“No.”
“Come on. It wouldn’t be that embarrassing.”
“Um, yeah, it would.”
“Well, okay, maybe it would be at first, but I’m sure you’d get used to being naked in school. It’s like wearing a bathing suit, except without the suit, and with more goose bumps.”
It’s been like this ever since I told them about the game: Zack ping-ponging suggestions for how to become well-known, and me serving them back with flat-out nos. The naked idea isn’t even the worst thing he’s come up with. Madison had to convince him spray-painting a big mural of myself on the door would get me expelled (“I thought you liked art!”), which would technically make me the most well-known kid in school, but might lead to a few other problems.
This was a mistake. I should’ve gone with my original idea of “hang a brilliant cretpoj in the middle of the hall and get a million admirers,” or maybe repaint the cafeteria walls with colors that don’t make kids feel like they’re in a prison. Instead I’m stuck listening to Zack, who has the attention span of a gnat with a sugar rush and who burns through ideas like charcoal on Memorial Day. Madison hasn’t been much better: his focus has been squarely on “issues” I can “tackle” that are “hot-button and relevant to today’s youth.” Thus far he’s suggested special interest lobbyists, HMOs, and insider trading. I don’t even know what any of that stuff is.
After he wouldn’t answer my question about what a lobbyist actually does apart from “sit in a lobby,” I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what any of it is either.
I’d be better off tackling this like I decided to tackle swimming: blunder around and eventually, hopefully, stumble into the answer.
At least then nobody would get hurt.
After lunch is social studies. As we walk into Miss Richter’s room, Madison claps me on the back and says, “You should feel honored. You have a great opportunity to say something important, something so—”
“Madison,” Jenny Cowper says as she walks by, “you wouldn’t know the first thing about being important.”
Madison puffs out his cheeks. “I know plenty of things, and I can give a report on all of them.”
Jenny smirks. “Whatever.”
I escape Madison’s clutches and sit at my desk. Right when I think I’m safe for now, Zack sits next to me and blurts out, “Hey, I thought of something: you already gave me your underwear, so it’s like you’re halfway to naked already!” He grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
I huddle into my desk and pray everyone stops looking at me soon.
“All right there, Alan?” somebody asks. I look up and a little catch forms at the base of my throat, because my other desk neighbor is asking, and that neighbor happens to be Connor.
“Uh, y-yeah, hi,” I stumble.
Connor smiles his big smile, chews his spearmint-scented gum, and flips through his notebook, leaving me with more butterflies than a cavern of cocoons. I try to ignore the heat huffing through my face and bury my nose in whatever random stack of papers I yank out of my backpack.
It’s not like this is the first time Connor’s said anything to me. We went to Pine Garden Elementary together, after all, and since we were both in the advanced classes, we got paired together a lot. But it wasn’t until last year that I started getting really nervous around him—more nervous than I usually got with people. Connor started getting taller and he sprouted muscles all over the place and his voice got a little deeper, and his smile . . . I never noticed before then how big his smile was.
I didn’t start putting the pieces together until recently, hence the search history Nathan found. I’ve heard that a lot of kids my age start questioning things and don’t really figure stuff out until they get older, so this could all still be up in the air for me. But I’ll tell you something: Between you and me, I like Connor more than I’ve ever liked any girl. And there’s definitely been other guys, and no girls, I’ve looked at and thought . . . okay, you get the point.
When we’re all seated, Miss Richter takes a gulp from her silo-sized coffee thermos. “Okay,” she says. “Today I’ve got a handout—yes, Madison?”
Madison’s hand had rocketed up into the air the millisecond after Miss Richter had set down her thermos. “Miss Richter, I found an error in our textbook.” He holds up the gargantuan tome—Discovering America, eighth edition—then smashes it down on his desk. The loud crashing noise makes me, along with everybody else in the room, jump. “Page fifty-six,” Madison continues. “It says President James Madison’s ‘accomplishments were not as grand in scope as those of the prior president, Thomas Jefferson.’ When I read that, you can understand, I was simply outraged. I’ve prepared a report on the accomplishments of President Madison for the class’s benefit.”
Groans fill the room.
“James Madison was a boring president,” Talia says, a few seats down. “Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence.”
“Which James Madison also signed,” Madison says.
Talia leans toward Madison. “Signed and wrote are two different things, Madison Truman. It’s a little disappointing you don’t know that.”
I’m busy looking down at my desk, almost putting my fingers in my ears, when Madison says, “Alan, back me up.”
