When they parted in the hall, Myra gave Bryan a hug, then went to hug Oz, but their trajectories crossed and he ended up nearly punching her in the face. “I’ll see you both in band,” Myra offered, the only class all three had together. The last period of the day.
Right before I’m destroyed, Bryan thought. Provided I even make it that long.
“I’m sorry,” Oz said as they walked to fifth period. He smiled at Bryan, fishing for a smile in return, but he wasn’t going to get it. Bryan knew he couldn’t stay mad at Oz forever, but he figured a few years was easily justified.
“I just don’t see why you have to go around telling everybody everything.” Not that anything ever stayed a secret for long there anyway. Middle school was pretty much the exact opposite of the CIA when it came to confidential information.
“I don’t tell everybody everything. I never told anyone about that time you stuck your foot in the toilet in the boys’ bathroom trying to hide from Carl Vanderschlot,” Oz offered in his defense.
“That was you, dinglebutt.”
“Oh . . . yeah,” Oz mused. “Well. I never told anyone how you once ate so much spaghetti at Maglioni’s that you vomited down the back of the man at the table behind you.”
“You again.” Bryan sighed.
“Oh . . . right. Well, don’t worry about it. Because I’m here now. I will protect you.”
Bryan looked at Oz’s nose, already starting to turn purple from their battle in the gym, like an eggplant ripening between his eyes. “Why would I worry?” he said.
The bell rang as they ducked into social studies. Mr. Jenkins, the social studies teacher, got up from his desk and closed the door behind them. He was wearing one of his custom-made jerseys again. Mr. Jenkins operated under the delusion that historical figures should be just as popular as professional athletes, so he custom-printed baseball jerseys with the names of famous people in history—presidents, generals, dictators—and wore them to class over his button-downs. Today he was Winston Churchill, who was, apparently, number seventy-four and played for the Dodgers.
“ ‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm,’ ” Mr. Jenkins said, pointing to the same quote on the board. “Can anyone guess who said that?”
Everybody knew. The name was written on the man’s shirt. Still, nobody guessed, refusing to give Jenkins the satisfaction. It was the same routine every day.
“Winston Churchill, prime minister of Great Britain during World War Two and one of the finest leaders of the twentieth century,” the social studies teacher answered for them.
What followed was a seven-minute lecture on how fantastic Winston Churchill was, how he ushered his country through the most turbulent time in its history, and how he could have beaten the snot out of LeBron James in a one-on-one brawl. No one bothered to argue. No one ever bothered arguing. Bryan tried to picture Sir Winston and King James duking it out, but the image kept reverting back to scenes of Tank Wattly smashing Bryan’s face into the ground. He flashed Oz a dirty look, just to let him know that he was still angry.
“. . . which is why he and General Patton could have trounced the entire Cleveland Cavaliers starting lineup,” the social studies teacher concluded. Old Man Jenkins waited for someone to disagree, then produced a butterscotch candy from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “As much as I’d love to continue extolling the virtues of the British Bulldog,” number seventy-four intoned, “it’s Friday, so we have to finish our topography projects.”
Instinctively everyone in class turned to the tables lining the back wall, on which sat a dozen misshapen spheres of various sizes. They were all supposed to be the planet Earth, though it was hard to tell with most of them. The majority had been made out of papier-mâché slapped onto balloons or rubber balls. Others had been made of tinfoil or Styrofoam. One was made entirely out of duct tape. They were all in various stages of construction. The duct tape one looked a little like the half-completed Death Star.
Bryan sighed in relief. Compared with math and gym, it looked like fifth period would be a cinch. Maybe he could get through it without seeing any mysterious messages at all. Oz tapped him from behind.
“Still mad?”
Bryan leaned back and whispered, “It’s only been five minutes.”
Mr. Jenkins droned on at the front of the class. “Remember, these are topographical representations. I want to feel the bumps of the mountains. I want to see the crevice of the Grand Canyon. I should be able to tell the difference between Death Valley and Mount Fuji.”
Another tap on the shoulder. “How ’bout now?”
“Yes,” Bryan hissed. “Still mad.”
“And if I catch anyone trying to sniff the rubber cement again, I’m sending you straight down to Mr. Petrowski’s office. All right. Find your groups and get started.”
With a wave of his hands, the social studies teacher sent everyone to work. Oz stepped in front of Bryan, meeting him face-to-face, eyes droopy, lips in full pout. He looked ridiculous, especially with his purple nose—just how Rudolph might look, if he’d ever been caught peeing on Santa’s carpet. “I hate it when you’re angry,” he said.
“You are the one who is going to have to notify my parents of my death,” Bryan said.
“Wait a minute,” Oz said, looking surprised. “You’re not suggesting you’re actually going to show up this afternoon?”
Bryan brushed past him, heading for the back table where Heather McDonald, the third member of their globe-making group, was gathering supplies.
“I’m not sure I have a choice,” Bryan whispered behind him. “You heard Wattly. If I don’t show up, he will torture me for the rest of the year.”
“He’s going to torture you anyway!” Oz said.
