Ethan Marcus Makes His Mark

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  My name is announced. I rise to my feet, walk to the front of the room, and shake Z’s hand. He gives me a gold Z-shaped trophy. We take pictures. Then the others—Jet, Imani, Asher, Maddox—also shake my hand and pat my shoulder and congratulate me. Excellent, they say. Well done. Impressive.

  Erin Marcus approaches, and my stomach flutters, but she, too, offers me congratulations. I say thank you.

  I have won.

  I have taken first place. As I strived for. As I planned. As I knew I should.

  One of the investors pumps my hand vigorously and says she would like to talk more about FRIEND. “It’s a whole new horizon,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but the sounds of the room grow louder in my ears. Not just words, but colors, too many dizzying, blurred colors. My palms become sweaty. My heart rate accelerates.

  “A new horizon,” I repeat.

  My voice doesn’t sound right. It echoes; it is far away. She is waiting for me to continue. At first patiently. Then, when I don’t say anything, her expression changes. She blinks, tilts her head, looks at me questioningly.

  I run from the room, rush through the atrium, and push open the front door to the building. Then I am outside in the cold. The smell of pine. A squirrel. Two birds. The blue sky.

  My breath releases in small bursts. Tiny clouds that quickly dissipate.

  The door opens behind me. Maddox is suddenly at my side. “Hey,” she says.

  I look into the sky. I observe the squirrel, leaping across the snow with seemingly no purpose. “It does not feel as I imagined.”

  She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Winning, you mean?”

  I nod. “Winning.”

  She laughs. A short, sharp sound. “It never does.”

  The squirrel circles a tree, then dashes up the trunk.

  “You know I won the very first Z camp?” Maddox says.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Yep. I was just like you. In your shoes, so to speak.”

  “And?”

  She shrugs. “I sold my idea, made a few bucks.”

  “How did it do?”

  “You mean in the real world? The investor never developed it.” She takes out a hand, jerks her thumb toward the building. “But I got a job here right out of college, so that was good.”

  “Your idea was not developed?”

  “Correct.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Listen, Marlon, it’s really great that you won. Huge congrats. You should feel proud. But at the end of the day, what is it, really? You’re still just one person on this very large, complex planet.”

  We stand, silent for a few moments. My breath. Hers. Tiny clouds.

  “Being gifted can be a crummy gift sometimes, can’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I used to think that all the time too. Then I decided to forget about it.” She pulls open the door. “You like donuts?”

  “Donuts? I don’t eat them. They have no nutritional value.”

  She smiles. “Why does that matter? What would you like? Chocolate? Powdered sugar? I can nab one from Z’s private stash.”

  “But we have eaten only healthy food this week. Jet said it was ‘food for the brain.’ ”

  “Uh-huh, right. Z is a fanatical donut maniac. He can’t live without his sugar high. But you didn’t hear that from me.” She motions. “Come on.”

  I hesitate.

  “I’m offering you a free donut here. I don’t know anyone who’d pass that up.” She holds the door, and we go inside. It is calmer. The melee has dispersed. I do not see Mr. Canzeri anywhere.

  “Don’t go bolting outside again. I’ll be right back,” Maddox says. A few minutes later she returns with a gleaming chocolate donut on a napkin and hands it to me. “Better than the trophy, right?” She leans close. “You’re a brilliant guy. But take it from me: just go be a person on this planet.” She turns, and joins the rest of the Z Team at the far end of the atrium.

  I take a bite. It is delicious. Four more bites and it’s gone.

  I retrieve my laptop, my headphones, the trophy, my materials. Pack everything into my bag, then exit the building. Mom is out front. I get into the car and hold up the trophy. She is so proud, she says. And then we pull away, begin the drive home. Along with every other car on the road. Everyone going somewhere.

  Mom looks at me. “What’s on the side of your mouth?”

  I bring my fingers to my mouth, come away with a smear of sweet, sticky brown. I lick the icing from my fingers.

  Later, I discover that donuts were invented in 1847, although some dispute that historical reference. And this thought occurs to me: What if they had been around in Shakespeare’s day? How his plays might have been different had he been able to enjoy a chocolate donut once in a while.

  I put the trophy on my desk next to the Shakespeare volume. As you know, I have read it through twice.

  Perhaps that is enough.

  Perhaps, when I arrive at my next school, I will leave it at home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  New Year’s Eve

  ERIN

  Yes, I got up there and completely froze. And yes, I’m devastated. Not about that so much as about what Z did.

