Middle School: How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill Page 10

  Now I knew why Norman was afraid of getting sent home.

  But I also knew I couldn’t let that happen.

  My head was still spinning when I realized everything had gone quiet. Nobody was clapping anymore. No more cheering. I hadn’t had my back slapped in at least five seconds.

  Then a big, round shadow fell over me. It was like a meatball-shaped cloud moving in.

  I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

  “Mr. Whatchamacallit,” Sherwood said. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  This was it. Now or never. So I looked Sherwood in the eye, swallowed hard, and went for it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You should tell Chef Rudy he’s out of peanut butter.”

  FULL COURT PRESS

  Within minutes, I’m arrested, fingerprinted, cuffed, and dragged into the Dictator’s courtroom for my trial. It doesn’t take more than a quick look around this place to realize—I’m not just in a little trouble here. I’m in lots and lots (and lots) of it.

  “This court is now in session!” the judge booms out. “Will the prosecution please call its first witness?”

  “Your Honor, we call Rafe Whatchamacallit.”

  “Khatchadorian,” I say.

  “OVERRULED!” the judge says, and they drag me over to the witness stand.

  The prosecutor paces back and forth, licking his chops. He’s probably thinking about how I’m going to taste after they fry me in the electric chair.

  “Now, Mr. Khatcha-macallit—”

  “Khatchadorian,” I say.

  “SILENCE!” the judge says.

  “—where were you at the time of the crime? Exactly how guilty are you? And would you say you go better with rice, French fries, or baked potato?” the prosecutor asks.

  He knows I’ve already confessed, so I’ve got to make this good. I’m fighting for my life here.

  “Well, first of all,” I say, “let me start by—”

  “No further questions! That’s all, Your Honor.”

  “But I didn’t say anything!” I yelp.

  “OVERRULED!” the judge screams. “Would the defense attorney like to ask any follow-up questions?”

  Unfortunately, my “lawyer” is just a canoe paddle, so it doesn’t have a whole lot to say.

  “Next witness!” the judge says, and it only goes downhill from there.

  Katie Kim says she saw me running away on the night in question. Rusty says he smelled peanut butter on my breath. Chef Rudy says I’ve stolen food in the past. Some kid from the Bald Eagle’s Nest thinks I just look guilty.

  And then, before you can even say mistrial, it’s all over. The judge pounds on the bench with his gavel and tells me to rise. He’s ready to pronounce my sentence.

  “After careful consideration of the evidence,” he says, “not to mention way too much testimony from the suspect himself—”

  “But I haven’t said anything!” I say.

  “QUIET!” he yells. “AND SIT DOWN!”

  “You told me to rise.”

  “OVERRULED!” the judge screams. “Rafe Whatchamacallit, I hereby find you…”

  THE VERDICT

  GUILTY(ISH)

  So yeah, I got the big boot, right out of Camp Wannamorra. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

  It all happened pretty fast. Right after I gave Major Sherwood my fake confession, he dragged me into the camp office and called Mom to tell her I was going to be checking out early.

  That was it. I was heading home.

  I guess the question right now is whether or not I need to explain myself to you. I mean, it’s all right here in the story. But in case you missed something, here’s how it added up in my head:

  To be honest, I haven’t spent a whole lot of my life doing things for people. Nice things. Good things. You know what I mean—all that stuff that makes you a “good person.” And this seemed like a pretty good place to start.

  I had my own stuff to deal with now too. Big-time. This was about the eight million, six hundred forty-two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I’d done something to disappoint Mom. She was probably going to kill me, and then kill my dead body, and then kill whatever was left of that.

  Of course, the difference this time was that I hadn’t actually done the thing I was in trouble for.

  But let’s face it. The chances of Mom believing that were somewhere around eight million, six hundred forty-two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine…

  … to one.

  HOW MANY KINDS OF CRAZY DO YOU THINK I AM?

  Nope. Didn’t send that one either.

  But who knows? Maybe one of these days.

  GEORGIA’S GOT A SECRET

  Major Sherwood kept me in the camp office all morning, waiting for Mom and Grandma to get there. It was all kind of familiar. Hello, in-school suspension!

  Or in-camp suspension, I guess. Same difference.

  The only person who was allowed to see me was Georgia. She came in right before lunch. I figured she just wanted to say good-bye and call me a bonehead—which she did—but there was more.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you something since yesterday,” she said. “At least now, you can’t run away.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Just listen, you bonehead.”

  Let’s just say I wish I’d listened to Georgia a lot sooner. You’ll see. Because this was big. Huge. A game changer, if I could pull it off.

  But first, I had to deal with my other big problem. And in fact, I didn’t know it yet, but she was just driving into the parking lot.

  That’s right. You know her as Jules Khatchadorian, mild-mannered waitress and all-around hardworking mother of two. But not today. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, campers and counselors, please step aside (no, really—STEP ASIDE!) for the one… the only… the terrifyingly ticked-off…

  WORLD’S! MADDEST! MOM!

  HELLO, NICE TO SEE YOU, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

  I didn’t expect too many hugs when Mom and Grandma came in. And I got exactly one—from Grandma.

