Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Planet Girl Page 4

  Someday soon, maybe.

  But not yet.

  15

  As soon as I got to school the next day, I knew word was out that I kissed Hannah Spivero.

  I could tell because all the kids I didn’t know very well looked at me as if I was the coolest kid on earth, and all of my friends looked at me as if I was the worst kid on earth.

  Jake was first.

  “I don’t want to talk to you right now,” he said, when he saw me coming.

  “Jake—”

  “Stop. I know what happened, and I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, I’m really, really sorry. Hannah was really upset. Please don’t blame her.”

  Jake glanced up at me, and I could see the hurt in his eyes. “I don’t,” he said. “I blame you.”

  I got similar treatment from everyone else in the gang: Timmy, Eliza, Nareem, even the new kid, Emory, whom I’d given advice to about Eliza. Talk about ungrateful!

  I didn’t get similar treatment from Katie, though, because I didn’t get any treatment from Katie. She just kept smiling that fake smile at me, which was way worse than if she’d yelled at me, to tell you the truth.

  Hannah was the only one who was a little nice to me, because I think she felt a little guilty and knew it wasn’t all my fault. But she was way more concerned with making Jake feel better than she was with making me feel better, and I couldn’t blame her for that.

  And then there was Pete.

  Pete Milano—the most obnoxious, irritating kid in the whole school, but still somehow a good friend of mine—was the only one who acted normal to me. But that’s how Pete is. He just wants to have a good time, and he doesn’t judge. I guess he’s kind of like a dog that way.

  I sat next to Pete in Social Studies. Usually he drove me crazy, but today, I was just grateful to have someone to talk to. (Really quietly, since you’re not supposed to talk in class.)

  “Hey, Pete,” I whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for not being mad at me like everyone else.”

  “Why would I be mad? It’s not like you kissed my girlfriend. And by the way, if you ever do kiss Mareli, I will punch you in the worst place on your body to get punched. I think you know where I’m talking about.”

  Note to self: Never kiss Mareli.

  It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “Hey, Pete, did you know our grades don’t matter until we get to high school?”

  “Cool!” Pete seemed excited by the news, but I’m not sure why. I was pretty sure he was going to get the exact same grades in high school that he was getting now. Bad ones.

  “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Milano, I’ll thank you to hold your tongues,” said Ms. Albone, our teacher.

  Pete actually started holding his tongue. “Oww, it hurtsth,” he wailed, laughing.

  “Sorry, Ms. Albone,” I said.

  Pete winked at me and said way too loudly, “Grades don’t count in middle school, remember? You said!”

  “Shhh!” I hissed, but I was too late—Ms. Albone was walking over to my desk.

  Oh, great.

  “Did you really say that, Charlie Joe? That grades don’t count in middle school?”

  “I—can’t remember.”

  She shook her head sadly and headed back to the front of the classroom. “As I was saying,” she said, “for our last big assignment of the year, I’m asking students to write a five-page paper on anyone they consider to be a personal hero. They can be alive or dead, young or old, male or female. It’s totally up to you. But you have to make a very convincing case why they’re your hero. This will rely on everything we’ve learned this year about how to state a point of view clearly, and then how to back it up with examples and research.”

  Ugh.

  A five-page paper.

  I was going to have to use some pretty big margins.

  Jill Farnak’s hand went up in the front row. “Um, Ms. Albone? Is it okay if the hero is a friend?”

  “Well,” Ms. Albone said, “you have to really believe they’re a hero. They can’t just be heroic because they’re your friend.”

  Jill looked crushed. “Okay.”

  A few more kids asked questions, but my admittedly limited attention span had just about run out. I started thinking about everything that had happened over the last couple of days. I was exhausted. So much had gone wrong, and now I had to worry about a five-page paper! But there were a few good things to remember. At least we had camp reunion weekend coming up. At least Katie was still talking to me, even if it was just fake talk about the dogs. And at least I knew that my grades still didn’t really count. If only I could figure out a way to avoid doing any real research …

  I raised my hand.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Albone? Is it okay if the person is a family member?”

  Ms. Albone smiled. “Well, I’d have to say yes to that one. It’s perfectly acceptable if you decide to write about someone in your own family. I’m sure they would be very honored! Although, I would prefer not to get twenty-four papers about your mothers and fathers.”

  Yes! As far as I knew, there were no biographies yet written about anybody in my family. Which meant, I didn’t have to read any.

  So which member of my family should I write about?

  I looked across the room and saw Katie, taking notes like she always did. I still had my big speech I wanted to give her. When was I going to do it? What was she going to say? She was probably going to laugh at me. A speech wasn’t going to do it. I had to prove myself some other way. I had to show her who I really was—a decent person. I had to—

  “Charlie Joe? Are you even listening to me?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Albone.”

  She clucked her tongue in that disapproving teacher-y way. “I was just saying, no matter who you all decide to do your paper on, you still need to do some real research. No short cuts.”

  “Yes, Ms. Albone.”

  No short cuts.

  I was starting to realize how true that was.

  In school, and in life.

