Text copyright © 2019 by Joshua S. Levy
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Carolrhoda Books
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Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
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Cover illustration by Petur Antonsson.
Design elements by Triff/Shutterstock.com (galaxy); mapichai/Shutterstock.com (rays).
Map © Laura Westlund/Independent Picture Service.
Main body text set in Bembo Std regular 12.5/17.
Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Levy, Joshua (Joshua S.), author.
Title: Seventh grade vs. the galaxy / by Joshua Levy.
Other titles: Seventh grade versus the galaxy
Description: Minneapolis, MN : Carolrhoda Books, Lerner Publishing Group, [2019] | Summary: In 2299, seventh-grader Jack and his classmates find themselves in hostile alien territory after Jack accidentally launches their rickety public schoolship light years away from home.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018010973 (print) | LCCN 2018017705 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541541818 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781541528109 (th : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Space ships—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Life on other planets—Fiction. | Science fiction. | Humorous stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.L4895 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.L4895 Sev 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018010973
Manufactured in the United States of America
1-44686-35525-10/19/2018
Tali & Serena: More than anyone, I’d take this road with you. Also, this doesn’t count as going into space.
1
Zero-gravity dodgeball three times since Tuesday. So you know it’s the end of the year.
I shuffle toward the back wall of the gym and line up behind the rest of the class. If I ever get picked first for dodgeball, it’ll mean the universe has turned upside down.
“Becka!” shouts Riya Windsor, one of the team captains.
Becka Pierce trots over to the other side of the gym and gives Riya a high five that sounds like a sonic boom. I watch Riya wince and pretend that she doesn’t feel like she just slapped a brick wall.
“Shocker,” I whisper to Ari. Becka’s always first pick—not that this bothers me, but I’m hoping I at least don’t get picked last today. This has officially been the worst year of my life. And I’d like to get through the next few hours without being reminded again that I’m the least popular kid onboard the PSS 118.
Ari doesn’t say a word, probably because he can’t hear me over the thumps in his chest. He’s had this cartoon crush on Becka for as long as I can remember. The kind where your heart pops out against your shirt, you go all bug-eyed for no reason, and little pink hearts float up out of your head like bubbles.
It’s super annoying.
I don’t know why he likes her so much. She kind of scares me. And during gym class, she’s a freaking nightmare. Literally. Once, after a really intense game of freeze tag, my dorm-mate Diego woke up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, screaming, “No, Becka! I’m not it! Please! I’m not it!”
“T-Bex! T-Bex!” some of our classmates cheer.
Becka flashes one of her evil grins. She’s tall, maybe the tallest girl in the whole school. And a couple of years ago, Hunter LaFleur started calling her “Tyrannosaurus Bex,” or “T-Bex” for short. So naturally, she showed up to the school dance in a giant dinosaur costume (who knows where she even got that from) and shoved Hunter into the drink table. He slipped on some spilled fruit punch and broke one of his big toes when he tried to get up. They didn’t even have detention in fifth grade before that day. But Becka didn’t care about getting in trouble. She beamed all the way to Principal Lochner’s office. And now “T-Bex” isn’t an insult. It’s a term of respect.
“Can’t believe we’re playing dodgeball again,” I tell him.
“What?” Ari says, hypnotized by the snap snap beat of Becka cracking her knuckles.
Ordinarily, I would slap him on the back of the head to bring him to his senses, but I resist the urge. Things have been bad enough between us lately. (Long story. My fault.) I don’t want to strain our friendship even more. Especially because he’s the only person who didn’t start treating me differently after my dad—aka our science teacher—got fired a few months ago.
So I just mutter, “Creeper alert.”
Which Ari understands right away. “Oh.” He tears his eyes away from Becka. “Thanks.”
“Anyway, I was saying that I can’t believe we’re playing this again.” I know we’re still on the same page about most things, including disliking dodgeball. Of course, Ari holds the high score in Virtual Dodgeball (along with every other video game I know). But the real thing? Not so much.
“Eh,” he responds, pointing to the corner of the room. Ms. Needle—who teaches mismatched things like PE, music, art, and Spanish (and dresses like she’s getting ready for all those classes at once)—is lost in some old-timey paper book that she must’ve checked out from the special library on Ceres. “There’s nothing else she can get us to play on the last day of school without having to yell.”
I nod. Can’t blame Ms. Needle for being a little burned out. I’d be, too, if I was an underpaid public school teacher who spent nine months of the year living with my whiny students onboard a rundown spaceship. My dad used to say that it’s “the most rewarding job in the solar system.” But my dad’s also a liar.
“And second,” Ari adds, “dodgeball isn’t my favorite either. But don’t jinx yourself by complaining. It’s bad luck. The ball will for sure knock out your teeth or something.”
That’s Ari: something practical and smart, because he’s brilliant, immediately followed by something ridiculous and superstitious, because—and I’ve never been totally clear on this—maybe he also believes in magic? But he’s right about one thing: I don’t need any more bad luck.
