How to Survive Middle School Read online

  To Dan, Andrew and Jake, with love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Tina Wexler for being both an excellent agent and a wonderful friend.

  My stories are always in good hands when they’re in the hands of my editor, Stephanie Elliott. Stephanie invests much time and heart into finding what belongs in a story and what doesn’t. It’s a privilege to work with her and her assistant, Krista Vitola.

  I’m grateful to the talented people at Random House for endless encouragement and support during every step of the publishing process.

  Middle-school media specialist Lisa Petroccia, who is a master at creating video projects with the students, assisted with my research.

  Thanks to the WIMS news team for allowing me to watch them in action, especially Paola for teaching me about the equipment.

  Lawrence Schimel and Caren Wilder helped with a Spanish translation. ¡Gracias!

  Caren also gave me the Jewish apple cake recipe many years ago, never imagining it would end up in a book.

  Elysa Graber-Lipperman and her lovely daughter, Amelia, read an early draft and provided useful feedback.

  Much appreciation to Riley Roam and Kenny Mikey from Page Turner Adventures (www.pageturneradventures.com) for their excellent work on the videos and for their valued friendship.

  Love and gratitude to my Sunday writing group—Sensational Sylvia, Lovely Linda, Debonair Dan, Jazzy Jill, Capable Carole, Knowledgeable Kieran and Positively Peter—for laughing in all the right places.

  The first day of summer vacation is important, because what you do that day sets the tone for the rest of summer.

  That’s why my best friend, Elliott Berger, is coming over to watch the Daily Show episodes I’ve recorded. Mom and I used to watch them together. She always said the host, Jon Stewart, stood up for the little guy, which is funny, because Jon Stewart is a little guy—five feet seven inches. According to Wikipedia, the average height for men in the United States is five feet nine and a half inches.

  Let’s just say I can totally relate to Jon’s height issue.

  Anyway, I record other shows, like The Colbert Report and Late Show, too, but mostly Elliott and I watch The Daily Show. We both think Jon Stewart is hilarious and a great interviewer. Someday I’m going to be a famous talk show host like Jon.

  He and I have a lot in common.

  1. We’re both Jewish.

  2. We both have our own talk shows—but mine’s different from his. It’s called TalkTime and I post the shows on YouTube.

  3. We’re both vertically challenged (but I still have time to grow).

  Since Elliott won’t be here for a while, I shoot my first TalkTime of the summer without him.

  First I set up the studio (aka my bedroom) by taping a poster of New York City’s skyline on my wall, kind of like they do on the Late Show with David Letterman. That way it looks like I’m shooting in an exciting location instead of boring Bensalem, Pennsylvania, where the biggest news is that they opened a Golden Corral buffet restaurant on Street Road. (Yes, I know that’s a weird name for a road, but that’s what it’s called. It’s almost as stupid as parking in a driveway and driving on a parkway.)

  Anyway, next I make sure my special guest is ready in the greenroom (aka the bathroom).

  He is.

  Finally, I set my camera on the tripod in my bedroom, bang two empty paper-towel rolls together and say, “Action!”

  Using my best talk show host voice, I begin: “Welcome to TalkTime with David Greenberg.” I scribble on a piece of paper with a grand flourish, like Jon Stewart does on The Daily Show. Then I crumple the paper, toss it into my laundry basket and keep talking. “It’s our first show of the summer and it’s going to be a hot one. Ha! Ha!”

  I hear Hammy’s wheel spin like crazy, so I turn the camera toward his cage and give him a close-up. “And now,” I say, “your moment of Hammy.” As though on cue, Hammy hops off his wheel, looks up and twitches his whiskers.

  I smile and think about how I’ll edit that later, showing a split screen—Hammy on the right, credits scrolling on the left.

  I point the camera back at myself and sit in front of fake New York. “Before we get to today’s special guest, it’s time for Top Six and a Half with David Greenberg.

  “Top Six and a Half Things That I, David Todd Greenberg, Will Miss About Longwood Elementary School.

  “One: The lunch lady who snuck ice cream onto my tray every Friday. By the way, awesome hairnet, lunch lady.