“Not if I’m dead,” Bryan replied. “Come on, let’s just get to work.”
They scooted a few desks together, and Bryan sat down and waved across them to Heather, who barely acknowledged him with a blink. Heather McDonald was so shy she made Gina Ramirez look outgoing. Bryan had seen her hanging out with a couple of other girls outside of class, so he knew she had friends, but in school she was the equivalent of a dormouse, squeaking only when called on and hiding in corners or behind her books.
“Hey, Heather,” Oz said, finding a seat.
She made a barely audible sound. Bryan grabbed a box of toothpicks and some of the rubber cement. Their globe was one of the papier-mâché variety and nearly finished. They had all the geographical features mapped—ridges and rises for the mountains, and tiny craters for the volcanoes. Everything had been painted by Heather, who was nimble with a brush and had an eye for detail. All that was left was landmarks. It had been Bryan’s idea not simply to mark them with a Sharpie, the way the other groups had done, but actually to build them and attach them to the globe, giving it an added layer of dimensionality. Mount Rushmore, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Pyramids, the Great Wall, Sydney Opera House, the Colosseum—all finished. All that was left was the toothpick Eiffel Tower and the Stonehenge made of Pez. For a moment Bryan thought maybe they would just work quietly in peace, but Oz wouldn’t let up.
“You could always try to explain,” he said, doing what best friends do: trying to solve a problem by offering solutions that they themselves won’t be responsible for carrying out.
“What, like, write him a note?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Bryan tried to imagine what that might look like. Dear Tank: Please don’t murder me. I never called your mother stupid, and I only called you an ape because of your muscular build and your ferocious demeanor, not because of the abnormal carpet of back hair that is clearly visible underneath your T-shirts. Or maybe just, Dear Chris: Do you hate me? Or do you hate-me hate me? Please check one. Of course this assumed that Wattly could read. Perhaps Bryan could draw a picture instead. “Maybe I should just tell him it was your fault,” Bryan said thoughtfully.
Oz’s face fell, but at least it shut him up.
“You’re talking about Chris Wattly. You can just say it, you know.”
Bryan turned and looked at Heather, who quickly glanced back down at her Stonehenge. It was the longest string of words he’d ever heard her tie together.
“So you know about me and Chris Wattly?” If Heather knew, that meant everyone knew.
Heather nodded self-consciously. “How you called him a fart-eating orangutan and said his mother was so dumb she ate twelve boxes of Wheat Thins hoping to get skinny?”
Oz snorted. Mr. Jenkins looked his way to make sure he didn’t have a jar of rubber cement in his hands. Bryan gave his best friend another piercing look, then turned back to Heather. “I never said that.”
Heather met his eyes. “Oh,” she answered. “That’s too bad.”
Bryan looked at Heather McDonald—all four and a half feet of her, bangs kept long to hide her hazel eyes, tucked into a sweater a size too big, so that she looked like a turtle with an oversize shell. Heather McDonald, who had probably been teased most of her life just for being an introvert and having freckles. “Guys like that need to be brought down a peg,” she added, blushing at the very idea.
Bryan finished gluing the top of the Eiffel Tower and set it aside to dry. “Not by guys like me, they don’t,” he said.
Heather shrugged. When she scrunched her shoulders up, her head nearly vanished inside the wool. “Do one thing every day that scares you.” She placed the final candy on top of her Stonehenge cairn.
“Winston Churchill?” Bryan guessed, half jokingly.
“Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“Wasn’t she on the last season of Survivor?” Oz said, desperate to be part of the conversation.
Heather groaned and shook her head. Bryan glued the base of the Eiffel Tower in the general vicinity of France, though it was large enough to dwarf most of western Europe. Oz finished repairing a section of the Great Wall of China by regluing the LEGO that had come loose. The three of them sat back and stared at their project. It was, by far, the best in the class. Heather said it was beautiful, and Bryan said, “Yeah. It really is.”
Oz reached out and fingered the top of the Play-Doh Mount Rushmore. “This must be exactly how God felt.”
Bryan and Heather both looked at him funny. Then Heather carefully set the globe aside to finish drying and excused herself to go use the restroom. When she was gone, Oz and Bryan hunkered down behind their earth, away from Mr. Jenkins’s sweeping gaze.
Bryan looked at Oz’s dopey face, then up at the clock. He had managed to stay angry for nearly thirty minutes. It was a record. But he wasn’t going to let Oz off that easy. “You owe me,” he said.
Oz nodded. “I know.”
“No. Literally owe me,” Bryan continued. “You want to make me not mad at you anymore, give me some money.”
Oz stopped pouting. “You’re serious?”
Bryan patted his nearly empty pockets. He literally had only a cent to his name. “I’ve only got one coin left, and I don’t know how many I’m going to need. I’m desperate.” He snapped his fingers.
“This is extraction,” Oz said, reaching into his own pocket.
“You mean extortion,” Bryan said. “And it isn’t. This is you making up for ruining my life.”
Oz held his hands up, palms out. Empty.