  Eliza Collins’s Guide to Romance

  IT’S ALL ABOUT THE PERSONALITY

  Yes, it’s fun being beautiful. I really like it. But if you ask me, it doesn’t mean anything unless you’re a really nice person. Boys don’t want to go out with girls who are mean. They don’t want to go out with girls who are super bossy. And they definitely don’t want to go out with girls who treat them badly. Take it from me. Be nice, and nice things will happen to you!

  Oh, and also, wear colors that complement your skin tone. That’s really important, too.

  16

  “You again?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Reedy. I’m back.”

  It’s true. I was back in the library for the second time in less than a month. I couldn’t believe it, either.

  “What can I do for you, Charlie Joe?”

  I looked at her and waited.

  “No funny cracks about what I’m doing here?”

  Mrs. Reedy smiled. “Charlie Joe, I’ve worked in various libraries over half my life. I’ve seen plenty of kids who hate reading way more than you. But some of them—not all, but some—come into the library one day, for one reason or another, and they find a book they like. Then, eventually, some of those kids come back and they find another book they like. And again. And before you know it, they’re some of my best customers.” She smiled. “I’m not saying you’ll be one of my regulars anytime soon. But let’s put it this way: I’m not as shocked to see you as I was a few days ago. And I’ll be even less shocked if I see you in here again in a few days.”

  “Let’s not get crazy,” I said. “I’m just here to return the book.”

  She laughed. “Not getting crazy.”

  I handed her A Communication Guide for Boys and Girls. “What did you think?” she asked.

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” I said, “that book got me in a lot of trouble.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yup. Now I ne
ed a book called A Communication Guide for a Boy Who Really Likes a Girl, Even Though She Totally Hates Him Back.”

  “I don’t think I have that one,” said Mrs. Reedy.

  As she checked the book back in, I heard a familiar voice in the hall.

  Uh-oh.

  I turned to get the heck out of there, but before I could make my escape, I felt a very tall person behind me.

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”

  I turned around. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Sleep! Very nice to see you! Well, I gotta go.”

  Mrs. Sleep was the principal of our school, so it was my sworn duty to spend as little time in her presence as possible. Nothing good ever came out of our conversations. But today, I was in the library! How bad could it be?

  “Mr. Jackson,” she said in her deep, scary voice (I think all principals have deep, scary voices), “do you believe that the middle school education is of a certain value, to children such as yourself?”

  Was this a trick question?

  “Of course I do, Mrs. Sleep! Education is the most important thing in life! It helps prepare us for high school, and then for college, and besides, education is the best way to make sure we go on to have successful careers and become responsible citizens.”

  Phew! Bullet dodged.

  I started to walk away, but Mrs. Sleep cleared her throat, which was code for I’m not done with you yet.

  “Just one more thing.”

  She looked down on me, her glasses dangling on the tip of her nose.

  “Did you, or did you not, mention in Ms. Albone’s class that grades in middle school don’t count?”

  Oh, that.

  “I—I—”

  Mrs. Sleep put her hand on my shoulder, which feels very different from when, say, Katie Friedman puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Mr. Jackson. We’ve been friends a long time.” (Friends?) “And I really feel like we’ve made a great deal of progress over these last few years. So it pains me to hear these things.”

  I had nothing to say, so I just waited for her to finish. Prayed for her to finish, is more like it.

  “I know you have your research paper coming up in Ms. Albone’s class. You can prove to me that you take your studies seriously by presenting an excellent report. Can you do that for me, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Absolutely, Mrs. Sleep.”

  “Good.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and bent down so we were eye to eye. “Because if you don’t, you may be enjoying recess inside with me for the rest of the year, discussing the value of a middle-school education.”

  And with that, Mrs. Sleep nodded at me, nodded at Mrs. Reedy, turned on her heels, and walked away.

  Mrs. Reedy looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. “‘Grades don’t count?’ Charlie Joe, that’s a silly thing to say. Even for you.”

  Ugh. There were so many ways to answer that—it was Megan’s fault for telling me that in the first place, it was Pete’s fault for saying it out loud in class, it was Mrs. Albone’s fault for telling on me—but, instead, I decided to be a man about it and avoid the subject altogether.

  “Have a nice weekend,” I said, and I left the library.

  Hopefully for the last time.

  17

  So, there was bad news and good news.

  The bad news was, I liked a girl who had just seen me kiss a different girl, half my friends were mad at me, I might have to spend recess with my principal for the rest of the year, and I had a five-page paper due in a week.

  The good news was, it was time to forget all that, because I was on a train heading into New York City!

  The last time I was in the city, it was to visit my dad’s office, where we had a fun day, except for the part where I almost got him fired. But that was before I taught his boss how to use the mouse on his computer and ended up saving my dad’s job!

  Which he’s never thanked me for, by the way.

  This time, I was heading in for Rithubukkee Reunion Weekend, and I couldn’t wait. I was really excited to see my friends from camp: George Feedleman, Jack Strong, Lauren Rubin, and all the rest. I was even excited to see Ms. Domerca, my teacher, who was amazing even though she dressed like a color-blind toddler.