  “Two: Student of the Week, which I won a total of seven times—more than anyone in the history of Longwood El. Wahoo!”

  I pace around my room until I come up with number three. “Three: Helping Ms. Florez in the TV studio with morning announcements. She said I was the best news anchor she ever had.”

  I pace again and trip on the tripod. The camera topples, but I catch it. I can edit that out later, though it’ll make a weird jump in the action. It would probably be safer if I wrote my Top Six and a Half before I filmed them!

  Back in front of fake New York, I take a deep breath and say, “Four: Spanish Club.

  “Five: Academic Games.

  “Six: Watching Coach Lukasik, who is definitely not vertically challenged—that man could be an NBA superstar—hula hoop during P.E. with the girls.

  “And the thing I’ll miss most about Longwood El?

  “Six and one-half: Everything!”

  I turn off the camera and flop onto my bed. I wish Longwood El didn’t stop after fifth grade. When my sister, Lindsay, who’s fourteen now, went there, it went through sixth. That was before the overcrowding problem.

  Now sixth grade is at Harman Middle School. I’ve heard rumors about Harman—Harm Man!—but they’re probably just meant to scare incoming sixth graders. Lindsay graduated from Harman and she’s fine. I mean, except for her face, which is almost always covered with zits.

  Middle school, I’m sure, will be great.

  I turn the camera on again and sit tall. “Now it’s time for our special guest. And he happens to be none other than the ultrafamous … Oh, wait a second, he’s still in the greenroom. Let’s surprise him.”

  I grab my camera from the tripod and walk along the hallway, then I kick open the bathroom door. Inside, I zoom in on the cover of the Entertainment Weekly lying on the toilet lid and say, “Our guest today is the veeeery famous talk show host Jon Stewart.” I remind myself to add applause later when I edit the show on my computer. I hold the magazine to get a good shot of Jon’s photo, his trademark goofy grin beaming up from the cover.

  I imagine my picture on the cover of Entertainment Weekly … someday. If Mom ever saw me on a magazine cover in a store, she’d probably borrow a stranger’s cell phone right then and there and call me, screaming with excitement. I grin, just like Jon Stewart.

  Someday.

  But for now, I put the camera on the bathroom counter, point it toward myself and kneel so I’m lined up with it. This isn’t easy. I should probably wait until Elliott’s here to shoot this part so he can hold the camera, or I should at least get my tripod, but I’m on a roll, so I keep going.

  “Is it true you played the French horn in the school band?” I ask Magazine Cover Jon. I know it’s true, because I looked it up, and I think it’s interesting because my mom plays the tuba. Played the tuba. Now her tuba still sits in our living room, even though nobody’s touched it for two years.

  I hold Magazine Cover Jon in front of the camera and speak as though I’m him. This is tough, because though I’m a guy, my voice hasn’t quite caught on yet. “That’s right, David,” Magazine Cover Jon says. “For your viewers who don’t know what the French horn is, it’s a large, shiny girl repellent.”r />
  I laugh, even though I made up the joke. “I know what you mean,” I say, but somewhere between “what” and “you” my voice squeaks. Dad says my vocal cords are lengthening and I’m transitioning from boy to man. I say that if my body were a door, my voice would be its rusty hinge. I wonder if Elliott’s voice still cracks. Probably not. His vocal cords must be done lengthening, just like the rest of him; he’s at least three inches taller than me.

  I rerecord that part, then say to Magazine Cover Jon, “I’m going to be a famous talk show host one day.”

  Magazine Cover Jon is ultraexcited by this news. “Is that so?” he asks, “his” voice cracking on the last word. I keep going.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “When I go to middle school, I hope they have a TV studio so I can—”

  Behind me, I hear the bathroom door open and hit the wall. I whirl around and train the camera on Lindsay’s scrunched-up, squinty-eyed face.

  “What the heck are you doing, David? Don’t you know what time it is?” Lindsay’s got gunk plastered in spots all over her skin—zit-be-gone stuff that will probably work as well as all the other zit-be-gone stuff she’s used, meaning not at all.