“Come on!” Hunter shouts at the captains. “We’re not gonna have enough time!”
“Okay, okay,” Riya groans, rubbing her forehead. She’s clearly having trouble picking between the only two choices left. Unlike Becka, Ari and I are short and scrawny. Ari has giant dark hair that always looks like he just finished electrocuting himself. (And considering his habit of tinkering with every machine he can get his hands on, he sometimes really has just finished electrocuting himself.) I have super freckly skin and eyes that I’ve always thought are a little too big for my face. You’d know just by looking at us that we aren’t the next All-Jupiter Athletes in the making.
“Fine,” Riya says, throwing up her hands. “I guess I pick Ari.”
I sigh. The other captain doesn’t bother to call my name, even for the ceremony of it. He just glares at me and shrugs.
***
Thwack. Becka is in one of her frenzies. It’s not easy to throw in zero gravity, but Becka manages just fine. She hurls the ball at Gena Korematsu so hard that it actually hits Gena’s stomach and bounces directly back into Becka’s hands so she can have another go. Gena flies over to the sidelines, spinning out of control. Becka kicks off the wall and rockets across the room. Halfway to the othe
r side, she fakes the ball at Hunter’s head. And Hunter—twenty feet up in the air—curls up like a scared hedgehog. But as Becka crosses directly in front of Hunter, she just taunts him with a wave and a smile. People would probably be more upset about Becka hogging the ball if we weren’t all so busy keeping away from her.
Like the rest of our school, the gym is nothing special. Correction: It’s unspecial. Subspecial. It’s about the size of a basketball court, with crooked baskets attached to the roof at each end and bleachers on one side that used to fold down onto the floor but have been stuck half-open for two years. Principal Lochner likes to joke that “the money to fix the bleachers should come in any day now!” Because, like most of the other public schoolships orbiting Jupiter’s moons, we’re basically broke. Check out the PE supply closet: busted hockey sticks, useless tug-of-war bungee straps, torn jump ropes tied together, and a stack of orange cones that look like they’ve been blasted through the thickest part of the Kuiper belt. This dodgeball is our last ball—we use it for dodgeball, kickball, volleyball, basketball, and a very frustrating version of touch football.
Trying to avoid getting hit, Cal Brown instead gets caught up in one of the “GO CHAMPIONS!” banners that dangles from the ceiling. Everyone laughs, and not only because Cal is a klutz. Since none of our teams has ever won even a single championship for any sport—even with Becka leading the pack—the school’s nickname has turned into a bitter inside joke.
Becka spits into her hands and rubs them together to improve her grip, which is an even grosser thing to do in zero-g than normal. Ari stops to stare at her like she’s a glowing angel dancing in slow motion.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Becka does her signature move: she smacks the ball into a steady spin and holds a finger an inch or two underneath it like she’s levitating it with her mind. More than a little distracted today, I fail to immediately notice that I’m the only one left on my team.
“You ready for the pain, Graham?” Becka asks.
The class is buzzing: Jack Graham is no match for a roaring T-Bex hunting its prey. Fine by me. There’s plenty of time for a second game, which I plan to actually pay attention to—just enough to get out toward the beginning and spend the rest of the period hovering alone in the corner.
But as the ball shoots toward me like a laser bolt, some uncontrollable instinct takes over and I flail my arms up to block it. To be fair, I’m pretty sure that, had it hit my stomach, it would have done permanent damage to my kidneys. So I make a fist. Strike the ball. And smack it down toward the bleachers, where it hits the edge of one of the long benches and somehow—
Bang.
—the ball pops, leaving behind a sad rubber pancake floating in the air.
Ari was right. I shouldn’t have jinxed it.
Just like our ball—our very last ball—the room explodes.
“Come on!”
“You had to try, didn’t you?”
“Worst. Game. Ever.”
“You should have gone home with your dad!”
At that last comment, the gym goes silent and I flinch worse than when the dodgeball was barreling toward me. It would have been less painful if I’d let it crush my internal organs. I shut my eyes tight and try to push down the urge to flee the gym, run to my dorm, and never come out. I just wanted to get through one day without having to hear someone mention my dad.
I haven’t seen him in months and part of me doesn’t want to see him ever again. Of course, it’s the last day of school. So this afternoon I’ll be on a shuttle heading down to Ganymede, and I’ll have to spend the whole summer with him. I would’ve preferred a few hours of peace, a few hours of flying under the radar, before having to deal with all that.
Sure, it’s always been a little weird to be a teacher’s kid. But I was never an outcast before. And my dad wasn’t just a science teacher—he’s a legit scientist with a PhD from the University of California–Europa. The other kids actually thought he was cool, which made me cool by extension. He could’ve kept his cushy job at NASA, but he decided to teach middle-school science on a public schoolship instead because he “believed in the importance of public education” and was “passionate about teaching the next generation” and “wanted to spend more time with his son” and—lots of other things I’d also put in quotes because I don’t believe them anymore.