Everyone in the room looks at me.
“Uh, what?”
“Back me up,” Madison repeats. “Camp Madison. We’ll defend our fort against Camp Jefferson any day. Isn’t that right?”
I slide down my desk. Talia glares daggers through my face. Connor watches me, chewing his gum slowly. “Uh . . . um . . .”
“Unbelievable,” Talia says, punching each syllable in the stomach. “Boys against girls? Fine. I’ll take Miss Richter. Our teacher, in case you’ve forgotten. And she says Camp Madison is flimsy at best.”
“You’re flimsy at best,” Madison grumbles. “Alan? Back me up.”
I wish with all my might to evaporate into water vapor and float out the window. Zack, next to me, is zoned out, mouth open as he gazes outside, probably watching something amazing, like a bird fly, or a tree sway. Connor’s still looking at me.
“That’s enough,” Miss Richter finally says. “Debates are fine, but no name-calling. I expect better of you. You especially, Talia, since you’re running for class president.”
Talia sticks her nose into the air.
“But Miss Richter,” Madison whines. “People need to know the truth. Once I give the report, everyone will see.”
“There’s no need for a report,” Miss Richter says. “Sometimes—and this goes for all of you—you have to accept that people are going to disagree with you. I’m not letting you make a speech right now, Madison, but when the next project comes around, you can. How does that sound?”
Madison looks at Talia, who smirks. “Peachy,” he says. Then he looks at me and scowls. Like I did something wrong. Like I somehow betrayed Camp Madison, which I’m pretty sure isn’t a thing that exists, and I’m also pretty sure there are about three or four presidents with grander accomplishments than Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison isn’t one of them.
But telling that to Madison Wilson Truman is like telling a kid named Bruce Wayne he’s doomed to a life of happiness and crime-free, non-bat-related things. Madison shoots me one last glance and runs a hand over his hair.
When the papers Miss Richter passes out get to Zack’s desk, Zack spins around and faces me. “Hey,” he whispers to me. “What did I miss?”
“Pair up with your study partners,” Miss Richter says, returning to her desk. “Go over the worksheet and help each other out. This class needs to get more comfortable with the idea of teamwork.”
I look at Zack to my left, but Zack’s already been unwillingly claimed by Julie Linder, who looks about as thrilled as if she’d been told to drink raw sewage. That leaves the kid to my right.
“You and me, Alan,” Connor says, taking his gum out. “Just like old times, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” I stammer. I open Discovering America and focus on one page so I don’t have to look at my study partner.
“Dude,” Connor says. “We’re doing right after the Revolutionary War, and that’s a picture of Martin Luther King. I think you went a little too far.”
I nod. “Sorry.”
He smiles. “Man, I’m glad you’re my study partner. You really helped me out a lot at Pine Garden. Not gonna lie, sometimes this stuff makes me feel like an idiot, y’know?”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Heh,” Connor laughs. “You’re, like, the nicest guy in the world, you know that?”
I swear my entire body is about to combust. I try to swallow but there’s a bowling ball wedged in my esophagus.
“I hope we’re all working on our assignments and not gossiping about squirrels,” Miss Richter says to the class, looking right at Zack.
“But they’re so cool,” Zack says. “They have cute little cheeks, and—”
“Save it for later, Zack,” Miss Richter says. “Focus on your worksheets.”
Zack whispers, “We’ll catch up on squirrels some other time,” and Julie Linder rolls her eyes.
We spend most of the class completing the worksheet. I come up with all the answers, not because Connor is slacking off, but because I know the material better than he does. When it comes time for the last question, Connor says, “Hey, let me do this one. You’ve been doing all the work.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
“I’ve got to earn my keep,” Connor says with a smile. “‘What was the central principle behind the Monroe Doctrine?’ I remember going over this in class.”
I open my mouth, but Connor says, “Take a load off, man. Let me do some heavy lifting. Uh, the Monroe Doctrine is that thing that says the US could do whatever they wanted in North America, right?”
“Something like that,” I say. “It said we were free to colonize North America without Europe getting involved, and in exchange we’d stay out of European colonies.”
“Oh yeah,” Connor says.
I start writing down the answer. “It’s fine. You were close.”
“It’s so weird though. Why wouldn’t Europe come over and be like, forget this doctrine or whatever, we’re taking Texas. What’s stopping them?”
