Joyce Kilmer High School—it’s so different from my school in New York. There are some things that are alike, but not many.
It’s so big, from seventh grade up, in one building. That’s like my old school, but here there are about three thousand kids. I’m used to about five hundred, from kindergarten up.
My old school was in a small brownstone building. Kilmer looks like it was once a giant car factory, only here they turn out students instead of cars.
My old school didn’t even have a song. Here they sing one based on a poem by Joyce Kilmer, “Trees.” I hate it.
About the kids—most of them are okay, but a few, who act as if they have a screw loose, should probably be recalled. There are about six towns that the kids come from, so there are eleven different types, like at most schools. There are the jocks, the brains, the skidders (who hang out in Woodstock, kind of hoods—the name comes from Skid Row, and there was once even a sign in some store that said NO SKIDDERS ALLOWED), the in crowd, the social outcasts (who don’t have a friend to their names), and the regulars.
I guess I’m a regular, who some people think is a brain. I’m not sure I like being put in any group, but it’s certainly better than being a social outcast.
I’m sitting in a boring math class, trying to figure out what the letters in my name spell when rearranged. Phoebe Anna Brooks. It’s so hard. Finally I get one—Phone breaks a boon. That explains why I like to make telephone calls in between doing different homework assignments.
The bell rings.
Rush to lunch to get in line.
Try to get in front. The few edible things go fast, like cottage cheese and fruit, which they haven’t yet figured out how to ruin.
Today’s lunch is chicken a la king. Yesterday’s was chicken croquettes. The day before that was chicken. I bet tomorrow we’ll have spaghetti with chicken sauce. Puke. I’d bring my lunch, but nobody does, except for Alfie Fitch and he’s a social outcast who totes his in a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.
After paying for a meal that they should pay me to eat, I join Rosie and the other kids.
There’s only one seat left, and it’s at the end of the table next to Dave. He’s in some of my classes—smart, funny, and very cute. Once I asked Rosie about him, and she said he used to go out with her friend, the one who had to move away because of the custody decision. “Now,” she said, “he’s up for grabs. Lots of girls would love to go out with him but he doesn’t seem interested.”
Even though it doesn’t show, I’m a little shy and nervous when I like a guy in the beginning. I just try to act as if I’m not.
I set my tray on the table and sit down, acting very calm.
Calm, ha! I’m so calm, I forget that I’ve got my knapsack on my arm. I’ve just hit Dave in the head with it. I can tell he’s noticed, since he looks like he’s trying to cover up pain.
“I’m so sorry. Would it make it any better if I just died right here and now of embarrassment?” I whisper.
He touches the left side of his head. “You don’t have to do anything that extreme. However, you’ve just knocked out all the stuff I’ve ever learned by hitting me on the left side of the brain.”
That’s what we just studied in science, how the brain works.
“I’ll be glad to tutor it all back into your brain again.” I go along with his kidding. “However, a lot of what we learn in school isn’t worth remembering.”
“When I was little and got hurt, my mother always kissed the part that hurt.” Dave looks at me.
“I’m glad I didn’t drop the knapsack on your feet.” I open up my milk container.
“I think my memory is returning. A miracle. I’m going to remember that you owe me a kiss,” Dave says.
There are worse things, I think, and look down at my tray.
Rosie’s complaining. “This food’s awful.”
“So what’s new?” Pete holds up a piece of wilted lettuce.
“But it’s getting worse,” a girl named Jill says, and shakes her curly head. “Ever since the new company got the contract, it’s to vomit over.”
Sarah, who’s in my English class and is very serious about becoming a ballerina, is getting ready to eat her creamed corn. “Do you mind? I’m trying to eat lunch.”
“It looks like somebody’s already vomited over it.” Alex takes off his glasses and pretends to use them as a magnifying glass.
Sarah puts her fork down and pushes the tray away.
We all look at the food. Nobody’s eating except Milton Myers, and I hear that even his own mother calls him Garbage Gut.
“I think we ought to do something about this.” Dave bangs his fist on the table. “We’ve tried to talk to the administration, but they don’t care.”
Garbage Gut asks Sarah for her creamed corn. She passes it to him. Everyone else at the table gives theirs to him too.
“Gross,” Sarah says.
“Thank you.” Garbage Gut takes another spoonful of corn.
Sometimes I don’t understand how people get into groups. Garbage Gut’s a perfect example of someone who should be a social outcast but isn’t, and I bet there are lots of nice people who shouldn’t be social outcasts but are.
I listen to the complaints and debate whether to get involved. After all, when I got here, the Principal called me in and said, “Phoebe Brooks, your record precedes you. I want no trouble. If I so much as see you with a tube of Krazy Glue in your hands, you’ll be suspended.”
Possession with the intent to use. Suspension. It sounds like a drug charge. I promised to be good. But the food is awful and school is so boring.
Finally I decide. “Listen, we had this problem at my old school, and there were certain things we did—and they worked.”
Everyone’s staring at me.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us,” Rosie says.
Dave has his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and he’s staring at me.
I have a feeling that this is one time I should keep my big mouth shut.
“Well, it’s this way . . .” I begin.