“Nah,” says Gaynor. “She’s, you know, busy tomorrow.”

  “Well, what about Sunday?” asks Pierce.

  “Busy,” Gaynor says. “All next week, too. She’s totally jammed. You guys can write her a thank-you note or whatever. Come on. The movie starts in like five minutes.”

  And of course, by five minutes, Gaynor means fifteen, maybe twenty. Yes, the lights will dim in five, but then we get to watch behind-the-scenes shorts that are really commercials for TV shows, and then movie trailers, which are, well, commercials for movies. Going to the movies is a lot like staying home and watching TV, except at the movies you can also get your eyeballs fried from the glow blasting out of an annoying texter’s smartphone.

  Of course, movie theater food is way different from the food you’d eat at home. For one thing, it’s always huge. You order a small drink and it’s the size of a toilet bowl. The “jumbo” drink is so gigantic that sometimes you’ll find baby seals floating along on the ice cubes. The popcorn comes in trash barrel–sized containers, and you can smother it in fifty gallons of butter-flavored topping shot straight out of a golden-grease spigot.

  By the way, whenever something is called BLANK-flavored, chances are there is absolutely no BLANK in it.

  Gaynor’s mom treats us all to jumbo sodas; enormous, crinkly boxes of Junior Mints, Goobers, and Raisinets; cardboard containers of nachos smothered in coagulated orange gunk (it might be cheese from a radioactive cow); and tubs of butter-flavored popcorn.

  Believe it or not, the triple date (or whatever you call this) actually works. Since I’m kind of stuck in the theater’s only handicapped-seating slot, Gilda and the other two Js shift seats periodically so Gilda ends up sitting beside each one of us for an equal amount of time. Pierce worked it all out on a flowchart. Something to do with combinations and permutations.

  Who knew math could be so helpful? I mean, besides math teachers.

  Anyway, My Boyfriend Is a Vampire and a Werewolf III is, in this critic’s opinion, better than I and II. For one thing, when there’s a full moon, the guy attacks himself. For another, my three friends and I are having an extremely good time—screaming, laughing, stuffing our faces.

  By the way, in case you’re counting, that’s three incredibly cool things in a row: Saturday Night Live, the late-night hot dog feast, and now an awesome movie.

  Sounds to me like my good luck is about to end.

  was stupid to think that Stevie Kosgrov would leave me alone if he ever found out I was out on a date.

  He and his thug friends—Zits and Useless—tromp up the auditorium aisle swinging flashlights back and forth like, all of a sudden, they’re ushers. Zits is even rattling a tin canister filled with coins—the kind they sometimes use to raise money at the movies for the Jimmy Fund, a charity that’s been fighting cancer since 1948.

  I think these guys are collecting for the Stevie Fund. It’s been fighting everything it can punch since the day Stevie Kosgrov was born. Legend has it that at his birth, when the doctor slapped him on the butt, Stevie slapped back.

  “Give it up, people,” cries Stevie, totally ignoring the No Talking During the Feature Presentation rule, not to mention the theater’s No Being a Jerk regulations.

  Zits rattles the money can.

  Stevie starts his charity spiel. “Folks, both the vampire and the werewolf want you to dig deep and give us everything you’ve got. We’ll take cash, coins, and shoes. That’s right, shoes. Preferably Nike or Adidas if you’ve got ’em.”

  “Sit down!” someone shouts from the darkness.

  “Who’s gonna make me?” Stevie shouts back, swinging the beam of his flashlight around the darkened auditorium, looking for his heckler.

  And he finds me instead.

  “Well, what do you know? It’s the Crip from Cornball and his nerdy little friends. These three guys are on a ‘date’ with Gilda Gold. The one girl blind, deaf, and dumb enough to go out with them.”

  He grabs my popcorn bucket. I’ve only scarfed down about a pound, so there are maybe three pounds left in the tub. Stevie dumps it all on my head. I have butter-flavored topping drizzling down my ears.

  “See? I did my homework, gimpweed. I stole that move from my new hero, Attila the Hun, who used to dump vats of boiling oil on people. You got greasy popcorn instead.”

  Stevie. My star history student. I guess all my tutoring is finally paying off.

  He turns to Gilda.

  “What’re you drinking, Brillo Head?”

  “Pepsi.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh, yeah. See? It even says Pepsi right here on the side of the cup. That’s probably helpful for people like you, Stephen.”