  When we got home after the last day of camp, I searched “Zak Canzeri” online. Not the ZCIC website—him. Turns out, he hasn’t had a success in a couple of years. One article even had this title: “Has Z’s Star Burned Out?” Apparently, the investors with his new venture think he’s “all talk and no action.”

  So, currently, I am searching for a new role model. I am actually considering—don’t laugh—my brother.

  Ethan and I are having a New Year’s Eve party. Dad went down to the basement and got rid of the spiders. Mom and I strung party lights from the wood beams on the ceiling. We put a tablecloth over the air hockey table, so now it has a purpose at last—a place to put food and beverages. It looks quite festive, even though it’s still a basement underneath all that. But things are not always what they seem, right?

  We’re not having a ton of people. Zoe, Brian. Natalia. And Connor.

  I haven’t really had time to process everything that happened during the camp, since it just ended yesterday, but I’ll say that nothing was what I expected. I thought I would feel angry, jealous, and resentful that Marlon took first. But surprisingly, I don’t.

  I think it’s because Marlon’s invention was good. Brilliant, even. And I knew it. Everyone knew it.

  Don’t get me wrong. I think the Desk for Success has amazing potential. Dad says he has a manufacturing client who might want to set up a meeting with us to discuss the idea. I told Dad I was thrilled to hear that, then mentioned to Mom that I need to get a pair of professional heels that fit my feet, pronto. And, hopefully, by the time we meet, my forehead burn will be healed.

  The doorbell rings, and when I open it, Connor’s standing there. He comes in, hands me a plate covered in plastic wrap.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “This would be Swedish meatballs.”

  “Oh. Did your mom make them?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Guess again.”

  “You?”

  He grins, takes off his jacket. “It’s an old family recipe that I made up this morning.”

  “You’re . . . Swedish?”

  He laughs. “I was kidding.”

  I carry the plate to the basement and he follows me. I make a space for it on the air hockey table. A few minutes later Natalia arrives, then Zoe. I introduce them. They bond instantly.

  Brian careens down the stairs and more or less crashes into the room. He’s wearing a glittery HAPPY NEW YEAR hat. He takes it off, waves it in the air, then pulls a noisemaker from his pocket and blows it. “I’m here! Start the party!”

  Ethan puts on some music. He made a playlist. I don’t recognize the first song, but he says it’s by ZZ Top, an old band th
at Dad told him about. “It’s kinda fitting, don’t you think? The Z tie-in?”

  We hang out for a while, not doing all that much; then, when I’m by the air hockey table, checking if anything needs to be refilled, Connor’s suddenly next to me.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “So, hey.” He pushes up his glasses. “You wanna do something sometime? Maybe, like, see a movie?”

  I pause. Is he asking me out? I study his face, try to determine what’s going on. I can’t tell. Why can’t I tell?

  “Possibly,” I reply.

  He grins, claps a hand to his chest. “That’s your answer? Possibly? What’s the deal breaker?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “You mean Person in Charge doesn’t have a plan when a guy asks her out?”

  So he is asking me out. Um, okay, wow.

  “I just thought about it,” I say. “What kind of movies do you like?”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  I nod.

  “Cool. I like old movies, from the fifties, sixties, seventies.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie that old.”

  “Well, that has to change,” he says.

  Maybe so.

  ZOE

  It’s weird and awkward and stiff between me and Ethan, and I don’t like it. I feel like he’s avoiding me. He never answered my text about talking. I’m trying not to look at him when he says something funny and everyone else laughs. We keep sort of stepping around each other.

  Finally there’s a moment when he’s alone. Not goofing around with one of the guys, and not talking to someone. It’s either now or this weirdness goes on the whole night. And it’s New Year’s! I can’t start a year like this.

  I motion for him to follow me to a corner of the basement. “I just want to say I’m sorry if I was all over you these past few weeks. I have a lot going on, with my mom and my dad and everything. I was trying to . . . I thought if I . . . Forget it. Whatever. Not important. It’s okay if you don’t like me. But we can be friends, right? I’d be sad if we weren’t friends.”

  Ethan smiles. “You’re friend-zoning me?”

  I smile back at him. “I guess I am.”

  He gently knocks his fist on my shoulder. “I can live with that.”

  I want so badly to reach out and hug him, but I don’t. We stand there for a few seconds. “So, funniest thing,” I say finally. “There was a woodpecker living in our mailbox, but now he moved out.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you know that woodpeckers tap between eight and twelve thousand times a day?”

  “No. Doesn’t that hurt their heads?”

  “Uh-uh, they’re uniquely built for that. Don’t you love that about the perfection of nature?”

  He laughs. “Definitely. You know what else is the perfection of nature?”

  “What?”