“Nothing?” Bryan asked. Then the Wizard of Elmhurst Park reached behind Bryan’s ear and produced a shiny quarter with a flourish, holding it between two fingers.
“Neat,” Bryan said, pretending to be impressed by a trick he’d seen Oz perform a dozen times. “What else you got?”
Oz shrugged. “That’s it, man. Sorry.”
One measly quarter. That’s all Bryan’s forgiveness was worth. It would have to do.
“All right, people,” Mr. Jenkins called. “Let’s start cleaning up.”
Bryan helped Oz put the supplies away, then went back to his desk, pulled his knees up, and shed the second skin of cement from the tips of his fingers. As he peeled, he thought about Jess and the time they’d spent half of art class looking at each other’s fingerprints in the films of dried Elmer’s. Anytime he used glue, he thought of her. And lots of other times too.
Mr. Jenkins was inspecting everyone’s progress. “I see some groups still have work to do. Those of you who are finished, why don’t you bring them up to the front and show them to the rest of the class. Bryan, it looks like your group is done.” Winston Churchill motioned for someone in Bryan’s group to step forward. Bryan started to get up but then thought better of it.
Not today. That would just be asking for it. He wasn’t about to make himself the center of attention—again. Oz could do it. It would be part of his atonement. But as Bryan turned around, he caught Heather’s eye.
Heather, who was sitting all the way in the back, closest to the table. Right next to their project. Bryan pointed at their globe and raised his eyebrows. She shook her head emphatically. Bringing things to the front of the class was not something Heather McDonald did. Not any day. Not ever. But Bryan shook his head right back at her. “El-a-nor Roos-a-velt,” he mouthed. Do one thing every day that scares you.
Heather groaned, but she pushed herself out of her chair with a louder-than-usual screech and carefully picked up their monument-laden papier-mâché globe with both hands. He could see by the look in her eyes that she despised him at that moment. She made her way toward the front of the room, warily maneuvering between the aisles, careful not to bump into anyone, the planet cradled in her hands. Bryan watched with satisfaction. She might hate him now, but he knew this was good for her. Later she would appreciate it. She would tell her husband how some boy in middle school named Bryan Biggins helped pull her out of her shell, turning her into the determined, outgoing woman she was today. Bryan smiled, then looked down the aisle.
He stopped smiling.
He saw the foot a second too late to do anything about it. It was Tiffany Collins, one of the girls who sat at Missy Middleton’s table at lunch, upper echelon of the pyramid. It was a sly maneuver. A no-look move so that she could plead her innocence afterward if necessary, but it was obvious to Bryan, who had been tripped enough times to know.
He watched as Heather’s toe caught on Tiffany’s outstretched boot. Saw one knee buckle. Saw the look of horror on Heather’s pale-as-snow face, the recognition of what was happening, all too late, her loss of control. He saw her immediate future, sprawled out on the floor. Saw the two dozen fingers stabbing at the air around her, pointing and laughing. She squeaked as she fell.
Bryan watched the world spin.
And then everything slowed way down. Or it seemed to slow. Except for Bryan, who was still moving at normal speed. He practically leaped out of his chair, heading toward Heather and the world they had built together. She juggled it—the earth. Once. Twice. He saw it on her fingertips. She didn’t take her eyes off of it. She was more concerned with holding on to the world than catching herself, but she just couldn’t. It slipped out of her fingers and hit the desk beside her, smashing the LEGO Great Wall to pieces. The earth bounced once, still in slow motion, as if time itself were drawing to an end. The Eiffel Tower splintered and collapsed. It was Armageddon.
Bryan dodged between chairs, between the seats of his wide-eyed classmates, watching the earth roll forward to the edge of the desk, none of them bothering to stop it. They were bystanders, half of them observing the globe roll toward its doom, the other half staring at the body of Heather McDonald spread across the floor. Even Mr. Jenkins stood there, unmoving.
The earth hit the edge of the desk.
Bryan leaped over Heather’s prone body.
The world plummeted.
He dived. Arms outstretched. Chest and knees and elbows slamming into the cold, dusty cement floor, knocking the wind out of him. Reaching. Reaching. Reaching.
He felt it. Dropping into his palms, the paint still tacky in places, the fingers of one hand knocking over the Great Pyramid. Yet he held on, even as he hit the floor, even as the air was ripped out of him, not daring to take his eyes off of it. The whole world in his hands.
Everything sped back up again.
Bryan shook away the dizziness and chanced a look around. At his classmates, who all stared back at him. At Mr. Churchill-Jenkins, whose own hands were clasped over his heart. At Tiffany, swiftly pulling her foot back under her desk but scowling at him as she did.
At Heather McDonald. Who lay on the ground beside him. Who, for some reason, was not being laughed at, despite the fact that she had gone down like the Titanic. Who looked at him with a strange gleam in her eyes, as if he had just saved her life.
And at Oz, who was finally out of his chair, well after the fact, and was crouched next to them.
“Dude,” he said, staring at Bryan, his voice couched in awe. “You did it. You actually did it.”
He pointed to the globe, mostly intact, nestled in Bryan’s grip.
“You actually saved the world.”