Runt

  She saw the photo.

  That was her face, at least it looked like it was. But that wasn’t her name. It was a mean name. It wasn’t true, was it? The horror of it slowly began pressing in on her lungs and heart. Her breathing quickened but her air supply diminished. Before she could read the profile of this unknown but familiar face, Elizabeth scrolled down to the posted comments. There weren’t that many, but there were enough, all from different names with odd person2person profile photos, famous athletes, to dogs, to movie stars.

  No one seemed real but they all had something to say about Smelly-Girl. She felt her mind lifting out of her body until she was nearly watching herself at the computer terminal, staring. The Elizabeth that floated above was safe, while the one in the chair began to cry.

  “Elizabeth?” Ethan said. He rested his hands on his knees to be closer. To see if she was still breathing.

  “Did you see it?” she asked him.

  • • •

  The voices in the library were loud, but they were distant. The sounds were amplified like millions of fingernails scratching a chalkboard, not making any sense, not human, not real. Far away.

  • • •

  It was then Ethan realized what had happened. It was the fake person2person page that Maggie had made. She published it right before the storm, and it stayed there just long enough for most everyone to see it before the power went out. Elizabeth must have just seen it.

  “Yeah, I did,” Ethan said softly.

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked.

  Ethan noticed her face was marked with tear streaks and when he did, he put it together. He shot the photo. He was the reason this girl was crying.

  “It was a mistake,” Ethan answered. “I didn’t know what it was for. She asked me. I didn’t know what it was for.”

  Elizabeth seemed confused. “What?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t why they do that. She did it. Why anyone would do that. Are you okay? I mean, that’s stupid. I keep asking you that.”

  Ethan let his legs give out and he slid down onto the floor beside Elizabeth. It was strange to be this close to her—well, to any girl, really—but here on the floor, alone but with all these people around. It was the same face as in the photo but it wasn’t. The photo was flat, two-dimensional. It didn’t feel, it didn’t see, it didn’t hear.

  Here was the same face, alive, crying, knowing all those people had made fun of her and called her names.

  Funny names. Funny jokes. Ethan had tried to guess who was who, which of his friends had used an Adam Sandler profile picture, who had used a SpongeBob cartoon. But not once had he thought of this face, of Elizabeth’s face, and how she would feel when she saw it.

  “Look, it’s just stupid. It’s just some dumb joke. It could have been on anyone. Just stupid kids being stupid.”

  Ethan felt only the tiniest relief that he himself had not posted a comment. It wasn’t fair. Was that how Matthew felt sitting in the principal’s office? Getting in trouble for something someone else did. Something Stewart did.

  “But it was me,” Elizabeth said. Her body looked so crumpled. “Not someone else.”

  “Well, you know what they say?” Ethan said.

  It was such a beautiful day out, as it had been nearly every day since the storm. Unseasonably warm, almost balmy, and the sun was shining like early spring, not late fall. As if the natural world had no idea how much damage it had done to human society.

  “No, what?” Elizabeth could barely lift her head, but she did. She was looking for anything, and she was looking to Ethan to find it.

  “Well, they say, Don’t get mad, get even.”

  “They do?” She wiped her eyes.

  “Well, I think they also say, Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ethan didn’t really know. He shrugged.

  “You think I should get revenge? How? On who?” That’s when Elizabeth realized everybody knew who had made the person2person page.

  She figured she had only one guess. “Was it Maggie?”

  Ethan didn’t even have to answer that question.

  “Jeez, I didn’t say that,” Ethan said.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Anyway, two wrongs don’t make a right, you know.” Another saying of his father’s.

  Two huge tears seemed to just appear and drop out of Elizabeth’s eyes. “There are a lot more than two wrongs in this world,” she said.

  Ethan had to agree with that.

  HOUSE ARREST

  * * *

  Okay, let’s see here. Can we talk this one out? Just bear with me for a second. Yeah, just a second.

  Why?

  Because. Well, because I think I must be going crazy.

  So, okay—you still with me? Okay, good—so, okay, this morning, when I woke up, I came to the abrupt realization that it wasn’t actually, technically the morning anymore. I knew this because my room was covered in sunlight. Just bathed in it. It was blinding and confusing and I didn’t know what to do.

  You know how sometimes you wake up on the weekend and forget what day it is and think that you are late for school and get completely frantic for a second and wonder what chain of events could have possibly led you to forget to set your alarm clock when you never forget to set your alarm clock? And then you realize that it’s Saturday and that you can sleep all day if you want to and that you don’t have to worry about missing school or if there could be any homework that you may have forgotten to do or if you are going to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on your way to homeroom today?

  Well, that was me this morning. Except it was Tuesday. And school was still going on.

  Now, you ask me—yes, I know you didn’t really ask me, just go with it—you ask me, why, Matthew, did you wake up at noon, on a Tuesday, when we all know that you wake up at 6:12 a.m. every school day so you can have enough time to shower, have breakfast, watch a little bit of SportsCenter, and still be able to get to class on time?