  “What were you thinking, kiddo?” she said.

  I guess she could afford to be a little nicer, since I hadn’t spent half my life disappointing her. As for Mom, I’d say that on the Rafe Khatchadorian Scale of 0 to 10, we were somewhere between 0 and “grounded for life.” I got one quick look when she came in, and she practically lasered me right out of my chair with her eyes.

  Mom apologized to Sherwood a bunch of times. Then she told me to wait outside while they signed my release papers or figured out my torture-at-home plan or whatever they had to do.

  But I hadn’t forgotten what I had to do either.

  “Can I please go say good-bye to my friends?” I said. “Please?”

  Mom looked at me, then at Major Sherwood, then at her watch.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Rafe. Not one second more. Then we’re leaving,” she said. Major Sherwood even gave me his stopwatch so I wouldn’t have any excuse.

  Fifteen minutes wasn’t a lot. But at least I had a plan, thanks to my little sister. It turns out the kid has some game, after all. She was waiting for me behind a tree when I came outside.

  “You know what to do?” I asked.

  “All set,” she said. “And Rafe? Hurry.”

  “I will,” I said, and kept moving. Because this was going to be super tight, and we both knew it.

  TICK-TICK-TICK

  It took me less than a minute to run past the Chow Pit and make sure everyone was still at lunch. Everyone except for the Muskrats. Georgia had already gotten to them, and they were waiting for me up at the cabin.

  When I came into the Muskrat Hut, all my stuff had already been packed and was gone. My bunk looked weirdly empty, but I didn’t have time to worry about that.

  The guys all stared at me like I’d just come from death row. Which I kind of had.

  “What happened?” Dweebs said.

  “Sherwood gave me t
he boot,” I said. “I’m going home.”

  “What?” Norman said. “But… you can’t. That’s not… you didn’t—”

  “Not now, Norman,” I said. “I just need you to answer one question for me. Do you still have those big jars of peanut butter and honey?”

  “Uh… well… yeah,” he said. “Why?”

  “Just get them.”

  You should have seen the way all the other guys looked at me—and then at Norman, when he pulled out those jars from his sleeping bag. It was like we’d just peeled back our faces and showed off the glowing alien heads inside.

  But there was no time to explain.

  “We’ve got to go—right now,” I told them. “Smurf and Tunz, get as much poison ivy from behind the cabin as you can find. Bombardier, when was the last time you, uh… well, you know—”

  “It’s been a while,” he said.

  “Good. Come with me. Cav, Dweebs, Norman, you too. Smurf and Tunz, we’ll see you there.”

  “Where?” Smurf asked.

  “Bobcat Alley,” I said. “While everyone’s still at lunch.” And before they could freak out too much, I said, “Listen, I know what I’m doing. But nobody has to come if they don’t want to.”

  That was it. Thirty seconds later, the Muskrat Hut was as empty as a kid’s bed on Christmas morning. Tunz and Smurf were behind the cabin, picking poison ivy with socks on their hands. And the rest of us were headed up the path, straight toward Bobcat Alley.

  Three minutes down.

  Twelve to go.

  Fingers crossed.

  DON’T GET MAD, GET EVEN

  All I could think about now was every wedgie, every stolen shoe, every shaving-cream balloon—every last, miserable prank Doolin and fiends had pulled on us since the first day of camp. This wasn’t going to even the score exactly, but it was one giant step in the right direction.

  When we got to the front of Bobcat Alley, I looked all the way down the field, where Georgia was waiting. I held up five fingers. She held up five fingers.

  That meant five minutes before she was supposed to go over to the Chow Pit and “tattle” to Doolin about what we were doing up here. It wasn’t much time, but you’d be surprised at what seven guys can do to one little cabin in five minutes.

  Once we were inside, I went straight for Doolin’s bunk. I pulled open his sleeping bag, stuck my hand in that jar of peanut butter, and started spreading it around like I was making the world’s biggest sandwich.

  Norman was right behind with the honey.

  “Rafe, this isn’t right,” he said.

  “Sure it is,” I said. “The peanut butter always goes first.”

  “No. I mean, you going home. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You can start by putting some of that honey in here,” I said. So he did.

  Meanwhile, Smurf and Tunz showed up and got busy with the poison ivy, all over the towels and washcloths. Bombardier was under the cabin, leaving behind a special surprise. Cav was gathering up all the shoes. Dweebs was taking the lightbulbs.

  It was like we were all in a band, and everyone was playing a different instrument.

  And the instruments were made of revenge.

  Just like with anything awesome, it was all over way too soon. I was still putting peanut butter into some dingus’s sneakers when I heard the voices outside. They were far away at first but getting closer. Fast.

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Dead meat!”

  “What’s for lunch?”

  “Dead meat!”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Dead meat, dead meat, DEAD MEAT!”

  When I looked down at the stopwatch, it said I had six minutes and ten seconds left.

  Doolin and fiends were right on schedule.

  THE LAST WORD (STARTS WITH A P)

  Oh, man!” Smurf said. He was looking out the screen door. “They’ve got baseball bats!”

