Click Here (to find out how i survived seventh grade) (4 page)

THE PORTER INQUISITION

Place:
The principal’s neat but stuffy puppet-filled office

Time:
Two o’clock

Players:
Me, Mrs. Porter (Mrs. P), and later, my parents

ACTION BEGINS

Mrs. P:
Why did you hit Miss Worthington?

Me:
She called me something.

Mrs. P:
She called you a name?

Me:
(squirming in my seat) Sort of.

Mrs. P:
Was it a — (turning a bit pink) — a derogatory name?

Me:
You mean, like a cussword?

Mrs. P:
(nods)

Me:
No.

Mrs. P:
Well, then, what was it?

Me:
I’d rather not say.

Mrs. P:
Oh. I see. (Which, of course, she didn’t.)

Me:
She called me a puppet, okay? Now, what’s going to happen to me?

Mrs. P:
A puppet?

Me:
Yes. Did you call my parents?

Mrs. P:
They are on their way. (Pause. Looks over shoulder at puppet collection.) What’s wrong with being called a puppet?

Me:
It was the way she said it, Mrs. Porter.

Mrs. P:
Of course. Well, even so, we cannot tolerate violence of this kind.

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was back to talking about my crime. But when my parents got there, the first thing Mrs. Porter asked was whether they liked puppets.

“Puppets?” my dad asked. “I thought Erin hit someone in the girls’ bathroom.”

“Oh, she did,” Mrs. Porter said. “And it was about puppets.”

“It was not
about
puppets,” I said. “She
called
me a puppet.” “You hit Serena Worthington for calling you a puppet?” my mom asked.

“It was the way she said it, Mrs. Swift,” said Mrs. Porter.

“Oh. Of course,” said my dad, giving me a wide-eyed “what the heck is going on?” look.

“Mrs. Porter?” my mom asked. “What is the school’s policy on hitting?”

Because of my clean record in elementary school and the fact that Mrs. Porter (aka Puppet Porter) liked puppets, I got off with a light sentence — three days of detention. I had to apologize to Serena Poopendena, though, which was worse than detention. She sneered at me behind a big bag of ice, making me want to hit her again. Twice as hard.

And she didn’t have to apologize for calling me a puppet, which was totally unfair.

“Totally,” Jilly agreed when I showed up at her house after my parents drove me home. She was officially no longer contagious (too bad — I could have used a good bout of strep to keep me away from MBMS), and we hung out in her room, aka Diva Central. My eyes were always drawn to the different shades of pink swirling across the walls like the skirts of a dancer. I glanced at the poster of Meryl Streep (“an actor’s actor”) above her bed and checked the other poster across the room to see if her Movie Star Crush of the Month had changed this week.

Noting that it was still the same, I sat down in the chair at her desk, glancing at the array of photos pinned to her bulletin board. Many were of me and her, but some were of her and other friends I didn’t really hang out with. A couple were family photos.

“So,” said Jilly. “How big and purple was her nose?”

“You’ve seen Barney, right?”

We both laughed.

Jilly didn’t like Serena either. In elementary school we kept track of every zit and blemish, as well as any potential die-of-embarrassment situations, such as boogers hanging out of her nose or red stains on her clothes. Serena was one of eight girls in last year’s sixth grade who had started their periods, something Jilly and I couldn’t even imagine. We were so glad we didn’t have to worry about that stuff, but wouldn’t mind the other stuff, like getting boobs. Too bad we couldn’t get boobs without getting our period. They were sort of a package deal.

“Well,” said Jilly, “at least it’s over. By tomorrow no one will remember it.”

I shook my head. “You weren’t there when I got out of the principal’s office.” I unzipped my backpack. “Mrs. Porter had to talk to my parents alone, so I sat out on the bench, waiting. I don’t know how many people called me ‘puppet’ or ‘Pinocchio’ when they walked by.” And all because of stupid Serena. I hated her.

“No way,” Jilly said.

“Way,” I replied. “The gossip superhighway at Molly Brown is wireless.”

“It’s definitely faster than elementary school.” Jilly opened the folder I’d dropped on the bed and pulled out the papers. “Homework on the first day? Give me a break.”

“It’s just a questionnaire,” I said. “Everyone got one.”

Jilly rolled her eyes. “Where are the maps?”

“They’re in there.” I’d gone over both her routes twice and drawn the maps carefully. Jilly held out one of them, taking steps around her room to practice. She would study them tonight and sail easily to each class as if she’d been doing it for years.

“Does this say ‘lib,’ as in library, or lab?”

“Library,” I answered, without looking. Only one of the routes went past the library, and neither went by a lab. I could picture the turn in my mind. Heck, I knew her schedule better than mine. As I watched her walk, stop, and turn, studying the map I’d made her, I felt that funny twinge again. The same one I got when Serena had called me Pinocchio. But I couldn’t quite identify it. Like when I’m trying to remember something I’ve forgotten and it’s right there, just out of reach.

“I’ve got to go,” I said suddenly, standing up.

“But we have to plan for tomorrow,” Jilly protested. “And we need to fill out these questionnaires.”

“I did mine already.” It had helped me ignore all those people calling me names outside the principal’s office. I had acted as if my life depended on filling in the answers for my name (Erin P. Swift), my interests (basketball, soccer, computers, having my best friend on the same track as me), and what I hoped to get out of my MBMS experience (to get out, period).

“But what about the bus?” Jilly asked, tapping the map with a polished fingernail. “I know. You come to my house and we’ll walk together.”

“Okay,” I said, even though it made more sense for us to walk from my house, which was closer to the bus stop. Once that was decided, I practically ran from the room. The walls felt as if they had been pushed closer, like that trash compactor in the first
Star Wars
, which was really the fourth
Star Wars
, even though it was made first, and the first one was made fourth.

“Call me!” Jilly shouted.

I would. I always did.

Tuesday, August 20 5:00 p.m.

Ok, so I’ve decided to share 1 of my deep dark secrets from childhood. Since I’m 121/4, that isn’t very long ago but it’s still a deep dark secret so…no telling.

When I was younger and something horrible happened to me, I would hide in 1 of 5 different places, depending on the degree of horribleness of the situation. My brother, Chris, always had to come find me, so he named these spots. Of course, he had to explain to me that DEFCON was a military term, short for Defense Condition or Defense Readiness Condition, used when the U.S. was under some kind of military threat. I thought this fit my situations perfectly.

Here they are in order of least horrible to absolutely the MOST horrible of all:

DEFCON 5

My bed. I would throw myself on it when things were just a little bad…like when I tripped over my feet and no 1 saw me, but I still felt stupid.

DEFCON 4

The basement room closet, where I went when things were a little bit worse…like when Jilly gave me the same valentine she gave to Anna Pike in kindergarten…B4 I paid attention and saw that there were only 4 types of valentines in those shoe boxes.

DEFCON 3

The neighbor’s shed…a great hideout with their lawn tools and mower. I went there in 3rd grade when I farted in the girls’ bathroom and Serena was in the stall next to me. You can guess the humiliation that came after.

DEFCON 2

The bushes on the other side of the neighbor’s house…pretty horrible stuff if I came here…like when Louis Barnes announced to the entire 2nd grade that my shoes could be the
Nina
and the
Pinta
for the school play. Jerk.