Chapter 3
January 14
“That is totally Alamo,” whispers Jonah during math class the next morning. I decided to tell him what happened first, before the story breaks and I get swarmed by the rest of the sixth grade. Privileges of the best friend.
“Yeah. Totally Alamo,” I agree, not actually knowing what he’s talking about. Something to do with battle strategy.
I can track the years of my life with Jonah’s military obsessions. They usually coincide with whatever language we’re studying. We learn a different language each year, and the theory is that by seventh grade we’ll be able to make an “educated decision” about what we’d like to study for good. As if my seventh grade mind can predict that I’ll enjoy French at age eighteen. But the school stands by their system.
Anyway, two years ago when we studied German, Jonah fixated on the Red Baron and World War I. (I use the term “studied” loosely. More on that in a moment.) Last year, it was Napoleon (French class). And don’t even get me started on the third grade and his whole Braveheart William Wallace mania involving blue paint and a whole lot of Scottish plaid. Those guys don’t wear anything under their kilts, you know.
This year it’s Spanish, and the Alamo, Mexico, Texas, and whoever else was involved in that mess.
If I ask Jonah what he means about the Alamo, he’ll derail into a long lecture. I need to keep him on track so I can talk about my near-death ice cream experience.
He leans closer, body rocking in his chair, sending tremors my way like a miniature earthquake. His red curly hair bounces as a wild gleam shines in his blue eyes. This is his “active boy” look, a term that my mother coined for him. It’s her polite way of saying Jonah is never allowed near her china cabinet unsupervised again.
“So can I tell people?” he asks.
“Yeah, but—”
“Boys! What are you doing?” Mrs. Reed interrupts our discussion. I guess it’s pretty obvious from where she’s standing that we’re not working on the graphing problem.
“Sorry, Mrs. Reed!” Jonah calls out in a loud voice. “Edmund was just telling me an über-cool story about a robbery and having to go to the cops’ last night. He was almost killed!”
I die of embarrassment.
The class explodes with excited questions and Mrs. Reed officially loses control of the children. Only for a moment, though.
“Everyone, settle down. I am aware of what happened to Edmund last night. His mother sent in a note. I didn’t realize he was in such mortal peril . . .” She inspects me over her glasses. How can adults do sarcasm with their eyes? Do they go to school for it? Maybe they teach it in college.
“Jonah, may I remind you that we do not use the word über in this classroom. Edmund, would you care to share your story with us since we clearly will not be able to concentrate until you do? And without exaggeration, please?”
Thanks a lot, Jonah. I frown at his dumb freckly face. His foot is tapping as he grins a toothy smile at me. I am seriously going to kill him later.
During my timid explanation, I carefully avoid the word über at all costs. Mrs. Reed is nice, but she has a temper when we abuse her good graces.
Two years ago we had an unusual German teacher, Frau Faberstein, who had some questionable theories on education. She claimed that eating German food would turn us into German speakers, as would singing mindless children’s songs, even if we didn’t understand what the words meant. So our fat levels spiked from the pounds of bratwurst sausage and Emmentaler cheese she stuffed into us, and we gained a finer appreciation for such ditties as “Funkel, funkel, kleiner Stern.” She was fired later that year.
The only thing anyone got out of the class was the word über (pronounced oober), which means “very.” Everything became “über-this” and “über-that,” kind of like our class code. I guess we über-abused it, because the teachers joined forces and über-banned it from their classrooms. You’d think they’d want us to practice our new language. Geez.
As I finish my knife-in-alleyway story, I can tell that my coolness level (or “street cred” as my uncle Jay calls it) has just shot up a few points, judging from the awestruck faces in the classroom. Even Jenny Miller, the shiest and prettiest girl in our class, is smiling at me.
“So what happened to your ice cream cone?” blurts out Milton Edwards.
“Cone?” Jonah roars. “Who cares about the stupid ice cream cone? We’re talking attack here, Milton. Life and death. Edmund employed camouflage techniques to stay alive. Quick wits and clever disguise! Cones!” he snorts, as if the question is the most ridiculous one he’s ever heard.
“Thank you, boys,” Mrs. Reed says firmly, signaling the End of the Discussion.
And my two minutes of sixth grade glory are over.