  Zits are a part of puberty I’m not looking forward to. That and hair sprouting in weird places and stinky armpits (which are starting already). According to Ripley’s Believe It or Not, there are 516,000 smelly bacteria per square inch in an armpit.

  Lindsay puts her hands on her hips. “Do you realize it’s seven o’clock in the morning?”

  I check my watch. “Seven-oh-five, actually.”

  “Whatever!” she says as a crusty piece of gunk falls from her face and lands on the bathroom floor. “It’s the first day of summer, David, in case you didn’t notice. And I’d like to sleep, oh, later than seven-oh-five.”

  I check my watch again. “Seven-oh-six.”

  Even with gunk on them, Lindsay’s cheeks redden. This is not a good sign. Sometimes when her cheeks get red, she throws things. At me!

  “David,” Lindsay says, “just go back to your room and be quiet.”

  My sister taps the cover of Entertainment Weekly with her pink-polished fingernail, inadvertently poking my special guest in the eye. “What the heck are you doing in here, anyway?”

  I pull my scrawny shoulders back and tell her the first thing that pops into my mind: “I’m going to be a famous talk show host. See?” I shove the magazine’s cover in her face.

  Lindsay squints at the magazine, then at me. “Jon Stewart. Hmmm. Jewish. Short. Yeah, I can see it.”

  I remember one of my favorite segments from my TalkTime show. “Hey, Lindsay?”

  When she focuses on me, I turn on the camera and get a close-up of her zit-cream-covered face.

  “David!” She hides her face with her hands, pivots and storms down the hall. Her door slams loudly enough that I hope it doesn’t wake Dad. The last thing I need is another uninvited guest barging into the greenroom.

  I close the bathroom door and think of the words I’ll print under Lindsay’s face when I edit the video: Today’s acne forecast: cloudy with a chance of blackheads.

  The moment I finish my interview, there’s pounding on the door. “Come on, David,” Dad says. “Hurry it up.”

  We live in an old house with only one bathroom for the entire upstairs. Sharing it becomes a pain, especially when Lindsay does her zits-be-gone routine. I’m grateful Bubbe has her own apartment downstairs with its own bathroom or she’d probably barge in on me, too.

  “Coming!” I turn off the camera and flush. No need to let Dad know I was making a video in our bathroom.

  When I open the door, Dad runs a hand through his scary morning hair and belches. “’Scuse me.”

  “Sure,” I say, a little grossed out, and walk past him with the magazine and the camera behind my back.

  In my room, I put the camera on my desk, plop onto my bed, stare at Hammy running like a maniac on his wheel and think, Jon Stewart, I’ll bet you didn’t start out this way!

  Before Elliott arrives, I edit my TalkTime video and upload it to YouTube.

  Without Elliott helping, the credits read Director—David Greenberg; Producer—David Greenberg; Cameraman—David Greenberg; Host—David Greenberg; Special Guest Star—Magazine Cover Jon Stewart; Daily Acne Forecast—Lindsay Greenberg; World-Famous Hamster—Hammy Greenberg.

  I think this is one of my best videos yet. Too bad the only people who watch them and comment are Elliott, Bubbe, Ms. Florez from Longwood El and someone named LADM. I wish I could e-mail Mom and tell her about this new one. But I can’t. And even if I could, she wouldn’t be able to watch it anyway. I’m sure she’ll catch up to the twenty-first century. Someday.

  By the time Elliott finally shows—late, as usual—I have everything ready for the perfect first day of summer. Paul Newman’s popcorn is in a bowl on the coffee table in the living room. And my red plastic tub of K’nex building pieces sits near Mom’s tuba in the corner for after we’re done watching the Daily Show episodes.

  When I open the door for Elliott, he walks into the living room, drops his yearbook on the coffee table and asks, “What do you think this means?”

  “Hey, Elliott. Nice to see you, too.”

  “This is serious, David. I looked through my yearbook, and Cara Epstein put not one but two hearts after her name. See?” He points to two tiny purple hearts. “What do you think this means?”

  I consider telling Elliott it means he’s crazy, but one look at his face lets me know this would be cruel, so I study the writing as though it’s a newly discovered bit of hieroglyphics.

