lunch bag down and climbed onto the bench with Noah watching me, his tuna sandwich blocking the bottom half of his face. His mom makes him huge sandwiches, on a roll instead of plain bread.
“Here’s the thing, Noah,” I said, without taking out my on-normal-bread sandwich or even my apple slices. “We’ve been friends for a long time and I want to stay friends.” Started with my positive thing.
“You don’t act it,” Noah said. He took a huge fresh bite of his sandwich.
“Yeah, well,” I said, “you don’t act it either, like a friend.”
“I’m not the one who’s being a bully, Justin! You are!”
“Wait,” I said. “Stop.” I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate, because I had worked very hard on what I was going to say to him. I had listened to the constructive criticisms of all my stuffties and Knights and friends and family members to put together exactly what I wanted to say. I didn’t want to mess it up.
“I want to stay friends,” I said.
“You already said that.”
“Noah.” I crumpled my lunch bag a little in my hands. “Okay. I don’t want to be mean to you. But the thing is, I am not allowed to let anybody hurt me and you keep hurting me. Maybe you’re mad that I’m friends with other kids instead of only you, but too bad because, well, I am friends with them. That’s not bullying. It’s just being friends.”
I opened my eyes. Noah was chewing.
“And I want to be friends with you too,” I continued. “But you have to be less annoying and violent. Because being annoying is … well, annoying. And violence is never the answer please let me know what you decide the end, thank you.”
Then I got up and went to the other end of the table where the friends who had never (so far at least) bruised me up were finishing their lunches. “Why were you even talking to that guy?” Cash asked me.
I shrugged.
“Did you say Or. Else?” Montana C. asked.
I shook my head.
“Well, you meant Or. Else, so maybe you kind of said it, just not in words,” she suggested. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Let’s go outside,” Cash said.
“Yeah,” everybody answered. Of course.
Cash tossed his lunch garbage in the trash can and walked out with Montana C. All the other kids in The Screwdriver Club followed them, so I did too.
I didn’t get to eat, but it was okay because my heart was too poundy for eating anyway. Noah went to extra recorder practice instead of going outside again.
I know he stinks at recorder, but still, I think that was not a great choice.
December 18, Saturday
Happy Hanukkah. I got some books. Also a screwdriver of my own, just like I asked for. It felt solid, like a weapon, in my hand. My palms started sweating. So I put it down quickly on the table and didn’t touch it anymore.
“Don’t you like it, Justin?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I said, and got hugged by him. He was proud because he thought I wanted to build things with the screwdriver. That made my insides feel like they were made out of extremely bad pie.
Then we had our Hanukkah tradition of setting off the smoke alarm before we went to the diner for dinner because for goodness sake.
December 19, Sunday
Qwerty got a pull toy and a new bone for Hanukkah presents. I didn’t even know he was Jewish, or half-Jewish, like me. He looked at me like, Yeah, well, apparently I am don’t touch my stuff.
I thought about calling Noah on the telephone to ask if he had decided to be less annoying or not yet. And in case I forgot to say it on Friday, maybe even add, please. Not as an Or. Else. Not as a threat. Just as a please, like a hope.
But then I didn’t call him.
It’s my half birthday today. I’m not plain nine anymore. My screwdriver is on top of my desk. I haven’t screwed or unscrewed anything with it yet, but it looks like a tool that would work. Really well. Which is a little cool and a little scary.
December 20, Monday
I don’t th
ink my Screwdriver Club friends are believing the words to our second song for the Holiday Assembly, which are: “Let us all work for peace, peace, peace / Shalom Salaam Pax Pace Peace Peace Peace. Let us work together for peace.”
Too bad we’re not singing, Let us all bring screwdrivers to school tomorrow and see what mischief we can do with them.
That would be more true.
Tomorrow is the day.
Which is why I am lying here wide awake in the dark while everybody in my family is fast asleep, including the people, the dog, and almost all the stuffties. I am holding my new screwdriver like a Boss.
Or maybe like a Bad Guy.
December 21, Tuesday
“We should just go now,” Cash said.
“And what?” Montana C. asked.
“And unscrew Noah’s chair,” Xavier explained.
“Duh,” Montana C. said. “But I mean, what, ask Mr. Leonard if we can quickly go to the classroom, the four of us alone?”
“Hmm,” Cash said. “No way he’ll okay that.”
“And even if we could get in there alone right now, will we have enough time?” Montana C. asked. “It’s almost time for everybody to go in anyway.”
We slumped down onto the cold grass. Three of us were disappointed that maybe our plan wouldn’t work. One of us (me) was a little bit relieved. The student council, including Cash as representative of 4-L, had convinced the grown-ups we need free play at least some days of the week. That’s why we had time to plot secret evil shenanigans.
Those grown-ups might have been wrong to listen to us, after all.
“I got it,” Cash said.
“Great,” Xavier said.
“We could say we want to come in early tomorrow morning,” Cash suggested. “To, like, do an extra-credit project on tortoises, how about?”
“Yeah!” Xavier said.
“He’d let us,” Cash said. “He loves if you want to do extra. Almost as much as he loves coffee. And, oh, this is good. He always has his mug of coffee in the morning when we get there. Right?”
“Yeah,” Montana C. said. “So?”
“That means he goes to the teachers’ room to get the coffee,” Cash said, nodding slowly. “So we’d have those few minutes while he’s out of the room. If we all work together, we should have all the screws out in a minute, two at most.”
