Nobody was around. As far as I knew, the whole school was inside that gym. It was now or never.
I sprinted up the hall, around the long way behind the office, and then cut down another hallway, through the cafeteria, and into an empty stairwell in the back. By the time I found what I was looking for, I’d been gone only a minute or two.
I stood there, staring at the little red box on the wall.
I could just hear Leo now, like he was right there. Don’t think about it. Just DO it!
I flipped the latch, opened the wire cage around the alarm box, and put my finger on the little white handle inside. This was what you call the point of no return. My mission, should I choose to accept it… and all that.
Still—was I crazy? Was I completely nuts for thinking I could pull this off?
Yes, I told myself. You are.
Okay, I thought. Just checking.
And I pulled the alarm.
CHAOS
I’m not sure what the fire alarm sounded like in the gym, but it was about ten thousand decibels in that stairwell: wah-AH! wah-AH! wah-AH! I covered my ears as I sprinted back to the bathroom.
The idea was to make it there before the teachers could get everyone lined up and marching outside. Then I could stroll out like I’d just finished my business and blend into the crowd.
Turns out, I didn’t need a plan. By the time I got anywhere near the gym, everyone was already running, walking, and for all I know skipping in every possible direction. I guess Mrs. Stricker hadn’t gotten to the part about what to do if a fire alarm sounds (Section 11). In fact, I could still hear her over the mike in the gym.
“Everyone remain calm! Line up with your teachers and proceed in an orderly fashion to the nearest exits.”
I’m not sure who she was talking to. It looked like the whole school was already out here in the hall. And in the parking lot. And on the soccer field. And on the basketball courts.
I couldn’t believe this was all because of me! I kind of felt guilty about it, but it was kind of… amazing. To be honest, only half of that sentence is true. It was more like I knew I should feel bad, but I didn’t.
Meanwhile, the fire alarm was still blaring—
But it just sounded to me like—
When I found Leo outside, he gave me a big, double high five. “That’s one for execution and one for the idea,” he said.
“I can’t take all the credit,” I told him. “The idea was half yours.”
“That’s true,” he said, and high-fived himself. Then he showed me his drawing again. “Check it out. I made some improvements.”
I opened up my copy of the Code of Conduct and turned to Section 11, Rule 3: “Students shall not tamper with smoke or fire alarms under any circumstances.”
Then I took Leo’s pen and drew a line right through it. That felt pretty good too. One rule down and… well, all the rest to go.
MY HOME PAGE
On the bus ride home that afternoon, everyone was talking about my little fire drill. It was a rush, sitting there and knowing they were all talking about me.
Of course, everything good has to come to an end. Before long, I was getting off the bus and walking through the front door of my house.
Meet my future stepfather, also known as the low point of my day. His name is Carl, but we call him Bear. Two years ago, he was just this customer at the diner where my mom works. Now, somehow, Mom has a ring on her finger, and Bear lives here with us.
That’s Ditka, Bear’s lame excuse for a guard dog. Ditka knows all about “attack” but not so much about “down” or “stop.” He usually tries to eat my face for an after-school snack.
“Ditka, down! Down!” Bear said, coming out of hibernation as I walked in the door.
Bear pulled Ditka off of me and then flopped back into his Bear-shaped place on the couch. “Hey, Squirt. How was the first day?” (He calls me Squirt. Do I even have to point that out?)
“School was unbelievable,” I said. “I kind of, well, sort of, met this amazing girl, and then I set off the fire alarm during an assembly—”
Okay, that’s not what I really said, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I did. Bear’s not exactly a good listener.
“Uh-huh,” he said. He reached up and stretched—his workout for the day. “Did you sign up for football yet?”
“Nah,” I said. I took a couple of pudding cups out of the fridge and kept moving toward my room.
“Why the heck not?” he yelled after me. “Football’s the one thing you’re actually good at!”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget I’m a loser, Loser,” I said as I zoomed down the hall.
“DID YOU JUST CALL ME A LOSER?” Bear roared back.
“No, I called myself a loser,” I said, and slammed my door. “Loser.”
Like I said—low point of my day.
Bear and Mom had just gotten engaged that summer, over Fourth of July. That’s when Bear moved in. Mom asked Georgia and me what we thought about it before she said yes, but what were we going to tell her? “You’re about to get engaged to the world’s biggest slug”? I don’t think she would have listened, anyway.
Now Mom was working double shifts at the diner all the time just to make enough money, and Bear was spending 99 percent of his time on our couch, except maybe to go to the bathroom or to collect his stupid unemployment check.
Bottom line? My mom was way too good for this guy, but unfortunately neither of them seemed to know it.
CHECK THIS OUT
So, this is what my room looks like. It’s the one place at home I can kick back, be by myself, and do whatever I want. Mom says I keep it too messy, but the truth is, I just have too much STUFF.
CHECK THIS OUT, PART II
Okay, I might have been exaggerating a tiny bit there. Really, it’s more like this.
(Just kidding. Kind of.)