  Aha. It’s that last part that is the kicker. There is no class. Not for me. Not anymore. Because I got peed on and then I got suspended.

  Yes, you heard that correctly. I am not allowed to go to school. Not even if I wanted to. Take that.

  But I will not let them, the enemy, get me down. No way, not on my watch.

  Just because there is no school, I will not change my morning routine, even if it was technically the afternoon.

  After I woke up, I immediately took a shower because I always take a shower immediately after I wake up and I don’t understand people who don’t and are still able to function and engage in everyday life interactions.

  Then, after I got out of the shower, I put on my old pair of Power Ranger pajamas—What? Nobody was around, and they are still comfortable—and plopped down on the couch. I was in it for the long haul.

  My mom brought me eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee, wrapped me in a blanket, and asked me if I needed anything else. My dog, Eli, was laying at my feet. The TV remote was in my hands and it had full batteries, while both cabinet doors, miraculously, were open so that the cable box could be reached. I then put on SportsCenter because SportsCenter is always on.

  By this time it was probably one in the afternoon. I should have been in humanities class, sitting next to Cady Meshnick, who lets out what she considers to be silent farts all class long and thinks nobody realizes. I’m on to you, Cady, just know that. I see through your game.

  What? Oh, well, that brings me back to my original point.

  You see, I must be crazy. They told me that I was in trouble. That I’m suspended and that this is supposed to be punishment. This, here, being at home.

  But this is awesome. I love this.

  I’m away from all that. Away from silent farts and oblivious teachers and people who pee on other people. Away from the schoolwork and the weird janitor who always lingers too long around me and the convoluted web that is the middle school soci
al scene.

  I’m away from all that crap.

  I wish I could get peed on all the time. Well, I probably take that back. But, three days of no school, sleeping in as late as I want, and playing video games all day, well, that ain’t half bad. I could get used to this life.

  So you ask me—Matthew, how are your parents handling all of this? They are fine with you sleeping in and doing nothing all day? Isn’t that too good to be true?

  I’m glad you asked.

  So, let’s see, ”the incident” happened Monday at lunchtime. (I’ve taken to calling it “the incident,” by the way, because it’s easy to say and catchy and makes me sound like I actually did something bad.) And then my parents found out about it Monday in the late afternoon, after Mrs. Meadhall finally came through on her bluff to call them.

  And they reacted just as I expected. I take that back. They reacted exactly the opposite of what I expected. They were furious, but not at me.

  • • •

  It was my mom who came to school to pick me up. My dad was at work. He didn’t find out until later, and his reaction is not exactly fit to print.

  “Did you even get my son’s side of the story?” Me, my mother, and Mrs. Meadhall sat in the principal’s office with the door closed.

  “Yes, of course we did,” Mrs. Meadhall said.

  My mother hadn’t even had time to hear my side of the story. I had to sit here and wait for her to show up. I figured she was going to be really mad at me for getting in trouble. I sunk as low in my chair as I could as Mrs. Meadhall told her I punched Stewart Gunderson in the face. I was somehow able to interject why I had punched Stewart Gunderson in the face.

  My mother didn’t even blink an eye. “Well, clearly there’s more to the story. Is Stewart Gunderson getting punished?” my mother said.

  “That is not something you need to concern yourself with, Mrs. Berry.”

  “But this isn’t fair. Matthew didn’t start it. Did you hear what he just said?”

  Mrs. Meadhall didn’t answer. Instead, she just kept repeating the same sentence over and over. “We do not tolerate fighting of any kind at this school.”

  “And getting urinated on is not fighting?” my mother tried. I have to give her credit. She probably wanted to use another word altogether.

  Mrs. Meadhall was silent.

  “This is a done deal, isn’t it?” my mother finally said. “You didn’t call me in here to talk about this—you’ve already suspended Matthew, haven’t you?”

  Mrs. Meadhall was super quiet. Then she admitted, “Yes.”

  “Let’s go, Matty.” My mother stood up and as I told you before, my father’s reaction wasn’t as accepting, but there wasn’t anything he could do either.

  I haven’t been allowed back since.

  And to tell you the truth, it really sucks.

  Preston Middle School

  100 School Road

  Preston, New York

  Principal Meadhall

  Dear Parents,

  As our Preston school district returns to its regular schedule this coming Monday, there are several issues I would like to address. First and foremost is our children’s safety. The police and fire department assure me that all the roads have now been cleared of downed trees and power lines and that our school buses will be able to move freely on their routes.

  After careful consideration of the available options, the Board of Education and I have decided to cancel spring vacation in order to make up the days missed during the blackout. We realize that many of the student body and their families may have had travel plans during this time, but we expect full attendance. We have all been inconvenienced, and this change in the calendar is minor in comparison to what others have had to contend with due to Hurricane Helen.

  Lastly, we want to remind parents that the first sixth grade dance of the year, sponsored by the Preston Middle School PTO, will go on as scheduled. It will be held Friday night in the Middle School gym from 7:30 p.m. until 10:00 p.m. There will be chaperones at the entrance to the building and no students will be allowed to enter after 8 p.m. or leave before 10 p.m. without special written permission from their parents. Anyone found with prohibited substances (see: Preston Student Handbook, pages 13–16) will be immediately and severely dealt with.

