33 Minutes Read online

  “Hi, Chris.” I’m not sure I said it out loud.

  Bad things happen in Chris’s house. Things like finding rock-hard dog poop from one of their yapping poodles in the deep shag carpet in the corner of the living room. Or seeing darts floating in the fish pond they have inside their house. Or watching, from right up close, a bowling ball fall from a third-story window to the driveway below without anyone yelling anything like, Hey, Sam, look out, we’re about to drop a fourteen-pound bowling ball out this window, which we know is stupid, but you gotta admit that throwing a fourteen-pound bowling bowl out a third-story window is pretty cool, so, you know, heads up and all that.

  “Lunch, Sam-Sam. And then recess!” Chris is very happy. In addition to his teeth, his skin is much closer to green than most people’s.

  But they didn’t say anything, so the ball landed about five feet from me. I really don’t think they were trying to kill me. I really don’t. But I felt new cracks in the asphalt form under my feet, not to mention the sweat suddenly pouring out of every inch of my skin and totally soaking my clothes, which (the sweat) somehow kept flowing for at least ten minutes even after I realized I wasn’t going to get crushed by a ­fourteen-pound bowling ball dropped out of a third-story window. There are probably scientists employed by deodorant companies who could explain why sweat acts this way. As for me, just one more source of confusion.

  I shut my locker and turn away from Chris, even though the lunchroom is right past him and he knows it.

  He’s really, really good at cackling.

  11:49

  If some evil person wanted to make the Wagner ­Middle School cafeteria an even louder echo chamber, could such a person find a single change to make? The walls, the floors, the tables, the trays, the heads of the students inside: hard, flat, cruel. Yes, I know, those are (supposedly) soundproofing tiles up there on the ceiling, but I’m not fooled. Because the moment you step inside this rotten mealtime cavern, you may as well be at a jackhammer convention.

  Cafeterias are the scariest places on earth, because no one should ever have to eat in the same room as 450 other people, unless the food is super yummy, which (duh) is not the case here at Wagner Middle School.

  First part of previous statement, opinion. Second part, fact. Trust me.

  Not to mention the smell, which is like my locker, if:

  • you could stand inside it with the door closed

  • it held ten thousand times more lunches, including a large number of egg salad sandwiches gone bad

  • the lunch smell had been locked in a thirty-year-long battle with the stink of cleaning supplies that are showered down on the tiling of the cafeteria floor each afternoon.

  End result: combo bleach-and-tuna-fish air freshener.

  Not to mention, things got even worse this year, when some committee of child-haters came up with the “Eat Right!” campaign. Meaning now we have to survive a half hour inside this giant feed-hole five days a week without the comfort of a Twinkie or a Ho Ho. Now the words “lunch” and “cream filling” have nothing to do with each other. Now sixth-grade nostrils go to work on baby carrots like massive junkyard magnets on scrap metal.

  The cafeteria somehow stinks less when you have friends to sit with. But I have been standing just inside the entrance to the cafeteria for the last thirty seconds, paralyzed, unable to locate a place to not eat my lunch (because of the unpredictable nature of my coming butt kicking—which could actually be a stomach punching—I have decided that keeping my gut empty would be wise). My old table is now out of the question. Things between Morgan and me have been not so great for months, but as late as last Friday, I could still sit near the edge of our group and down the contents of my insulated lunch box.

  Not anymore.

  Just this last September, me and Morgan were still together all the time. Or at least a lot. He was over at my house on the weekends, his playbook filled with Xs and Os opened up on our living room floor, while I helped him memorize plays. My dad, if we could drag him out of his study (we usually couldn’t), would be quarterback. We’d find a bunch of other stuff—pillows, pots, my microscope, shoes, our toaster, the big bin of LEGOs Morgan and I used to play with—and set it all up as the other players. ­Morgan, of course, would be the running back, the O behind the quarter­back. I’d line up on the other side as middle linebacker, the X in the ­middle (or “X – 4,” as I liked to call myself, a joke Morgan would have gotten if he hadn’t stopped caring about math the year before; he actually used to be pretty good at math until he started putting on that stupid helmet of his, which is supposed to protect his head but seems to have turned off his brain instead). Then I’d call out a play, so we could check if Morgan remembered where he was supposed to go for each one.