  “Those meatballs Connor made. I’ve had four.”

  “I’ll have to try one.”

  “What! You haven’t? Get over here.”

  Ethan grabs my arm and pulls me toward the air hockey buffet table, then stabs a meatball with a toothpick and hands it to me. I put it into my mouth, chew, swallow. “Good,” I say.

  “Good? How about awesomely excellent.”

  I look around their basement. The lights, the warmth, all of us here together on the brink of a brand-new year. “Okay,” I say. “Awesomely excellent.”

  BRIAN

  You aren’t gonna believe this in a million freakin’ years. I was all ready to forget about ever having a girlfriend. Then Natalia starts talking to me. And I’m not gonna get too worked up about it (okay, I am—I mean, how can I not?), but I think she LIKES me.

  You want proof?

  1) She taught me a yoga pose. The tree. You stand straight and tall, then bend one leg and clamp it to the other leg, by your thigh. Then you raise up your arms. She said I was really good at it, that I have great focus and balance.

  2) She laughed at one of my lamest jokes. And believe me, it was lame.

  3) She’s doing that eyelash-fluttering thing that Zoe does when she looks at Ethan. And she’s looking at ME.

  Me!

  Maybe, huh? Whaddya think?

  Anyway, gotta go. She’s gonna teach me a yoga pose called the warrior.

  Hey, I can be a warrior. And into yoga. Whatever it takes.

  ETHAN

  I didn’t flop. I didn’t embarrass myself at the camp. And no one laughed at me . . . that I’m aware of. No, no one did. I’m sure of it.

  We didn’t win, but we made something really awesome. And let me say it again, loud and clear: NO DUCT TAPE!

  And now, all this.

  All this because I got a bad case of ESD and stood up in class one day.

  Weird, huh?

  It’s a good thing Erin didn’t finish our report for Mrs. D, because now we have to change it. What, you didn’t think I was gonna forget about the Desk for Success, did you?

  I have no idea if anything’s gonna happen with our project, but you know something? Brian’s gram is way smarter than anyone.

  ’Cause when you spit into the wind, I think it creates some sort of cosmic shift in the universe. Or you just get rid of excess saliva and clear away cobwebs that you didn’t even know were clouding your brain. Either way, if you’re ever in need, give it a try. It won’t be what you expect.

  Trust me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I DECIDED I WANTED TO be a writer when I was in fifth grade. That’s about the time all big decisions are made, right? I wrote my first book that year—The Chair That Knew How to Dance—and it was one of the winners in a school contest. The prize was reading my story to kindergartners. I still remember their excited faces as I turned each page, and it was right then and there that I realized this writing and reading thing was a pretty cool deal.

  Oddly enough, my PE teacher at the time, Mr. Phillips, taught me an invaluable lesson about perseverance, and the experience stayed with me during years of writing rejections. Trampolines were still allowed in gym class back then, and I was having a rough time mastering a flip. During one attempt, I knocked my knees into my face and got a bloody nose. Before Mr. Phillips let me go to the nurse, he insisted I try one more flip, telling me that if I didn’t, I’d never get on the trampoline again. And that was the time I did it. It’s often that last time, just when you’re about to give up, that you succeed.

  Heaps of gratitude to my fairy godmother and agent, Alyssa Eisner Henkin; my editors, Fiona Simpson and Tricia Lin; as well as the entire team at Aladdin, including Hugo Santos for the awesome cover design. A million thanks to ace librarian Sherri Bolen for her constant support; teacher Jenna Bolen for sharing her classroom philosophies with me; the inspiring, wonderful group of writers at the 2016 middle-grade retreat at the Writing Barn in Austin, Texas; and the countless bloggers, teachers, librarians, fellow authors, friends, and readers who share their love of books every day.

  And, always, to Ben, Rachel, Sam, and Cassie, who never fail to keep me afloat amidst all the craziness.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Author photograph by Sadie Tepe

  MICHELE WEBER HURWITZ is also the author of three middle-grade novels: Ethan Marcus Stands Up, The Summer I Saved the World . . . in 65 Days, and Calli Be Gold. All have been nominated for several state reading awards. She lives in the Chicago area with her family. Visit her online at micheleweberhurwitz.com.

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  OTHER BOOKS BY MICHELE WEBER HURWITZ

  Ethan Marcus Stands Up

  The Summer I Saved the World . . . in 65 Days

  Calli Be Gold

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, pl
aces, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  First Aladdin hardcover edition November 2018

  Text copyright © 2018 by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Hugo Santos

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  ISBN 978-1-4814-8928-7 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-4814-8930-0 (eBook)