Click Here (to find out how i survived seventh grade) (23 page)

“To listen to your messages, press one.” The voice startled me. My finger hesitated over the 1, then I closed my eyes and pressed.

“This is Tyler. Or, as you like to call me, Geeky-Nerdy Tyler. I just want you to know that you’re really mean and I can’t believe I actually thought you were my friend.”
Click.

“To delete this message, press six. To save it, press eight.” I pressed 8. From Serena: “You are the most hateful person in the entire universe. Everyone is asking me if they can come to the S.W. Hate-o-Rama. Guess what? I’m developing an Erin Swift Hate-o-Rama that’s going to be on the INTERNET, not just a stupid school Intranet. So the whole world will know what a horrible person you are.”
Click.
I pressed 8 again.

“Erin? This is Carla. Gosh, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I’m surprised by some of the things you said. But I feel bad for you, too. Um, I guess that’s all.”
Click.

From Tyler again: “I can’t believe you typed that poem for the entire school to see. You are cruel and heartless. I feel very sorry for the person who wrote it, which by the way was NOT me, but I feel sorry for me, too, because since your stupid website says I wrote it, everyone thinks I did and is making fun of me. Thanks a lot.”

From Tyler a third time: “And even if I did write that poem and did NOT copy it but wrote it from scratch with NO help from anyone, don’t think any word of it was true. It was opposite day when I wrote it. So what it really says is ‘If you ever sped up fast enough to smell what is right behind you, you might be unsurprised to find out that foul stench is you.’”
Click.

Tyler’s last call was brief: “And it’s signed, Your Enemy.”

Foul stench? How many twelve-year-olds knew those words? It was one of my favorite phrases. Ever since I’d heard it during the first
Star Wars
which was really the fourth, when Princess Leia says to Governor Tarkin on the Death Star, “I recognized your foul stench when I was brought onboard.”

Foul stench. I had loved it until someone used it against me. Tyler’s new version of his poem really hurt. It was so mean. Really mean. I knew the stuff I’d said had hurt him, but didn’t he realize it wasn’t meant for everyone to see? Didn’t anyone realize that? And didn’t he see that I’d said he had nice eyes? What about that?

And I said that Serena was right about Mark liking Jilly. Didn’t she read that part? True, I had an entire page devoted to the S.W. Hate-o-Rama and only one line on another page about her being right, but still. Why does everyone dwell on the negative?

I sank deeper under my covers as I listened. There were messages from people I didn’t even know. Some saying I was right about Serena, others saying I was the mean one. And still others keyed in on specific things I’d written.

“Am I a hot tamale?” one caller asked before laughing and hanging up.

“I might kiss you for six Mississippis … if you gave me a million dollars!”
Click.

I was amazed at people’s brutal honesty. Didn’t they think about the possibility that my parents might pick up the messages first? Obviously not, because they all were letting loose with their own feelings.

“Right on about Serena. What a b----.”

“Jilly may be a little bossy but she’s nice, too. I can’t believe you’d say things about your best friend like that. My best friend, Caroline Crouse, has BO and sometimes really bad breath but you don’t see me broadcasting it all over the school.”
No, just to my voice mail
, I thought.

“Serena is not mean to everyone, you know.” Obviously from a Serena groupie.

One message was particularly surprising.

“Um, Erin? You don’t know me but I’m on your track and in one of your classes and um, well, Ikissmypillowtoo.”
Click.
She said the last part so fast I had to replay it to make sure I got it right. Someone else out there kissed her pillow. I found that comforting.

Several people called to tell me they had clicked YES, that they agreed with my predictions about Mark and Jilly. One boy even added a third option, “I clicked WHO CARES? because you girls are always crying about which boy doesn’t like you and it’s really stupid. Why do you care so much? You’re pathetic.” Obviously a boy whom NONE of the girls liked. A bitter boy.