  So I’d scream something like “East H-24!” and my dad (or, more often, QB LEGO Bin) would hike the ball and hand it to Morgan, who would try to remember if he was supposed to go right or left, if he was supposed to run between the vacuum cleaner and the rocket launcher or the laundry detergent and the solar-powered car I made that one afternoon he told me he couldn’t go to the movies. Then I’d tell him “yes” or “no” as I pretended to try to tackle him. Sometimes I’d grab on to his legs and let him drag me across the soft carpet all the way to the dining room, because I think Morgan thought that was a good drill for him.

  Players O and X – 4 would practice like this for an hour or more, Morgan getting it right very, very, very slowly. But I didn’t mind. I wanted him to get it right—I really did—plus, it was the closest I’d ever get to being his teammate. Sometimes I wished there were some way he could help me with the ArithmeTitans, but other than trying to learn to put on that calm, confident expression he puts on along with his uniform before games, there wasn’t much he could teach me. Though it wouldn’t have hurt if he ever acted like he cared about all the points I was scoring too.

  I’m still looking for a place to sit when I notice the single worst thing about this very, very bad cafeteria, the thing that makes me think that whoever is in charge of this whole place doesn’t like us kids very much: the ­Wagner Middle School salad bar. Look, overall I have nothing against the idea of salad. Lettuce is not necessarily evil, especially when used in the construction of a hamburger. But a whole bowl of the stuff? Not to mention, this has got to be the worst salad bar ever.

  Not to mention, this very sad salad bar is situated in the space where the powers that be could just as easily offer a hot pretzel stand or (it hurts even to think about it) a soft-serve ice-cream machine.

  Oh, soft-serve ice cream, will you ever forgive us?

  But today—scanning the evil cafeteria over and over, hoping to find shelter—I notice the one person capable of saving Vegetable Central: Amy Takahara. And she sees me.

  “Hi, Sam!”

  She smiles again, so my stomach, already trained to report to duty upon arrival in the cafeteria, does an extra loop. I wave, in part to keep my balance. She motions for me to come over. My legs seem to think this is a good idea.

  I am standing opposite Amy Takahara, who, thanks perhaps to her East Asian genes, is one of four seventh graders at Wagner Middle School shorter than the thirteen-year-old me. Next to Amy is Caitlan Phillips, who will one day play professional softball, unless there isn’t such a thing. Caitlan is definitely not one of the other members of the munchkin patrol (she’s probably taller than me on her knees).

  Amy jabs me with one of her elbows. “Sam, you were so funny today with Mr. Griegs.”

  Caitlan and her all-star overbite ask, “What’d he do?”

  Another jab. “Yeah, tell her what you did.”

  I’m trying to look at Amy and not at her plastic bowl of nutrition, but I fail. On top of her lettuce is a pile of a dozen or more chickpeas, each coated in a snotlike film.

  I close my eyes and say, “I can’t believe you have the audacity to eat chickpeas.”
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  “You talk so weird, Sam. But yeah, I lo-ove chickpeas.” Amy more or less sings this.

  “Plus,” Lady Softball adds, “they’re packed with anti­oxidants.”

  I know a lot of things, but antioxidants are not one of them. The confused look on Amy’s face tells me that she has no idea either. Which doesn’t mean she couldn’t spell it correctly anyway.

  Amy taps my bag with the edge of her tray. “What are you having?”

  I make another survey of the cafeteria, but no luck. “For lunch?”

  “Yes, silly”—another jab, perhaps to get my attention—“for lunch.”

  I turn back to her, trying to avoid another glimpse of those chickpeas. “I don’t know, but I’m not too hungry.”

  “Why not?” Amy appears very concerned.

  “No reason,” I say, like it couldn’t have anything to do with me getting pummeled soon.