  Have a great week,

  Mrs. Grace Meadhall

  SPIKING THE BALL

  * * *

  Elizabeth had a million ideas flying through her head keeping her awake. Well, she had seven that might work. Okay, she had three real plans for getting back at Maggie. Two that were in any way doable—if she had superpowers. Still, lying in bed planning outrageous evil deeds was the only way Elizabeth could even imagine how she was going to go back to school Monday after seeing the Smelly-Girl person2person page, though it had mysteriously disappeared.

  Funny, watching the night doesn’t stop the sun from coming up, but when Elizabeth heard the sounds of court TV coming from downstairs, she knew she must have fallen asleep at some point and now it was morning. The worst morning of her life. Breakfast waiting for her.

  “Everything all right?” her mother asked.

  Elizabeth tried to swallow a spoonful of cereal. Better yet, she used her mouthful of milk and Cheerios to muffle her answer. “Sure, Mom.”

  She hadn’t told her mother about the person2person page but her anxiety about going to school today was probably obvious. Elizabeth wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed to tell her mother or more worried that her mother might go into the school and make a big stink, which, of course, would only be more embarrassing. In the end she opted for lying.

  She finished another spoonful. “No, really. I’m just a little rushed, that’s all.”

  And wouldn’t you know it, the bus was late, meaning everyone in homeroom would already be seated and they would be halfway through attendance. There was a moment Elizabeth stood outside the door, peering in through the tiny rectangular window. If she could have disappeared, or combusted spontaneously, never to be heard from again, she wouldn’t have objected. But with neither of those options presenting themselves, Elizabeth opened the door and walked in.

  No one looked up. There was no audible whispering or people who deliberately avoided glancing her way. One foot followed the other, and Elizabeth took her seat by the bookshelves near the back and tried to breathe.

  Homeroom was followed by first-period gym, and somehow Elizabeth found herself in the locker room alone. No one had said anything yet or even looked at her differently, but then again the day had only just started.

  Lots of kids tried to opt out of P.E. class, especially for the swimming unit, but the physical education department was cracking down on fake notes from home and other excuses. By this time of year, nearing winter break, the sixth grade was well into their volleyball unit, and everyone was expected to participate. Elizabeth could hear Mr. Hill calling out names for the two teams and reminding everyone about the rules.

  Rules.

  What rules?

  Elizabeth bent her knees, sank down between the benches, and let her back press against the cold metal of the gym lockers. She had changed into her P.E. clothes—shorts and a T-shirt—but she couldn’t bring herself to go out there. Homeroom was one thing, but a full-period class. No, not yet.

  Maybe not ever. Her body felt like it had no bones. You can’t bump pass a volleyball or block a shot if you have no bones. That’s when Elizabeth noticed the bright pink straps sticking out from the locker directly in front of her. No doubt that was Maggie’s backpack. She must have slammed the door shut and not realized that it hadn’t locked properly.

  Elizabeth looked around, toward the gym door and back to the main entrance and the hallway outside. Quiet. The inside of the locker room was silent. Sounds from the gym class were echoing in the gym. Mr. Hill’s whistle shrieked. The volleyball game had started and Elizabeth crawled carefully across the floor toward Maggie’s locker, which was ever-so-slightly open.

  I
was just pushing the straps back in, Elizabeth heard inside her head.

  My contact popped out and I was looking for it down here.

  Oh, I just lost an earring.

  Elizabeth didn’t wear contacts or earrings, but who knew that?

  Elizabeth carefully pulled open the door and even more carefully unzipped the top of Maggie’s backpack, not moving it an inch from its crumpled spot at the bottom of the locker. What could she find inside?

  Information is the new weapon. That’s what they say these days.

  Or was it the new currency?

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure, but she definitely needed a weapon. A shield, at least. Something to give her the strength to face her friends, face anybody, hold up her head and just make it through the day without wondering what everyone was really thinking about Smelly-Girl.

  What a mean thing that was to do. Smelly-Girl. What an evil, awful, mean thing. And nobody was going to do anything about it. Because nobody else was hurt by it. And now it was taken down from the Internet anyway.

  Elizabeth let her fingers be her eyes as her hand moved around inside the bag. A long, smooth, cylinder. ChapStick. Skinny, pointy. Ouch. A sharpened pencil. Gum. Bejeweled cell-phone case. Water bottle. Eww, a mushy powerBar. And something folded, folded, and folded again tightly. Elizabeth drew it out. As if it were an ancient text on parchment, she slowly unwrapped it from itself.

  It was a letter. In Maggie’s handwriting. Well, Elizabeth assumed it was Maggie’s handwriting since her name was signed at the bottom. The paper was worn into so many creases but it was still legible.

  And oh, wow, jeez. Oh, no. Wow. Look who it was written to.

  If information was the new currency, then a love letter to a teacher was a winning lottery ticket.