I listened to message after hateful message, imagining each person in my mind as they spoke (except for the ones I didn’t know who appeared in my mind as faceless people with big hair). Then I listened to them again. And again. It was my penance for spilling my guts. It turned out that the fifty-seven messages weren’t from fifty-seven different people. Some had called more than once. Tyler had called four times. Serena six. I kept track in a notebook by my bed. The worst one had been from Jilly.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted everyone to know how you felt about me. Well, you know what? I hate you, too.” There was a pause, and I heard something like someone sucking in their breath and sniffling. “But who cares? That stuff you wrote makes you look way more stupid than I do.”
Click.

But there were a few rays of light in my dark, dark cave of despair. Like the pillow-kissing girl. And Ms. Moreno.

“There was a mix-up, Erin,” she said. “After Tyler uploaded your files, I thought Mr. Arnett was checking them and he thought I was and then we had a number of problems come up that needed everyone’s attention.” She sighed heavily on the other end of the phone. “I suggested we wait to launch until after Thanksgiving so you could be here, too, but everyone was so ready to go. We tried to call you but no one picked up.” Another pause. “I’m really sorry, Erin.”

The other shining message was from Rosie: “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. I’ll be over after school.” I saved that one, too. But I kept going back to the others, replaying them over and over until Mom came back.

“What are you doing?” She rushed across my bedroom and pried the phone away from my ear. I was like a robot, pressing 3 to replay the message, 8 to save, # to skip to the next message. Even when the phone was out of my hand, my fingers kept moving to press the buttons.

“Oh, Erin.”

I glanced up. The phone was pressed against her ear and Mom had tears in her eyes. I wondered vaguely which message she was listening to. She set the phone down and rubbed her temples. “Did you listen to all of them?”

I shrugged. Then I told her everything. About Mark, about Jilly, about Rosie, about Mark and Jilly, about Mark and Rosie, about Tyler and Serena (separately, not like they were a couple). She said, “Oh, Erin” about fifty-seven times and I couldn’t tell if it was an I-can’t-believe-you-would-write-such-things “Oh, Erin” or an I-really-feel-for-you “Oh, Erin.”

“I’m Harriet in
Harriet the Spy,
” I wailed as Mom sat down on the end of my bed. In that book, Harriet had written nasty things about some of the kids she knew, including her two best friends. And they found her notebook and read all these horrible things about themselves. And then they hated her and wouldn’t talk to her.

“No, you’re not,” Mom said. We had read the book together when I was in fourth grade, then again in fifth. She loved it as much as I did. “First of all, you didn’t spy on anyone. Second, Harriet doesn’t tell her mom why she feels bad. Third, she goes and talks to the nice man with all the games —”

“The therapist,” I interrupted.

Mom looked startled. “Well, yes. That’s what he was. I didn’t think you knew that.”

“Carla’s mom is in therapy,” I said. When Mom looked puzzled I added, “She’s my locker partner and was the peas in the Vegetable Medley.”

Mom nodded. “Fourth, they finally found out Harriet was missing Ole Golly.” Reaching out, she squeezed my shoulder and attempted a smile. “You told us everything so you won’t have to go to therapy and we don’t have a housekeeper. So you see? You’re not Harriet at all.”

I looked up at her, then down at my cast. “I have to transfer to a different school.”

“Harriet went back to school,” Mom said. “Remember? And all of her friends forgave her in the end.”

“That’s a book,” I said. “It’s not real life. It’s not my life.” “Exactly,” Mom said. “Things will turn out differently for you.” “Are you saying no one will forgive me in the end?”

“No.” Mom sighed. One of those humongous ones that meant she felt really bad for me. “I’m saying you’re different from Harriet, your friends are different from Janie and Sport, and you’re not nearly as angry as Harriet. You expressed your feelings and everyone has a right to do that. It’s just unfortunate that your feelings were made public.”

