Access Denied (and other eighth grade error messages) (38 page)

THE OFFICIAL MOLLY BROWN MIDDLE School website launched without a hitch on Tuesday, February 24. Well, no hitches except the
pictures Steve posted of Carla in her Thanksgiving play costume, spitting out something all over the floor. You wouldn’t have
known it was her if you hadn’t seen the play but pretty much everyone at school had so they all knew.

“That wasn’t supposed to go live,” Steve said when Carla came storming into the computer lab after school. “I was just showing
it to a few people.”

“Steven.” Ms. Moreno sighed. “Didn’t you learn anything from your mistakes last year?”

“I—I—”

“You gave me that unsweetened chocolate after the play on purpose,” Carla said, poking her pen at his chest, backing him up
against the wall.

“I didn’t know it was unsweetened,” Steve said, holding up his arms to ward off another poke. “It was an accident.”

“Like it was an accident that you had your camera right there, ready to take a picture of me gagging and spitting?”

Steve looked guilty. “But you’re so cute when you’re spitting.”

Carla’s face registered surprise—and maybe a little pleasure—before she got back to business. “Nice try, Anderson, but you’re
dead meat. Erin’s going to help me get back at you when you least expect it.” She turned to me. “Right, Erin?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“I don’t want any flame wars,” Ms. Moreno said. “You people settle this thing in a mature fashion—offline.”

“How about Sumo wrestling?” Tyler said and everyone laughed, easing the tension.

Steve glanced at Mark. “A little help?”

“You dug yourself into this one, dude,” Mark said.

“But you’re not going to let Swift get back at me, are you?”

“Swift does what she wants,” Mark said, turning away to close down his computer.

“So, I heard about a raging party on the 12th.” Reede and I were at our locker Friday morning. “We are totally going.”

I wrinkled my nose. I had never been to a party that I could have called “raging.” It sounded a little out of my league. Reede
shoved me with her shoulder, smiling mischievously.

“Your joyriding buddy is going to be there.”

“Jeff? Jeff’s going to the party?” My heart skipped a beat. “How do you know?”

“I have my sources,” Reede said, looking mysterious. She squinted, thinking. “I guess you’ll need a cover since your parents
are… you know.”

I frowned. Of course
she
wouldn’t need a cover. Her parents were totally cool.

“A sleepover or something,” Reede continued. “Parties like this don’t start until late.”

“Parties like what?” Jilly had come up, with Rosie close behind.

“High school parties,” Reede said.

Jilly stared at me. “No way are
you
going to a high school party.”

“Why not?” I asked, suddenly determined to go.

“Well, you’re—you know—not really—”

“It’s not something you would do,” Rosie finished. “You’d have to lie to your parents.”

“I’ve lied to my parents before,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. “Besides, I’m so sick of not getting to do things.”
I turned to Reede. “I’m totally going.”

“That’s my girl,” Reede said, throwing her arm around me. “Who else is in?” she asked, looking at Jilly and Rosie.

“Not me,” Rosie said. She looked me in the eye, shaking her head slightly. I felt a surge of irritation at her disapproval.
She was the one who said I should do anything I could to get Jeff when she was over on Halloween.

I looked at Jilly, ready to fire back if she gave me grief, too.

“You really want to do this, Erin?” Jilly asked.

I sucked in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be your cover.”

By the time school got out, Jilly had the entire party plan worked out. I would pretend to spend the night at her house—perfect
because we slept over at each other’s houses so much, our parents never called to check in. And she was lending me her cell
so I could call my parents on it and they could call me. They’d see her name on the Caller ID and assume I was with her.

Brilliant.

“And if they call the house number,” she said, “I’ll tell them you’re in the bathroom and then call you so you can call them.”

“But what if your parents answer?”

“They won’t,” Jilly said. “I always answer. They’re always joking that it’s my phone, even though I have a cell, that no one
ever calls them.”

I hugged her. “You’re so awesome. I owe you big time.”