  Nareem was going to be there, since he went to the camp, too. And you know who else was going to be there?

  Yeah. Her. Initials K.F.

  So I guess I wasn’t leaving all my troubles behind.

  My dad decided not to go—I believe his exact words were, “I wouldn’t go into the city on a weekend if it had the last chocolate chip cookie on earth”—so it was my mom and I who got on the train. My mom immediately passed out. It’s amazing how she can fall asleep in a split second. Sometimes we’ll be watching TV, and I’ll say to her, “This show is good,” and she’ll say, “I know!” and I’ll say, “Who’s your favorite character?” and she’ll be asleep.

  The train ride was about an hour, but it seemed like ten hours. I spent most of the time texting Timmy and Pete about absolutely nothing.

  Then I decided to text Jake.

  Hey, I know you’re still mad about that whole thing with Hannah and I totally get it. Like I said I’m really sorry. I hope we can get back to normal really soon.

  That’s the good thing about texting. You can say things you would never actually say.

  But he didn’t text me back. Which is the bad thing about texting.

  Finally, the guy came on the loudspeaker and said, “Next stop, Grand Central Terminal.” I got all excited and looked out the window, but then I remembered we were in a tunnel, so I closed my eyes and imagined the city, just waiting there for me, with buildings so tall you could stick your hand out a window and touch a cloud.

  Then a guy who just had to get off the train first whacked me on the head with his backpack as he headed to the door. I remembered I was about to go where people are not messing around. This was the big city, baby.

  Nine endless minutes later, I nudged my mom. “We’re here. Wake up! We’re here.”

  She opened her eyes groggily, stretched her arms high above her head, and said, “Already?”

  18

  Did I mention that the reception for the reunion was at the New York Public Library?

  If I didn’t, it’s probably because I tried to block out that part.

  On the brochure announcing the reunion weekend, it said, “The New York Public Library holds more than 53 million books and other items.”

  Just knowing that there were 53 million books on earth made a small patch of hives break out in my brain.

  After we dropped our stuff at the hotel—which I thought was really nice, but my mom said was “so totally not worth the price”—we walked through Times Square to the library. Have you ever been to Times Square? If not, imagine the busiest part of your downtown. Now multiply it by 50 million. You literally cannot walk more than a foot in Times Square without bumping into one person, being handed a piece of paper by another person, being asked to pose for a picture by a third person who is dressed as a cartoon character, while listening to loud music being played by four more people who set up their instruments right on the street. And also, no one waits for the light to turn green. NO ONE. As soon as there’s an inch of daylight between cars, people make a break for it. Except me and Mom.

  We were waiting patiently for one light to change, with people a little annoyed because we were in their way, when I said, “Can we go?”

  “Absolutely not,” said my mom. “That’s dangerous. And illegal.”

  So we just stood there. We might as well have written OUT-OF-TOWN LOSERS on our foreheads.

  Finally we made it to Forty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue. We looked up and saw what looked like the hugest mansion ever built. I couldn’t believe it was a library! Outside the main entrance, there were two amazingly cool lion statues. I wasn’t sure what lions had to do with reading books, except that they’re both scary.

  My mom stared up at the library in awe. “Wow, that is one gorgeous building.”<
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  “I know,” I said, shaking my head. “What a shame.”

  19

  “Charlie Joe! About time!”

  We’d been in the library for approximately five seconds when I heard someone call my name. I looked up and saw a giant person running toward me like a goofy gazelle. It took me a minute to realize who it was—and once I did, it made perfect sense.

  “George?”

  The goofy gazelle teetered to a stop in front of me. “Yup! Can you believe it?”

  George Feedleman was the camp genius and one of my best pals there. He was also the camp giant, and it looked like he’d grown another two feet.

  “Wow, George. You’re … you’re huge.”

  “Thanks!” George exclaimed. “I made the travel basketball team! Thanks to you making me play at camp!”

  I quickly scanned my memory to evaluate George’s basketball skills and came to the immediate conclusion that his travel team couldn’t have been very good.

  George pulled my arm. “Come see the guys!”

  I waved goodbye to my mom, who had already started chatting with some other parents, and followed George. It seemed like the reception was taking place right there in the main hallway, because there were chairs and tables set up, a podium with a microphone, and a huge table filled with snacks and chips and drinks. We walked all the way down to the far end of the table, where there were a bunch of kids hanging around, laughing and smiling and chomping on cookies.

  “Hey, everyone,” I said.

  They all turned around: Jack Strong, Eric Cunkler, Jeremy Kim, and Sam Thurber, from my cabin; this girl Becky, who was one of Eric’s good friends at camp; and Nareem.

  And Katie.

  “Charlie Joe!!” Jack yelled.

  Then it was a blur of hugs and high-fives, as we all greeted each other like we were returning from a war.

  The only one who didn’t jump up to say hi was Katie. I went over to her. “Are you going to ignore me here, too?”

  She gave me that irritatingly polite smile. “What are you talking about?”