Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (8 page)

T
he next day, I found out what
crit
means.

It’s short for
critique
, and it’s an art school thing, where you have to put your assignment up in front of the whole class so everyone can talk about it. Kind of like getting up in front of a firing squad.

Actually, it’s exactly like that.

I figured if I sat really still in the back and tried to blend in, Mr. Beekman might not call on me. But right near the end of fifth period, my luck ran out.

“Rafe… Khatchadorian,” he said, looking at his attendance book. “Our new transfer student. Let’s see what you have for us, shall we?”

He came over and took my self-portrait and stuck it on one of the bulletin boards at the front of the room.

“All right, everyone, let’s have some comments. What does this portrait tell you about the artist?” Beekman said.

Right away, Zeke McDonald raised his hand. You haven’t met him yet, so I’ll just tell you right now—I hate Zeke McDonald. Him and all his friends. You know the type—the kids who walk around school like they’ve got invisible crowns on their heads? That’s them. Zeke was basically good at everything, and he knew it, and he spent most of his time making sure everyone else knew it too.

Of course, I’d just gotten to Cathedral, so I didn’t know enough to hate anyone yet. But that part was just about to start.

“Mr. Beekman,” Zeke said, “I know Rafe wasn’t
here last year, so should we take that into account with our crit? I mean, like the way his drawing is so… you know… basic?”

“You can critique the work on its own merits,” Beekman said.

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but obviously it had something to do with tearing me into little pieces, because right away Kenny Patel’s hand popped up like a piece of toast. (He sits by Zeke in the front, which is all you need to know about him.)

“To be honest, I don’t think Rafe’s portrait tells us very much, except what he looks like,” Kenny said. Then he turned around and looked back at me like there was a pile of doggy droppings on my chair. “Well, maybe not even that,” he said, and a bunch of people laughed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we
will
keep our critiques respectful,” Beekman said, about five seconds too late. “If you have nothing constructive to add, then keep your comments to yourself. Now, how about some positive feedback? What do you see that you like about Rafe’s drawing?”

And nobody… said… a
word
.

I think I heard a pin drop. Maybe some crickets. Also, the sound of my face turning the color of a stop sign. I could have farted out loud, and it would have been less embarrassing than the silence.

Finally, Beekman jumped in again.

“I think this is a good start, Mr. Khatchadorian,” he said. “You’ve got a sure hand—I can see that. But I think you’re holding back here. I’d like to see more of
Rafe
next time, do you understand?”

“Sure,” I said, but honestly, I would have told him I was wearing ladies’ underwear if it meant getting that crit over with faster.

And then, just when Beekman finally turned around to take my drawing off the board, good old Zeke McDonald held up his sketchbook for everyone else to see. He had drawn a portrait of
me
, and I sure didn’t like it.

I’ve heard that every once in a while, there are these things called sinkholes that open up in the earth out of nowhere and swallow people whole. I don’t know how often it happens, but right about then I was thinking,
Not nearly often enough
.

Maybe sometime before the next crit.

S
o if I told you I went straight to my locker, got my lunch, took it to the boys’ bathroom, flushed my self-portrait down the toilet, and then ate my PB and J in one of the stalls, would you think I was a total loser?

Yeah, I thought so.

For me, bathrooms are kind of like bomb shelters. You can’t live there forever, but they sure do come in handy sometimes.

“So what happens now?” Leo said.

“You’re looking at it,” I told him. Maybe it wasn’t too late to transfer over to Meat Grinder Public Middle School.

“That’s it? You’re just going to give up?” he said. “You know what Jeanne Galletta would say, don’t you?”

I knew, I knew. She’d say, “Don’t give up—buck up.” It’s like her favorite expression. But that’s easy for her to say. Jeanne’s version of a bad day is an A-minus, or if the cafeteria runs out of chocolate milk.

Still, Jeanne is pretty smart.

For that matter, so is Leo. And I knew exactly what he was thinking right then. Operation: Get a Life was looking better and better, and more necessary, all the time.

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I told him.

“Yes!”

“But that’s all,” I said. “I’m not making any—”

Just then the bathroom door opened, and someone came in.

I shut up quick and took my feet off the floor right away. I didn’t want anyone to think I was sitting in here, pouting my way through lunch. Actually, I didn’t want anyone to think I was sitting in here doing something else either.

One of the sinks came on next. I couldn’t see who was there, but he left the water running for a really long time. In fact, I was just starting to think I was going to be stuck here all the time until sixth
period, when it finally went off again.

I breathed about half a sigh of relief—until whoever it was walked right over and went into the stall beside mine.

A second later, I heard a voice. Not next to me. Above me.

“Hey.”

I looked up, and it was the kid from drawing class. The one with the fake tattoo. He was standing there, I guess on the back of the other toilet, looking over the wall.

“What are you doing?” I said. “Get out of here!”

“They’ve got a name for that, you know,” he said.

“Huh? A name for what?”

“At the crit. You just got
dinked
,” the kid told me. “Don’t take it personally. It’s like a school sport around here. And Zeke McBonehead’s the captain of the team.”

Dinked
…
crit
… it was like Planet Cathedral really did have its own secret language.

“Okay,” I said. “Well, um… thanks.” I didn’t know what to say. He was just standing there, looking at me. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. He held up something that
looked like a water balloon, except it wasn’t, exactly. It was a rubber glove from one of the art rooms, filled up and tied off at the end. I thought for sure I was about to get it in the face.

But I didn’t. Instead, the kid just smiled this evil kind of smile down at me.

Then he said, “You interested in a little revenge?”

T
here were all kinds of reasons not to do this. I couldn’t afford to get in trouble. Mom would kill me if she found out. I didn’t even know if I could trust this kid.

But I did like that word—
revenge
.

The kid didn’t wait around for an answer either. He went straight through the bathroom door and kept going while I stood there trying to figure out what to do.

Then I decided it wasn’t against the rules to follow someone out of a bathroom. So I kept going.

The kid was waiting for me across the hall, near a door to some stairs.

“Where are you going?” I asked. That whole school is like a big maze. I was still figuring it out.

“Up,” he said.

When we got to the top, there were two more doors. One had a fire alarm on it, but the other opened right up. Inside was a big janitor’s closet, with a window looking out onto the roof of the school. There was a metal grate over the window, with a lock, but the lock was already broken. And I was pretty sure I knew who had broken it.

The kid opened the grate, slid the window up, and climbed out onto the roof.

“Uh… I don’t think we’re supposed to go out there,” I said.

“Uh… I don’t think I see a sign,” he said. “You coming?”

I’ll tell you this much right now: If you could have turned around and gone back down those stairs, you’re a better person than I am.

We stayed low all the way to the far side of the roof, where we ducked behind the wall at the edge. It was like we were part of a high-stakes war… or at least an intense game of paintball.