  “And sticks!” Cav said. “Lacrosse and hockey!”

  They were pounding the ground as they came, getting closer by the second.

  “Just stay calm,” I said. “And stick close.”

  I went out the screen door first, with Smurf and all the other guys piling out behind me. Doolin was at the front of his pack too. We came face-to-face just at the bottom of the cabin steps.

  “Loser up!” Doolin said, shouldering his bat. “You ever heard of strike four, Katch-a-cold? ’Cause I’m about to—”

  “Come here, Doolin,” I said, before he could get any farther. (Believe me, I’ve learned a thing or two about Doolin’s type. You’ve got to be as quick as they are strong.) “We need to talk. Right now.”

  “I don’t feel like talking,” Doolin said.

  “But I insist,” I said.

  I don’t think he was expecting that. He smiled, like I was entertaining him now. And then he followed me over, away from the other guys. Here went nothing. Or everything, I guess.

  “I’ve got this sister here at camp,” I told him.

  “And I care about this why?” Doolin said.

  “See, Georgia made friends with your sister—”

  “I’m yawning. See me yawning?” he said.

  “And your sister told my sister about a nickname you had back in preschool,” I said.

  Doolin didn’t say a word. So I kept going.

  “I guess somebody used to wet his pants, Dools. And this same person used to wear a certain paper product to school. And that same person used to be called Pampers. Stop me if you’ve heard this before.”

  It was like watching Doolin’s face melt. By the time I got to the Pampers part, he looked about as happy as a Hawaiian snowman.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Less than you think,” I told him. “You know Norman over there, right?” I pointed at the guys, who were standing off to the side. “From now on, that’s his name. Not Booger. Not Eater. Not Booger Eater. It’s Norman.”

  I took a step back now. Doolin still had that bat in his hand, and I liked my skull in one piece.

  “You’re joking, right?” he said.

  “No joke,” I said. “That’s it. After this, I’m gone. You guys can prank each other all you want. Or not. I don’t care.”

  Now he just looked confused, like he was still waiting for the punch line.

  “But the whole Booger Eater thing is done,” I told him. “That name’s going into retirement. You got that, Pampers?”

  “Shh! Shut up!” he said. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine.”

  “And I mean for everyone. Not just for you. Because my sister has a very big mouth. She won’t have any problem telling every guy and girl at this camp about your nickname, if she has to.”

  I could tell we had a deal. And that was a good thing too, because the stopwatch was down to a minute and a half.

  “So, how about you shake my hand while everyone’s watching?” I said. “Tell them we made a truce. Then you never have to see my ugly face again.”

  I’m pretty sure Doolin was thinking about breaking my fingers while we shook—but I walked away fine. I took my guys back down the path, and he took his guys inside the cabin to start cleaning up. (If it were me, I would have started with what Bombardier left under the cabin.)

  “What’d you say to him?” Smurf asked me while we were walking away. “What was that all about?”

  “I just reasoned with him,” I said. “Showed him the light, you know?”

  “Yeah, right,” Smurf said. He knew something was up, but there wasn’t any time to talk about it.

  My work here was done.

  SO LONG

  I made it back with eight seconds to spare. There wasn’t even time to say a real good-bye to the guys, but I wouldn’t have traded the way it went for anything.

  Mom and Grandma were waiting for me when I got down to the parking lot. Georgia was there too, like nothing had happened. I gave her Major Sherwood’s stopwatch.

  “Tell the Dictator I said good-b
ye,” I said.

  “Let’s go, Rafe,” Mom said. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  “So long, you big, fat loser,” Georgia said. “See you at the end of the summer.”

  “Not if I smell you coming first,” I said.

  “Well, I see that hasn’t changed,” Mom said. But when she turned her back, Georgia mouthed the words good luck to me. I gave her a thumbs-up and even a quick hug good-bye before I got in the car. Mom and Grandma never even noticed.

  “See you, Georgia Peach,” Mom said. “We’ll be back to get you at the end of the summer.”

  “Drive safe!” Georgia said, and even stuck out her tongue at me to make it look good.

  Then, just when we were pulling out of the parking lot in our ancient, wheezing, maybe-gonna-make-it-home minivan, Grandma pointed over to the side of the road.

  “What the…?” she said.

  That’s when I saw the guys. They were all standing there, holding up a sign. Or six signs, I guess.

  I turned around and waved while we drove away from Camp Wannamorra for good.

  “I guess it just means they’re my friends,” I said.

  That, and they still needed a new catchphrase.

  GROUNDED! DAY #1,332 AND COUNTING

  So, no surprise, I’m pretty much grounded for the rest of the summer. Maybe when Georgia comes home, she can put in a good word for me.

  But let me ask you something. Did I do the right thing? Because I still don’t know. Does getting into trouble make you a bad person?

  Does getting into trouble for something you didn’t do (because you want to help the person who did do it) make you a good person?

  Does all this make your head hurt the way it does mine?

  Anyway, it’s not so bad. I’ve got Leo with me all the time now. I’ve got my sketch pad. And you might have noticed that I’ve been doing a little reading too. And by a little, I mean a whole, whole lot—for me.