I groaned loudly. I’d stayed awake most of the night going over everything I’d written in my blog. “The worst part is that I wrote a lot of that stuff weeks ago. I don’t even feel that way anymore. Even about Serena.”

“Really?” Mom raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I’d change it to the S.W. Dislike-o-Rama.”

“Oh, Erin,” she said, but she smiled. “Well, we’ve got four days of the break to figure out what to do. Then you’ll go back to school on Monday and face all this.”

I stared at her. How could she possibly make me go back after this? “In the meantime,” Mom continued, ignoring my look, “why don’t you try to get some rest? We’ve got fifteen relatives showing up tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m sure all the cousins will want to sign your cast.” She patted my arm and left.

Throwing myself backward onto my pillows, I stared up at the ceiling. I was never, ever going back to Molly Brown Middle School. No way. And my parents couldn’t make me, not in a million, trillion years. And there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep. I was living a nightmare. How could I possibly sleep?

chapter 23

Erin Swift, aka Loser

“Are you INSANE?”

My bedroom door banged open and I sat upright in bed, my heart pounding like crazy. Sunlight streamed in my window so I knew it was still daytime.

“Wake up!” shouted Chris, barreling toward me. I raised my arms to ward off an attack but he stopped next to the bed, his hands clenched at his sides.

“What’s your problem?” I said, sitting up and lowering my arms. I rested my cast on my lap, making sure he remembered his sister was injured and therefore should be treated delicately.

Too bad “delicate” wasn’t anywhere in my brother’s vicinity. “My problem? Do you want to know what my problem is?”

“Actually, no,” I said, seeing his blazing eyes. “I changed my mind.” “Too late,” Chris said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused? Do you?”

I glanced quickly up at him and then away. Oh, no. I hadn’t written just about people at my school. I’d written about Chris, too. Serena must have called her sister at the high school. Stupid cell phones.

“You said you felt sorry for me,” Chris snapped. “It was bad enough that you broadcast the fact that I liked — and I mean LIKED in the PAST tense — Amanda. That we saw her kissing Chad but to say you felt SORRY for me?” His fingers tightened on my arms. “The entire school now knows I wear frog underwear.”

“With those baggy lowrider pants, they probably already knew.” I tried to smile.

“That’s not the point. You wrote it down. And you said I was drunk on Halloween. If Mom and Dad find out —”

“I said I thought you might be drunk, I —”

Chris continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “And that stuff about the pictures? All these girls kept handing me their photos, asking me if I’d —” He squeezed my arms tighter and put his nose to mine. “God, I could kill you.” I winced. He must have realized what he was doing because he pushed me back roughly. I smacked my head on the headboard.

“Ow,” I said, rubbing the back of my head.

“You don’t know what pain is, Puppet Girl.”

I stared at him, unable to speak. Except for that first time when he got really mad, Chris had never said a word about the PI, and he’d never called me that name. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to blink. They would fall if I blinked.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now maybe you’re getting a little closer to knowing.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I stared at the closed door, trembling, my lip quivering as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

Wiping my sleeve across my eyes, I glanced down at my nightstand. A note was propped against my water glass. My hand shaking, I reached out to pick it up.

Erin (Not Harriet),

This is going to work out. I PROMISE! I’m downstairs in my office if you need me.

Hope you slept well.

I love you,

Mom

Poor Mom. She had no idea how truly horrible the situation was. How there was no way in the entire universe that it would work out. I’d lost my best friend, practically the entire school hated me, and now my brother hated me. Again.

The doorbell rang downstairs. A few seconds later I heard footsteps, then a soft knock at my door. “Erin? You awake?” Mom’s voice. She must not have heard Chris storming around slamming doors, waking me up.

“Yeah,” I said. “Come on in.” My hand clenched the covers as the door swung open.

“Hey.” Rosie stood next to my mom. “Did you get my message?”

I nodded and waved her in. “But I think you’re a bit optimistic. I had fifty-seven voice mails. Most of them were hate voice mails.”