Monday morning we sat in history, watching Mr. Perkins go nuts about the Civil War. He had images of soldiers from both the
north and the south projected on the board and was discussing the south’s position when the loudspeaker buzzed. Mr. Perkins
flicked off the LCD projector and turned on the lights.

“Please excuse the interruption, but we have an important announcement.” Mrs. Porter’s voice sounded higher than usual. “Mr.
Foslowski, our long time custodian, suffered a heart attack last night and is in the hospital.”

The classroom seemed to collapse in on itself. I felt like I was looking down a long dark tunnel. I gripped my desk for support
as people around me started talking. It was all I could do to keep from falling over.

“He is not allowed visitors but would welcome cards and notes from students,” Mrs. Porter continued. I blinked rapidly, then
took a breath, the room coming back into focus. If he wanted cards, that meant he was okay, right? I waited for Mrs. Porter
to say more. I thought I heard her blow her nose. “Mr. Foslowski has been a valuable part of our school community for nearly
twenty years. We ask each of you to keep him and his family in your thoughts and prayers. We will keep you apprised of his
condition and of what we can do to support them.” Another voice said something and we heard Mrs. Porter again, clearly talking
to someone else while the intercom was still on. “Yes, I said ‘prayers’ over the loudspeaker and if the ACLU wants to come
after me, so be it. This is Mr. Foslowsi.”

The speaker crackled again, then went dead. We listened to the hum of the radiator and the clock ticking the seconds slowly
by.

Mr. Perkins cleared his throat. “I think it would be best to take the rest of the class to write something to Mr. Foslowski
if you are so inclined. I will collect them at the end of the period and make sure they get to him.”

No one moved for several seconds. Then Rosie took a piece of paper out of her folder and started to write. A few others did
the same.

I picked up my pen, then dropped it. The room seemed to grow warmer by the second. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Mr. F had a heart attack.

Mr. F was in the hospital.

I bolted from the room, hardly hearing Mr. Perkins calling after me.

“They can’t mean
me,
” I said to my mom when she came to pick me up. Mrs. Porter knew about my family’s friendship with Mr. F and had agreed to
let me go home early. “I want to see him.” I
needed
to see him. Needed to make sure he was really okay.

When we got home, Dad and Chris were waiting for us in the living room.

“He’s in intensive care right now,” my dad said as my mom and I sat down next to each other on the couch. “No one can visit
except immediate family.”

“I
am
immediate family,” I said.

My mom brushed her hand over my head. “I know you feel you are, honey, but the hospital doesn’t see it that way.”

Dad sighed. “We’ll keep checking. Every day.”

“He’ll be okay,” Chris said. “It’s Mr. F.”

“Right,” I said, but I covered my face with my hands.

THE WHOLE WEEK WAS A blur. I went to class, went to I-Club, did my homework, and worried about Mr. F. But then sometimes I’d
forget he was in the hospital and I’d look for him and see strangers washing the windows and wiping the floors and then I’d
remember he wasn’t here to talk to.

But I did get to chat with him for a few minutes Thursday afternoon.

“Don’t let them mess with my closets,” he told me when I mentioned the new custodians.

“They had to hire two to take your place,” I said.

“Of course,” he said, and we both chuckled. His ended in a cough and I gripped the phone hard.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Everyone is making a big deal out of nothing. This heart is as strong as ever.”

I smiled. “You’d better be right. It’s not the same without you.”

“I appreciate that, Erin P. Swift.” He sounded tired but cheerful and I felt better.

In addition to keeping an eye on the temporary custodians, I watched Mark and Carla. It seemed like every time I turned a
corner, they were together, heads nearly touching, talking and laughing, and it hurt. Mark had been one of my best friends
and now he wasn’t anything. I hated it; hated him for not handling everything better.

I was glad I had Jeff and the party to focus on. Friday afternoon I sat in my room, staring out the window. I was picturing
myself at the party, seeing Jeff across the room, having his eyes light up as I walked over to him. He’d put his arm around
me and introduce me and we would look at each other, remembering our shared times in the Mustang, knowing we’d have lots more.