I put my pencil to my lips for a second. Maybe America knew a secret of Europe’s, and Europe knew a secret of America’s, and they agreed to never tell the rest of the world if they both played along. “Beats me.”
Connor smiles. “I feel better about not knowing stuff if there’s something the great Alan Cole doesn’t know.”
“Pftyleeargh,” I say, spitting all over Discovering America.
“Huh?” Connor writes down the answer on his own sheet. “You say something?”
“N-Nothing,” I say, wiping my mouth off as fast as I can. “Don’t worry about it.”
When the bell rings, I hand in my worksheet to Miss Richter. “Are you okay from earlier?” she whispers as other kids bring up their papers. “You looked like you were ready to melt during that argument.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, blushing a little.
She watches me carefully, but anything else she might say gets cut off as Madison stomps over to me, grumbling, “Why didn’t you back me up?”
“Uh,” I say, but I can’t think of anything else, because honestly, what else would you even say? Sorry for not rushing to your defense in the World’s Stupidest Argument Contest, and by the way, congrats on winning?
Madison sighs. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. I thought that maybe, for once, somebody would—”
“Alan,” Zack calls from outside the room. “Come here.”
Like somebody knocked the wind out of him, Madison stops talking. He clears his throat, nods stiffly, and leaves the classroom. I look back at Miss Richter, whose eyes dart away from me the second I stare at her, and I follow Madison.
Zack stands by the empty, broken vending machine outside Miss Richter’s room. That thing’s been out of order since the school year started, with no chips or candy to be found inside, its hollow holders barren and lifeless. There’s nothing sadder than an empty vending machine. Zack’s looking at it like there’s something inside—
Hang on. There is something inside.
We make our way closer. There are a few kids hovering around the machine; some of them are whispering. Zack gives me a wide-eyed, baby-fawn look, and I take a closer peek.
It’s a piece of paper. Dirty, with plenty of stains all over it. But clearly visible through the stains, written in black Sharpie, are the words:
FOR AL
;)
My stomach tries to leap out of my throat. How in the—
“They should really get that thing removed,” Madison scoffs. “Come on, we’ll be late for class.”
Zack still watches me. Then he grips the glass window of the vending machine and tries to pull it off.
“What are you doing?” Madison gasps. “That’s destruction of school property! I said I wanted it removed, but you don’t have to—”
“No good,” Zack says. “We need to get that paper. Right, Alan?”
Madison starts, “Why would—” He stops. “You didn’t tell me you liked being called Al.”
“That’s because I don’t.” My voice comes out flat, as empty as the vending machine.
“I get it.” Zack peers through the vending machine. “This is part of the game. This is something else you have to do to beat your brother. Right, Alan?”
“You need to tell us everything about this game,” Madison says, crossing his arms.
“And we need to figure out how to get that paper out,” Zack says. “Right?”
The rules said I had to be able to get to the paper. There’s no way I can get to it without taking apart or breaking into the machine. It’s too high up for me to reach if I stick my arm through the slot at the bottom. He’s cheating. It’s impossible.
Right?
But if he’s cheating, then I can tell everyone about his stink bomb escapades. Unless that’s part of his trap too, like he wants me to tell everyone, because it’ll somehow make me look worse, and—and—
I always keep my promises.
“Alan,” Madison says slowly. “What happens if you lose this game?”
I look at the vending machine. At that dirty piece of paper. He probably made it gross, with stains and holes, just to make me not want to take it, just to taunt me—and it’s that thought that sparks something, or maybe it’s looking at myself in the glass, with hair in my eyes, or maybe it’s Connor’s voice echoing the great Alan Cole in my head.
Whatever it is, it makes me think, I am NOT a coward.
Whatever it is, it makes me say to Madison, “It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to win.”
When I say it, I almost—almost—believe it.
And almost is better than not at all.
Zack pumps his fist into the air and yells “Ohhhhh!” all up and down the hall until a teacher tells him to knock it off.
“You still owe me an explanation,” Madison says on the way to science. “A full explanation.”
“Are you sure you want to help me?” I ask.
Madison holds himself up to his full height (which puts him at about my throat). “This is going to be my crowning achievement. You’ll not only become well-known, you’ll do so many things, and I’ll be right there behind you every step of the way.”
“Taking all the credit,” I say.
He clears his throat. “You make it sound so terrible.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It was a joke.”
“Hmm,” Madison says, “I didn’t know you joked.”
“Neither did I.”
“It’s a good style for you. I say keep it.”
I nod. “Maybe I will.”