GEORGIA ON MY NERVES
About twelve seconds after I slammed my door, Georgia came a-knocking. She knew better than to just barge in. At least I’d trained her that much.
“Enter!” I told her.
She came in and closed the door right behind her. “What’s going on? Why was he yelling like that? Are you in trouble?” she said.
In case you’re wondering, Georgia is nine and a half years old, in fourth grade, and 100 percent into everyone else’s business.
“Go away,” I told her. I had work to do. A mission to plan. Besides, since when do I need an excuse to NOT want my sister around?
“Just tell me what he said,” she whined.
“Here.” I gave her one of my pudding cups. “He said have a pudding cup, okay? Now get out.”
She gave me a look that was like, “I’m not stupid, but okay, I’ll take the pudding cup,” and she didn’t ask any more questions.
Mostly, I can’t stand Georgia, but I also didn’t want her to get stuck in the middle of anything with me and Bear. She was still the kid in the family, after all.
“Rafe?”
“What?” I said.
“Thanks for the pudding cup.”
“You’re welcome. Now close the door—from the other side,” I said, and turned my back on her like I expected nothing short of obedience. A few seconds later, I heard her leave.
Finally, some peace and quiet! Now I could get down to work and really figure out where this whole mission thing was going to take me next.
SO THIS IS WHAT MOTIVATION FEELS LIKE!
First of all, it needed a name. I thought about it for a while and came up with Operation R.A.F.E., which stands for:
Rules
Aren’t
For
Everyone
I’d be the first kid to ever play Operation R.A.F.E., but not the last. Someday there could be Operation R.A.F.E. video games, Rafe Khatchadorian action figures (okay, so it’s not the best action hero name), a movie version (starring me), and a whole amusement park called R.A.F.E. World, with sixteen different roller coasters and no height requirem
ents to ride any of the rides. The whole thing (R.A.F.E. Enterprises) would make me the world’s youngest million-billion-trillionaire, or maybe some kind of -aire that doesn’t even exist yet. And I’d pay somebody to go to school for me.
Meanwhile I still had to finish inventing this thing.
I decided that every rule in the Hills Village Middle School Code of Conduct should be worth a certain number of points, depending on how hard it was to break. Of course, this meant I could get into some serious trouble, so I decided to make that worth a bunch of points too. And there would be bonuses, for things like getting big laughs, or if Jeanne Galletta saw what I did. Definitely that!
I wrote it all down in a big grid, in one of the spiral notebooks Mom got me for school. (What? This was for school.)
That’s only part of it. There are a TON more rules in the Code of Conduct than that—112 of them, to be exact—but you get the idea.
After I was done writing it all down, I started thinking maybe this whole thing needed some kind of major ending. Like, if Operation R.A.F.E. was going to get me through sixth grade, then I should have something big—no, HUGE—as a kind of final challenge before I could go on to the next level (which was seventh grade).
I’d get Leo to help me, and it would be worth half a million points—way more than anything else. It had to be something everyone in school would see, and everyone would remember long after I was gone. But also very high risk. I’d have to earn those big points.
I still didn’t have any idea how I was going to pull this whole thing off, but it almost didn’t matter. I just couldn’t wait to start figuring it out. In fact—and please don’t tell anyone I said this—for the first time in my life, I was actually looking forward to going back to school.
OFF AND RUNNING
The next morning, Mom set two plates of scrambled eggs in front of me and Georgia and then sat down to watch us eat. She loves to watch us eat, which I totally don’t get. I mean, she works at a diner. She watches people eat all day long.
“You were both asleep when I got home last night,” she said. “I’m dying to hear about the first day of school. Tell me everything!”
I wanted to say, “Define everything,” but that would have been like putting up a neon sign that read I HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE.
The thing is, I don’t like to lie to Mom. I mean, I’ll do it if I have to, but she has enough to deal with. So instead I shoved half a piece of toast and a bunch of scrambled egg into my mouth and started chewing as slowly as I could.
That meant Georgia went first. Lucky for me, she talks a lot. I mean, a LOT. If Mom hadn’t cut her off, I might have gotten all the way out the door without ever saying a word.
“How about you, Rafe?” she asked when Georgia finally took a breath. “What do you think of middle school so far?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be.”
Like Leo says, not telling the whole truth isn’t the same thing as lying.
Mom’s eyes got all wide, like I’d just sprouted a second head or something.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my son Rafe?” she asked, joking around.
“I’m not saying I love it—”
“No, but this sounds like a good start,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you, honey. You must be doing something right. Whatever it is, just keep doing it.”
“Oh, I will,” I told her, just before I shoved some more scrambled eggs into my big fat not-quite-lying mouth.
RULES WERE MADE FOR BREAKING
The next few days were just okay. I couldn’t top my fire drill from Monday, so I didn’t even try. I just stuck to some of the beginner-level stuff to keep things moving along.
On Tuesday, I chewed gum in homeroom, and Mr. Rourke made me spit it out (5,000 points).
On Wednesday, I ran down the hall past the office until Mr. Dwight told me to “put the brakes on there, mister” (10,000 points).