The following Tuesday we heard that Mr. F had moved to a different room where he could have visitors. Everyone cheered. I
was impatient to get home to see if I could visit but Mrs. F beat me to it by calling my parents first.

“Jacob would like to see Erin tomorrow,” she said. “But no one else from the school,” she told my mom. “Just Erin.”

Hospitals stink. Not just because Mr. F was in one, but they just smell. They’re full of sick people, except for the maternity
ward, and they have that hospital smell that makes you want to turn around and run right back out and suck in the cool, fresh,
outside-the-hospital air.

But I didn’t run back out because Mr. F was in there.

“He’s pretty weak,” the nurse outside his room said. “Please limit your time.”

“Thank you,” my dad said.

As I looked at the door, my legs seemed to turn to rubber. I hung back, clutching my mom’s arm for support. “I can’t go in,”
I whispered.

“Take a deep breath,” my mom said. “Give yourself a minute.”

I glanced up at her. “I’ll need more than a minute.” I’d need an hour. A day. Maybe a whole year to get up the courage to
walk in and see Mr. F in a hospital bed. I thought I could do this, but now I realized I couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to
see me. Maybe Mrs. F had gotten it all wrong and he said everyone from school
except
Erin.

“It’s okay to stay out here, Erin,” my dad said. “We can go in and explain.”

I frowned. The thought of my parents going in and saying I was right outside but didn’t have the guts to come in was too much.

“No,” I said. “I’ll go in.”

“He’ll look different,” my mom said. “But he’s the same person.” She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. “And
that’s who you’ll see,” she whispered into my hair. “The person he is inside. The person you know in your heart.”

Tears sprang to my eyes and I squeezed them shut, breathing deeply into her shoulder. Then I pulled away, wiping my eyes.

“Do I look like I’ve been crying?”

My mom brushed her finger under my eye. “You look like you’ve been caring.”

“Come on, Mom,” I said. “Do I have red eyes or not?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “You look fine.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

“Well, look who’s here,” Mr. F said when we stepped into the room. He had tubes running every which way—out his nose, from
his arm, one snaking out beneath the thin white sheet that covered him. My stomach clutched, but I put the MES (Mature Erin
Smile) on my face and kept walking.

“I feel like a science experiment,” he said, lifting his tube-infested arm.

“You look like one,” I said and everyone laughed, which helped. I stood next to the bed and he raised his fist. I knocked
it with mine, trying not to notice the way the tubes taped to the top of his hand wiggled.

“So glad you came.” Mrs. F gave us all a hug.

Mr. F patted my hand. “I’m worried about my Tootsie Pops. Those can’t fall into the wrong hands.”

I smiled. “I can bring them here if you want.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. “So, how’s Reede?”

“Fine,” I said, glancing briefly at my mom. “We’ve been hanging out.”

“Good,” Mr. F said. “She needs the kind of friend you can be. Remember the wisdom of the Tootsie Pop.” He rearranged himself
in the bed. “And the website? How’s that going?”

“So far, so good,” I said. “Steve keeps doing crazy things, but it’s working.”

Mr. F started to say something but ended up wheezing.

“Are you okay?” I reached for his hand, squeezing it tight.

“It’s all this stuff they’re doing to me,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “Can’t breathe, can’t talk, can’t hardly eat
or use the facilities.”

My mom squeezed my shoulder from behind. “It’s time for us to go anyway.”

I gripped his hand and we held each others’ eyes. Then he released his hand and dropped it to the bed.

“I’ll be back with the Tootsies,” I said, knocking his tubed-up fist.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said. He was smiling when I left, his face slightly pink instead of the gray we’d seen when
we first arrived.

On Monday I got the Tootsie Pops from Mr. F’s closet and brought them home. Mom and I bought more Tootsie Pops and I put the
new flavors on top.