And sure, life wasn’t perfect. Especially after my parents got divorced and my mom moved all the way to Earth. But I was reasonably popular. I was smart. (Okay, fine, but I used to get B’s, do you hear me? B’s!) And I was happy. But then my dear old dad went and got himself fired right after winter break, and things got bad. Like—“Jack, these nice people from the Department of Homeland Security have a few questions for you about your father”—bad.
And that was only the beginning of my problems.
“Ms. Needle!” someone shouts. “Ms. Needle!”
Floating around by the emergency exit sign, she looks up from her book at what’s left of the ball, sees everyone staring at me, and sighs.
“Well, accidents happen,” she says too sweetly, like she’s talking to a dying puppy. I’m afraid she might fly over to me and scratch behind my ears.
It’s in her voice and in her eyes. Poor little Jack Graham has been through enough already. She was friends with my dad before he was kicked off the ship and still hasn’t said a bad word about him. But I don’t know who makes me feel worse, the kids who hate me or the adults who feel sorry for me.
She pulls herself over to the nearest control panel, presses an open hand against the scanner, and lets it read her palm and fingerprints.
“WELCOME, ARGENTINA NEEDLE,” the computer says in its whiny, nasally voice. “KIDS GET TIRED ALREADY?”
As AIs go, ours can be a little sarcastic.
“No!” the class groans.
“It’s time to go anyway,” Ms. Needle says, even though it’s not. “Ship, reengage the gym’s gravity.”
“GOT IT,” says the ship. “TEACHER GOT TIRED ALREADY.”
And we all start floating back down to the floor, even though there are fifteen whole minutes left to the period. I look into a few faces and know exactly what they’re thinking: “One more thing ruined by the Graham family.”
Could this day get any worse?
2
Principal Lochner steps over to his podium. He’s wearing the wrinkled suit he always wears, with a half-tucked-in, button-down shirt and a tie with rubber duckies on it. I’ve been going to this school for three years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his jacket close all the way. Any second now, the shirt buttons straining against his belly are going to pop off and poke some fifth graders’ eyes out. So basically, he’s perfect for the PSS 118.
“What a year!” he begins.
No kidding.
We’re in the cafeteria for the end-of-the-year assembly. The tables and benches have been folded and stacked in a corner, replaced by rows of rusty metal folding chairs. Next door in the kitchen, I can see the three old lunch robots—nicknamed Cranky, Creaky, and Stingy—slumped over today’s leftovers of mac and cheese and potato wedges. The robots hate assemblies even more than we do, so they turn themselves off as soon as the principal starts speaking. One of the teachers will have to power them up again manually afterward. Once, Cranky was offline for a week after it hid behind the fridge for its nap and no one turned it back on. Which made for kind of a nice week.
“And wow, have we accomplished a lot this year!” Principal Lochner says.
Only Principal Lochner confuses “participating” with “accomplishing.” Sure, we compete in Galilean Moon League sports, spelling bees, and science fairs. But our only consistent achievement is coming in last.
“. . . so proud of Mississippi Tinker’s Honorable Mention Ribbon from this year’s Model UN . . .”
No one applauds for Missi’s non-award, not even Missi.
I’m sitting in the back row, staring ahead at the sea of bored, identically
dressed kids. The school has a uniform: Black polo shirts with Public School Spaceship 118 embroidered on the top left pocket. Khaki pants. And, as the student handbook says for some mysterious reason, “sneakers that may not be brightly colored.” We’re allowed to wear our ring communicators, but only if they’re on silent during school hours. I glance at mine to check the time. School lets out in forty-five minutes. I can make it through this.
“And we’re especially impressed with our glee club for their spirited showing at regionals this year on Io!”
The glee club came in fourth. Of four schools. This time we clap, but only because it’s too awkward to keep sitting still. I see the six kids in the glee club sink down in their chairs. Even Ms. Needle rolls her eyes.
I know that there are thousands of American public school spaceships out there. I know that there are even more schoolships run by different countries (we’ve got one Mexican and two Japanese schools in our sector). And I know that the odds that our school is literally the worst in the entire solar system are slim. But it’s gotta be close.
We’ll for sure never be stupid St. Andrew’s Preparatory Schoolship, which also orbits Ganymede. They host a spelling bee once a year, just to show off their sparkling ship and make everyone else jealous. Like most of the moons out here, Ganymede doesn’t have any surface schools. It’s apparently cheaper to send kids to school onboard old gutted freighters (or, in the case of private schools like St. Andrew’s, brand new, gold-plated space mansions). Only kids on Earth and Mars actually go to school planetside. When my mom got her new job at a hospital on Earth, I thought she’d consider taking me with her.
I thought wrong.
“Let’s hear it for this year’s graduating seventh-grade class,” Principal Lochner concludes. We cheer, mostly because the speech is almost over. “We’re really going to miss them when they go off to the PSS 97.”
The 118 only has room for the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades. Then you graduate and go to junior high onboard a ship that’s basically as terrible as the 118, but maybe with a little less of that weird cheese smell.
Seventh Grade vs. the Galaxy Page 1