  At which point Caitlan leans in (and way, way down) to whisper something to Amy, even though I’m standing right there. Her lowered torso gives me a clear view of students exiting from the hot lunch line at the far end of the cafeteria.

  “No, I don’t believe you,” Amy says in a half whisper.

  Caitlan shrugs. “That’s what everyone’s been saying.”

  “Sam, is it true?” Even more concern on her perfect face.

  And I’m about to answer when Morgan steps out from the lunch line.

  11:53

  Of course, it’s the second Monday of the month. Chicken patty sandwich, tater tots, and applesauce. A carton of 2 percent milk. The perfect pre-fight meal, or, to be more precise, pre-demolish your ex–best friend meal. Some protein, some carbohydrates, and a healthy dessert to keep you light on your toes.

  Morgan’s always had a soft spot for the chicken patty. Like my love for its fishy friend (next Friday, if I’m off my all-liquid diet by then). He will have politely requested an extra packet of ketchup, as he is to ketchup what Amy (so sad, I want to cry) is to chickpeas. After sitting down, he will construct the Morgan Sturtz Special.

  “Hello?” Amy’s small hand is waving in front of my face. “Earth to Sam.” Amy is standing by herself. Caitlan must have gone off to consume her full day’s supply of anti­oxidants. “Is it true?” She’s definitely not smiling.

  “Is what true?” I say, watching Morgan make his way toward what used to be our table.

  “That you and Morgan are going to fight after lunch.” She’s moved right in front of me, trying to cut off my view.

  I look back at her. “The term ‘fight’ suggests that I might take an active role in what’s about to happen.”

  “C’mon, I’m serious, Sam.”

  If I had to bet, I’d put money on the fact that Morgan is an inch taller than he was yesterday afternoon. Hard to be sure, since he’s halfway across the cafeteria, but it definitely looks that way. Which only makes sense. I’ve never been bigger than him since we met in first grade, but over the last year he’s grown about a foot, or at least way more than I’ve grown. Six inches, eight inches, ten inches—all I know is the part of Morgan in charge of making him grow has been working overtime. Meanwhile, the part of me that’s supposed to do the same still hasn’t reported for duty. Maybe it was hanging out with the part that does long division and got distracted. If you happen to see it, do me a favor and tell it to get to work already.

  “Sam, you can’t fight Morgan.” Amy speaks very slowly, emphasizing each word.

  I stare at her for a second and think about begging her for help. Instead, I say, “If you mean I can’t beat Morgan in a fight, you’re pretty much stating the obvious.”

  “No, I mean you guys are friends.” She stresses this word. It hurts to be reminded. “Friends don’t fight.”

  “Were friends, Amy,” I tell her, trying to sound matter-of-fact about it. “We were friends. Ex-friends do fight sometimes. Like, oh, I don’t know, today at recess.”

  And then, even though he’s already passed us, Morgan turns his head and looks right at me. My stomach, apparently overworked already, doesn’t respond. Instead, my knees wobble, and I’m thankful it’s not me holding a tray full of food.

  “What happened?” Amy asks, sincerely worried. I’m grateful for her concern, but life was easier, or less difficult, when I was focusing on the simpler problem of where to sit. “Why aren’t you friends anymore? He was your best friend.”

  In addition to all my other areas of expertise—algebra, cell biology, the basics of HTML code, to name just a few—I know everything there is to know about Morgan’s facial expressions. I know, for instance, that when Morgan brings his eyebrows together while flaring his nostrils, he’s angry, but if he only brings his eyebrows together, he’s just determined. I know he tends to bite his bottom lip and squint his right eye a bit whenever he’s really concentrating on something he’s not very good at, like recalling if H means “go to your right” in the Wagner Middle School football playbook. And I know he’ll show his teeth when he’s really happy, because when Morgan smiles with just his lips, he’s just trying to be polite.

  I shrug, eyes on Morgan. “Friends come and friends go, Amy, what can I say?”

