Barf For Lunch - Lee Mandel (e textbook reader .txt) 📗

times. He juts his chin out to indicate something behind me. James is standing in the corner by himself. He looks lost in his over-sized tee shirt and his shorts hang on his gangly frame.
“Hey, James, come shoot some hoops with us,” Junior shouts.
James feet drag as he walks over. “I’m not very good,” he says, looking down at his worn out sneakers. I look, too, and notice that there are more holes in them than in a screen door. And, he’s wearing two different colored shoelaces.
“Neither is Junior,” I joke and sink the ball through the hoop.
Junior shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to Dr. J over here. It doesn’t matter if you’re good or not. Let him have the ball, Zack.”
I toss the ball to James and he takes a shot. Thud! It hits the backboard and bounces off the outer rim of the hoop before Junior catches it.
“At least you can hit the backboard,” Junior says.
James’ face doesn’t register emotion. I’m not sure if he knows that Junior’s kidding.
We play until Mr. Shevlin blows the whistle and signals for us to go to the locker room to change.
“Where to next?” Junior asks.
“I’ve got Spanish. What about you?”
“Me, too.”
We walk down the hallway and find out that we have different Spanish classes, but they’re next to each other.
“We can walk to the bus together after class,” Junior suggests.
“Okay, I’ll meet you out here when the bell rings.”
Forty minutes later, Junior and I leave our classes at the same time. We compare notes as we walk through the hallway. Lauren is already on the bus. Junior takes the seat next to her and I plop down in front of them. Then we share our first day’s experiences.
“I don’t want to upset you, Zack,” Lauren starts, “but Marcy’s in my English class, last period.”
I pretend not to care. “So?”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
I don’t need to know, but I’m glad she told me. Now I can time it so that I don’t have to run into her. Yeah, that’s a good plan to avoid seeing her accidentally. I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.
From the window, I see Mr. Roth, the assistant principal, picking up cans of spray paint from the far side of the school building. He’s tossing them in the garbage bin. Since it’s still warm, the bus windows are open.
“Pat, I want to review the security tapes,” Mr. Roth says to the security guard.
The bus pulls away from the curb and Lauren’s voice breaks my concentration. “Oh, don’t wait for me tomorrow after school.”
“Why?”
“I’m staying late, to try out for the school play.”
Junior’s twisted expression is like when someone tells you something gross, but you don’t want to come right out and say, “Ew!”
“What play is it?” I ask, trying to be supportive.
“Mary Poppins,” she says, straightening her back and raising her head. “They’re having auditions for all positions. Wanna try?”
My answer is immediate. “No.” I don’t even have to think about it.
“What part are you trying out for?” Junior asks, while rolling his eyes.
“I thought of trying out for the part of Jane Banks, one of the children that Mary oversees. That way, I don’t have to sing too much.”
“Singing?” Junior flips back into his seat. “For sure, I’m not trying out.”
“That’s a good thing, Junior.” I smile.
* * *
“So, how was the first day?” Mom asks, holding out a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies and a tall glass of cold milk. I knew she’d been waiting all day to hear about the not-so-great events, but I make them as interesting as I can. I don’t want to disappoint her.