  Stevie grabs the cup out of her hand and chugs a gulp.

  “Nope. This isn’t Pepsi. It’s that new drink—Splash! See?”

  And he empties the cup in my lap. It “splashes” all over the front of my pants. There’s a mound of ice cubes melting over my zipper.

  “Uh-oh,” cracks Stevie. “Looks like Jamie wet himself again.”

  Zits rattles the coin can. “Please give to the Buy Jamie a New Diaper Fund!”

  “Yeah,” adds Useless. “His future Depends on you!”

  “And remember,” says Stevie. “We don’t take credit cards, but we do take shoes!”

  You know those three cool things in a row I was just talking about?

  This wipes them off the scoreboard completely.

  We’re back at bummers ten, good times zero.

  onday morning, Gilda, Gaynor, Pierce, and I all walk to school together.

  Well, they walk. I pump rubber.

  For the record, our traveling to school together does not constitute another triple date. None of us is eating mass quantities of junk food purchased at a concession stand.

  “I thought the movie Friday night was fun,” says Gilda. “Well, until Kosgrov showed up.”

  “At least he only ruined the mushy part,” says Gaynor. “When the girl was doing that slow-motion montage, trying to decide if she liked the vampire or the werewolf better.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” says Pierce, “but weren’t they the same guy?”

  “That’s why they call it My Boyfriend Is a Vampire and a Werewolf,” says Gilda with a giggle.

  “Oh,” says Gaynor. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “Anyway,” I say, “we should really thank your mom for paying for everything.”

  “I already did,” says Gaynor, kind of fast (especially for him). “She says we’re welcome.”

  “Your mom is significantly higher on my scale of coolness than most moms,” says Pierce. He kind of pauses for a second, like he’s debating what to say next. Then he asks, “Have you heard from your dad lately?”

  “Nah,” Gaynor scoffs. “He’s in Florida. Haven’t seen that slacker since Christmas two years ago.”

  We all just kind of nod.

  I guess almost everybody, at one time or another, wishes they could play Choose Your Family!

  We enter the school, where the vice principal, Mr. Sour Patch (his real name is Mr. McCarthy, but we call him Sour Patch because he always looks like he has a packet of lemonade powder dissolving on his tongue), is standing with his hands on his hips, staring at us. He’s sort of like the Grim Reaper. You do not want to be on his to-do list.

  “There you are,” says Mr. Sour Patch, scowling hard at Gaynor. “You need to come with me, Mr. Gaynor.”

  Gaynor doesn’t budge.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” I pipe up.

  “You bet there is, Mr. Grimm. Your friend here has been breaking into lockers and stealing everything that isn’t bolted down. Step into my office, Mr. Gaynor. We need to call your mother.”

  “She can’t come to school…not today….”

  “Really? Well, why don’t we give her a call and she can tell me all about it.”

  Gilda, Pierce, and I glance at each other.

  Is this where Gaynor got the money for the movies? we’re all thinking.

  Because from the way Mr. Sour Patch hustles our friend into his office, it sure looks like Gaynor is guilty, guilty, guilty.

  ierce and i wait in the school office for Gaynor, who disappeared behind the vice principal’s “Discipline Zone” door.

  I’m starting to wonder if Gaynor will ever come out. It’s like we’re playing World of Warcraft and he had to go into a dungeon all alone. And Mr. McCarthy is that dragon, Deathwing the Destroyer.

  Pierce and I aren’t the only ones in the waiting area.

  First of all, there’s Mr. McCarthy’s secretary. I think she used to be a warden at the state penitentiary. Before that, I believe she raised farm animals over her head and guessed their weight at the county fair. Right now she’s busy giving Pierce and me the stink eye. We’re guilty by association. If we know someone who’s been summoned to the VP’s office, we must need a little time under the spanking machine ourselves.

  There are all sorts of colorful characters lined up in the seats outside Mr. McCarthy’s door—a half dozen of Long Beach Middle School’s best and brightest, waiting their turn to see Mr. Sour Patch. Face it—you have to be pretty hard-core to end up in the vice principal’s waiting room before first period is even over.

  One guy has so many tats, it’s like he’s a walking, slightly wrinkled comic book. Then there’s the boy with the bloody nose.

  “I didn’t get in a fight!” he cries. “I have an upper respiratory infection!”

  The warden lady chuckles like she’s heard that one a hundred times before.