  Elliott, have a great summer. Good luck in sixth grade. Cara

  The purple hearts appear after her name. The same purple hearts she drew after her signature in my yearbook. But something about Elliott—maybe his wild eyes, or the way he looks like I might be about to say he has three weeks left to live—tells me that now is not the right time to be honest. So I shut his yearbook, take a deep breath as though I’m about to spout some deep, ancient wisdom and say, “No clue.”

  “No clue!” Elliott paces our living room. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am your friend, moron!” I shove Elliott’s shoulder.

  “Then help me, supermoron!” He shoves back. “I’ve been obsessing about this since yesterday.” Elliott stares into my eyes. “Do you think Cara Epstein likes me?”

  “Do I think Cara Epstein likes you?” It’s at this moment I look at Elliott, really look at him, and notice he has the beginnings of a mustache over either side of his upper lip. I guess I’d always thought it was a shadow or chocolate milk or dirt, but standing this close to him, I can tell it’s the fine dark hairs of an actual mustache.

  I feel like somebody punched me in the gut. My upper lip is as hairless as Paul Shaffer’s bald head.

  “What do you think?” Elliott gulps a handful of popcorn. “Does she like me?”

  My breathing accelerates. Elliott is turning into a man-boy. And I’m still a scrawny, clear-skinned, no-hint-of-a-muscle-anywhere-on-my-body boy-boy.

  “David?”

  There is desperation in Elliott’s eyes. I haven’t seen him look this intense since he found a rare Charizard card in a new pack of Pokémon trading cards in first grade.

  “David!” he shrieks.

  “What’s going on?” Dad shouts from his office on the other side of the house.

  “Nothing!” I yell. “Sorry, Dad!” I punch Elliott hard in the arm. “Shut up.”

  “Ow,” Elliott says, rubbing his arm. “I forgot your dad’s working, but I’m going crazy here.”

  “Shhh,” I say, afraid Elliott will scream again. I look at the entry in Elliott’s yearbook, then at Elliott. At the entry. At Elliott. Entry. Elliott. I know there’s only one thing I can say to calm him. “Yes, I definitely think Cara Epstein likes you.”

  His eyes look like they’re going to burst out of their sockets. Does he expect me to say something else?

 
“A lot.”

  Elliott practically lunges at me. “What makes you say that?”

  “The, um, hearts. If she liked you a little, she’d have put one heart, but she put two.”

  “Then why didn’t she put three?” Elliott is actually sweating. Over Cara Epstein, who is this ordinary girl who threw up once in second grade after eating expired strawberry yogurt.

  “David!”

  “Overkill. Three would have been overkill.” I feel like I’m talking him down from a ledge. If this is what liking a girl does to you, I want no part of it until I’m at least thirty.

  “You’re right.” Elliott relaxes next to me on the couch. “This is good. Very good.”

  “Elliott?”

  He looks distracted. “Yeah?”

  “Can we watch The Daily Show now?”

  He pats his yearbook. “Yeah, totally. Put it on.” He grabs another handful of popcorn. “Let the marathon begin.”

  I lean back, feeling like I just performed an exorcism. After starting the show, I grab some popcorn and think about what a great first day of summer this is going to be.

  But during Jon Stewart’s opening monologue, I catch Elliott peeking at his yearbook. I want to hurl it across the room and tell him to pay attention.

  At the first commercial, Elliott opens his yearbook again, and my heart sinks. “Hey, David, want to go to the mall?”

  I look at the TV and at the K’nex box in the corner and at Elliott. “Why? There’s nothing fun to do at the mall, except the food court.”

  “I know.” Elliott’s cheeks grow red. “But Cara might be hanging out there.”

  “We’ve got The Daily Shows to watch and K’nex for later.” The perfect summer day.

  “Yeah, but don’t you think the mall might be fun, too?”

  I feel my perfect day slipping away.

  “No, I’d rather—”

  “I’ll owe you big,” Elliott says.

  I remind myself how many years we’ve been friends, except for that time in first grade when we didn’t talk for two weeks because he said Batman was way better than Superman. Any idiot knows that aside from his little Kryptonite issue, Superman is far superior.