  Only now, even from halfway across the cafeteria, I can tell that no amount of searching my Morgan Sturtz Facial Expressions Database will produce any results. Because his face is totally blank. No anger, no confusion, no nothing. But he’s not looking through me either, he’s looking right at me. He’s taking step after step, twisting his head ever so slightly in order to keep his eyes locked on me, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what, if anything, he’s trying to tell me.

  Amy nudges me with her tray. “No, but you guys were best, best friends. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Could it be he’s trying to figure out what my face is saying?

  Fact: I have no idea what it’s saying right now, unless it somehow knows how to say, Please don’t hurt me. Please be my friend again.

  Amy turns her tray to the side in order to take a half step toward me. “Do you want me to talk to him? I will, if you want.”

  And then she smiles again, offering me for the third time today the kindest facial expression in the Detroit metro­politan area. Because it’s right across from me, because she got up the nerve to make it just for me, ­knowing I would know it’s just for me, I realize I’m allowed—no, I’m ­supposed—to look at it: her smile, her round cheeks, her warm, smart, perfect-spelling eyes. Amy Takahara knows I might be bleeding all over the playground in twenty-four minutes, but she still likes me.

  Amy. Takahara. Likes. Me.

  So I see her, no, I see her and me, in my living room, no, in her living room, in her family’s sensibly furnished living room (even though I’ve never seen her family’s sensibly ­furnished living room). I’m lying on their fancy leather couch, or maybe the reclined La-Z-Boy, their walls tastefully decorated with Japanese calligraphy prints or even just ugly paintings by Amy’s mom. And there’s Amy, gently placing an actual raw steak over my brand-new black eye. She’ll stick by her man, Amy will, even if he’s still pretty much a boy.

  Too bad she’s a vegetarian. Could tofu work like steak when it comes to black eyes? And didn’t I recently read you actually shouldn’t put a steak on a black eye? And what if it’s more than a black eye? What if she doesn’t really believe there will be a fight at all and won’t like me after, whether or not I lose badly or just lose, because Amy’s a pacifist who doesn’t even eat fish?

  What if the last perfect smile she ever gives me is this one, right here in front of the salad bar?

  Morgan sits down in his spot, right next to Chris, who’s sitting in what used to be my spot. Seeing them together is more than I can handle, so I turn my head away, only to spot Mr. Glassner passing by the entrance to the cafeteria.

  “Look, Amy, I gotta go.”

  11:56

  A
voice, from above: “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Mr. Griegs and his mustache. He doesn’t just teach social studies, he monitors the cafeteria.

  I look up, way up. Need to think of something. Why not the oldest excuse in the book? “The bathroom.”

  Mr. Griegs has never worn an article of clothing that fits him even a little bit. Today’s pants need to be seriously let out in an area let’s call the “just below the belt” region. I notice this unfortunate fact since my eyes are opposite his belt (which now boasts an impressive walkie-talkie).

  He shakes his head very slowly back and forth. “Oh, no, you’re not.”

  I raise my head a bit more. “But I really need to go.”

  Mr. Griegs crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side, like we’ve been through this a dozen times. “What you really need to do is wait for the end of lunch, Lewis, just like everyone else.”

  If it wasn’t bad enough that I have to get past a gatekeeper in order to escape, my neck is now getting sore, because I have to look straight up to make eye-to-mustache contact (the alternative being a lowered head and just-below-the-belt contact). And if I know my fellow Vikings even half as well as I think I do, then a bunch of them have already noticed our standoff, Mr. Griegs’s crossed arms and downturned mustache announcing a confrontation.

  The time to act is now. Unlike Morgan, Mr. Griegs doesn’t scare me.

  “Mr. Griegs, I need to visit the restroom. This is a fact. If I do not visit the restroom very, very, very soon, something pretty bad will happen. Something along the lines of the”—I pause to take a deep breath—“the Reagan Moody Incident.” Mr. Griegs’s mustache trembles at the very mention of the Reagan Moody Incident, which led to a special emergency meeting of the PTA. “It’s up to you, Mr. Griegs.”