Chapter Three
Excuse Me

Normally, I don’t mind art class, but today a new student transferred in. Mr. Kern is interrupted mid-way through his speech about Chinese influences in everyday advertising when there’s a knock on the door. Everyone in the class weaves and bobs, struggling to see who’s in the hallway. The only hint is a hand from beyond the door. It reaches in and hands a crisp clean white pass to Mr. Kern, who hasn’t broken his flow of speech. The pass is a stark contrast to the teacher’s lime green hair and the paint-smeared smock that he always wears. Without looking at the paper, he tosses it onto his desk and points toward my side of the room. The new student strolls in from the hallway. His identity finally revealed.
My mouth drops open as the new addition to our class pulls back the empty chair next to mine. His books make a loud thud as they hit the table.
“Hey, Meyers,” his voice presses my nerves as he sits down like a sack of onions being tossed onto the floor.
Great! Now Chas is in my art class, too. Do I have to do his art projects also?
Pretending to be interested in Mr. Kern’s lecture, I offer a quick “Hey” without turning my head.
The bell rings and I try to make a quick escape, but Chas intercepts me at the door. “This looks like a pretty cool class, eh, Meyers?”
“Yeah. Mr. Kern is cool.”
“I like that he’ll let you make whatever you want as long as it relates to what he’s been talking about.”
“Yeah, he’s good that way.” I’m trying to get around him but he shifts his body in front of me. “Well, I’ve got to make it all the way across the building for next period.” I cross my fingers and hope that works.
“Oh, yeah, right.” He moves to one side so I can pass.
Is Chas trying to be friends? I shudder at the thought and sprint through the hallway, dodging students left and right. I don’t want to be late; Mr. Harris makes examples of students who are late. Aside from the ton of homework he normally gives, he adds one essay question for every minute a student arrives after the late bell. I’m not about to answer homework questions until midnight.
I turn to see where Chas is and tilt my head to look past the students traveling around me. Whew! He’s not there. I slow to a walk. I don’t take my eyes off the hallway behind me. Bump! I jerk my head back around and realize that I had run into another student. There’s an explosion of books and papers all over the floor. Quickly, I bend down to collect the sheets of loose-leaf paper that are scattered on the floor. The other student lowers herself next to me and shuffles the scattered papers, too.
“I’m sorry,” I say and look up.
The girl lifts her head. Her warm golden-brown eyes feel like a laser through butter. “That’s okay, Zack.”
I’m frozen in place and focus on her rather than the papers I’m supposed to be picking up. Her smile holds me prisoner. I don’t even notice the other students racing past us. “I, um… hi, Marcy. I’m very sorry. I was trying to get to class.” I can’t take my eyes off of her; I stand with a wad of jumbled papers in my hands.
“It happens.” She stands, too. I pass her the disorderly stack of papers and books.
“I heard you have English with Lauren,” I say.
“Yup,” is her reply before she looks down at the floor.
“How’s Doug?” I can’t believe what I just heard myself asking. Dumb, dumb, dumb! How stupid am I? Maybe that’s why she dumped me.
“We broke up.”
“Oh?” What? My heart stops pounding against my rib cage. Instead, it’s dancing.
“Move it along,” Mr. Roth shouts.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” she says.
“Yeah, maybe,” I echo. Another stupid thing to say. She walks around me with a stack of muddled papers and heads for her class.
Still trying to make sense of the whole situation, I get to social studies just as the late bell rings.
“So glad to see that history is on your list of things to do today, Mr. Meyers,” Mr. Harris says. The class roars with laughter.
My face and ears get hot and I shuffle to my seat and open my notebook. Feeling watched, I turn to my left. Rebecca Kennedy is staring at me. Her hazel-green eyes don’t blink. In fact, her whole body is still, like an alien has invaded her. It‘s strange and uncomfortable.
“Mr. Meyers, can you tell us what country helped the colonists in the War for Independence?” Mr. Harris asks.
“Um, um, France,” I manage to get out.
“That’s correct,” Mr. Harris says and turns to write my answer on the board. He’s wearing his signature turtleneck and mismatched sport jacket, and his hair is jutting out all over the place, as usual. This guy is strange to look at, but he passed me with a B+ last year, so I can’t rank on him too badly. I look at Rebecca to see if she’s still staring, but her focus is now on what Mr. Harris is writing. Oh my gosh, when is this class gonna be over?
Finally, the bell rings and I collect my stuff and head for the door.
“You used to go out with Marcy Reynolds, right?” Rebecca is standing in the doorway.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you guys break up?”
“I dunno. I guess she didn’t like me any more.”
“She’s dating Doug Mather now, right?”
“Not any more. I hope you’re not trying to cheer me up, Rebecca, because it isn’t working.”
She looks down at her hands. She’s tapping her pen against her loose leaf. “Sorry, Zack. I didn’t mean to… ” She turns her head up slightly and gives me a sideways glance. “I just wanted to know if you were dating anyone now?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
This time it’s my turn, “Oh.”
“Move it along, students. You don’t want to be late for your next class,” Mr. Harris ushers us out of his room. No doubt he wants to bore the next group of students with his re-telling of American history.
Rebecca keeps her gaze on me. “Well, bye.”
“Bye,” I return. That’s weird. What was that all about?



Chapter Four
Barf for Lunch

“Duh! She likes you,” Junior says, before stuffing half a grey hot dog into his mouth.
“C’mon, Zack. If Junior recognizes when a girl likes you, then it must be obvious,” Lauren adds.
We put our trays on the table and sit on the bench. “But she was asking about Marcy.”
“Boys are so clueless. ‘Cos she wants to make sure she has a shot,” Lauren says.
James walks over to the table. “Hey, guys.”
We offer a unified, “Hi.”
Lauren continues to ask me questions about Rebecca’s body language. “Was she batting her eyes when she spoke to you? Or did she fidget with her hair?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t really paying attention. I was trying to get over how stupid I acted when I rammed into Marcy.”
Lauren starts her next question, but stops in the middle. I look up at her. Her blue eyes are fixed to the right of me. I turn and follow her line of sight. She’s watching James, who is rather green around the edges and is holding his stomach.
“You okay, James?” I ask.
His eyes widen and his expression is panicked. His mouth opens but no words came out. Instead, he spews a stream of yellow-pink puke onto his lunch tray. Chunks of Pop tarts mixed with rancid milk and bile cover his plate, which is already filled with mystery