On Thursday, I took a Snickers out in the library, and Mrs. Frurock, who’s about 180 years old, told me to put it away (5,000 points). I even took a bite before I did, but she didn’t notice (no bonus).
By Friday, I could tell something was missing. Just breaking the rules by itself wasn’t going to cut it. I needed something more. I needed a boost in my game.
I needed… (wait for it)… Leo-izing!
He caught up with me at my locker just before eighth-period English. And of course he knew right away what I should do. Leo always does.
“You’re just coasting,” he said. “If you’re going to play this game, then you need to really play it. So I’m going to change things up.”
“You?” I said. “Since when do you make the decisions?”
“Since I came up with half the idea for this whole thing,” he told me. “Here’s the deal. It’s two twenty-six. That means forty-nine minutes left in the day. That’s how long I’m giving you to earn another thirty thousand points.”
“Thirty thousand?” I said. That was more than I’d made in the last three days combined.
“Yep. Otherwise, you lose a life,” he said.
“Hang on a second.” Leo was going kind of fast, even for Leo. “I have… lives?”
“Sure,” he said, like it was obvious. “Three of them, to be exact.”
“And what happens if—” I didn’t want to say it. What happens if I lose all three lives?
“Then you’re a big loser, you don’t get to finish the game, and the rest of the year will be about as much fun as a case of never-ending diarrhea,” he told me.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s all, huh?”
Leo shrugged. “Gotta keep it interesting.”
That’s one thing about Leo. He definitely knows how to keep things interesting. I mean, it’s not like just because he says something, I have to do it. But what would you rather do—play this game by yourself or with your best friend?
Yeah, I thought so.
“Okay, game on,” I told him. I looked up at the clock just as the eighth-period bell started to ring.
“That’s forty-eight minutes and counting,” Leo said. “Better get busy.”
WRITE AND WRONG
I got to Ms. Donatello’s English class with forty-seven and a half minutes left in the day. The clock was ticking… on my life! (One of them, at least.)
After attendance, Donatello told us that we were going to read parts of Romeo and Juliet aloud in class. It was written by Mr. William Shakespeare, who I believe is famous for writing the most boring plays in the history of the universe.
“This is a little advanced,” Donatello told us. “But I think you kids are up to it.” Obviously, she didn’t know the first thing about me.
Allison Prouty, who raises her hand for everything, helped give out the scripts while Donatello told us what parts we each had. When she got to me, she said, “Rafe, I think you’d make a fine Paris,” and everyone in the room started laughing, right at me.
“Paris?” I asked. “Why do I have to read a girl’s part?”
“Paris is a boy,” Donatello told me. “He’s one of Lord Capulet’s best men.”
“Yeah, well, he probably still wears tights,” I said, but Donatello ignored me.
“Listen to the language as we read through,” she told everyone. “Notice how every line has ten syllables. Notice the subtle rhyming. That’s not easy to do. Nobody wrote like Shakespeare. Nobody!”
And I thought—hmmmm. Idea in progress, please stand by.
“Let’s begin,” Donatello said. “‘Act One, Scene One.’”
It turned out that this Paris guy (he really was a guy) doesn’t come in until page 12. That was good. It gave me time to work on my idea. Donatello probably thought I was taking notes like Jeanne Galletta and the other brainiacs, but I was actually hot on the trail of those 30,000 points.
Ten syllables per line? Check!
Rhyming? Check!
By the time we got to my part, there were only a couple of minutes left
in class, but I was ready.
“‘Act One, Scene Two,’” Donatello read. “‘Lord Capulet and Paris enter.’”
Jason Rice was Lord Capulet, and he had the first line. It went something like, “‘But Montague is bound as well as I,’” and blah, blah, blah. “‘For men so old as we to keep the peace,’” and blah, blah, blah. (I told you it was boring.)
Now it was my turn. I put my paper over the script and looked down like I was reading from the right place. Then, loud and clear, I read, “‘Excuse me, sir, there’s dog poop on your shoe.’”
“Rafe!” Donatello shouted, but not as loudly as everyone else was laughing, so I kept going.
“‘Your wife is ugly, and your daughter too.
I think this play is stupid, so guess what?
I’m out of here and you can kiss my—’”
That’s as far as I got before Donatello the Dragon Lady ripped the page right out of my hand.
I knew I was in trouble, but I’ll tell you this much: It was totally worth it. Everyone besides Donatello was still laughing, including Jeanne Galletta.
Yes!
And the thing was, nobody was laughing at me anymore. Now they were laughing with me. That’s like the difference between night and day. Or wet and dry.
Or in this case, losing and winning.
THIN ICE IS BETTER THAN NO ICE AT ALL
Donatello didn’t have to tell me to stay after class. It kind of went without saying. Once everyone was gone, she gave me a real talking-to.
“What was that about, Rafe?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I told her.
“It wasn’t ‘nothing,’” she said. “First of all, let me say that I noticed you kept Mr. Shakespeare’s meter and rhyme in what you wrote—”
Middle School, the Worst Years of My Life Page 2