  I see a girl with earrings dangling off every part of her head. She looks like she got too close to an exploding Slinky.

  “This is worse than the waiting room at the doctor’s office,” whispers Pierce.

  And I start thinking about how much of life is spent sitting around, just waiting for bad stuff to happen.

  When the teacher walks up and down the aisle handing back graded tests, you have to sit there and wait till she finally, a year later, gets to you.

  Doctors and dentists have entire rooms devoted to waiting.

  Before the dentist drills your teeth, you have to wait and listen to the whiiiiiine of him drilling other people’s cavities. Not only that, you have to read whatever magazines are lying around, usually junk from three months ago full of scratch-and-sniff perfume ads. This is why I always leave the dentist’s office smelling like mouthwash and somebody’s mother.

  Finally, Gaynor, head hanging low, face redder than a stop sign, emerges from Mr. McCarthy’s office.

  “Next?” the vice principal says to a goth girl in the chair closest to his Discipline Zone door.

  As she shuffles into the interrogation room, Gaynor comes over to me and Pierce.

  “Nice knowing you guys,” he says. “It’s been a real honor.”

  “What happened?” asks Pierce.

  “There’s going to be a disciplinary hearing.”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  Gaynor shrugs. “I guess I’m going to be kicked out of school.”

  fter school, we have a last-gasp Free Joey strategy meeting at Frankie’s Diner.

  “What’d you tell your mother?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” says Gaynor. “At least not yet. We couldn’t get hold of her on the phone.”

  “Won’t she have to come to the hearing?” asks Pierce.

  “I guess,” says Gaynor. “She may not be able to.”

  Gilda’s shocked to hear it. “Wha-hut?”

  “She may not make it. She’s still kind of busy.”

  “Too busy to help you not get suspended from school?” says Pierce, because we’re all thinking it.

  “Yes. She’s that busy. Now can we please quit talking about my mother?”

  There’s a long, awkward silence. You could hear crickets if, you know, Uncle Frankie’s restaurant had a bug problem.

  “Well,” I say, “maybe there’s a way we can prove to Mr. Sour Patch that you didn’t steal anything.”

  “Or,” Gilda says excitedly, “we could stage a ginormous rally! Get some big-name rock bands and singers to hold a benefit concert for the Joey Gaynor Freedom Fund!”

  Pierce, Gaynor, and I nod.

  And then Gilda says, “So, um, do you guys know any rock stars?”

  The three of us shake our heads.

  “Nope.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh-kay,” says Gilda. “How about a bake sale?”

  “No,” says Pierce. “We need to hold a protest rally. We march around the school with signs and banners.”

  “Right,” I say. I suddenly remember a famous quote from history class by some guy in the Revolutionary War. I hold up my hands like I’m carrying a giant sign. “Give Joey Liberty or Give Him Death!”

  “Whoa,” says Gaynor. “Can we skip the death part?”

  “Um, sure. How about ‘It’s better to die fighting for freedom than to live life in chains!’”

  “Again with the death?” says Gaynor.

  “How about we go with what Abraham Lincoln once said,” suggests Pierce, our walking Wikipedia. “‘Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves!’”

  “So,” I say, “we kick Vice Principal McCarthy out of school, too?”

  “How’s that gonna work?” asks Gilda.

  “Not very well,” says Gaynor.

  That’s when Uncle Frankie comes over to our booth.

  “Hey, Joey,” he says. “I heard the bad news.”

  “Really?” I say, because I’m sort of shocked that what goes on in Long Beach Middle School doesn’t stay in Long Beach Middle School.

  “How’d you hear?” asks Gaynor.

  Uncle Frankie shrugs. “I work in a diner. I hear everything. So, look—you need anything, you let me know.”

  “Do you know any good slogans?” asks Gilda. “For a banner we can hang up at school?”

  Uncle Frankie twirls out his yo-yo and reels it back in a couple of times.

  This is how he thinks deep thoughts.

  “Yeah. Okay. Here’s one we used all the time, especially before a big yo-yo tourney: ‘Teamwork makes the dream work!’ ”

  All four of us just nod.

  “Oh-kay,” I say. “Thanks, Uncle Frankie.”

  “My pleasure. And, Joey? Hang in there, kiddo, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

  When Uncle Frankie’s gone, we all sip our sodas in silence, because we don’t have a single decent idea about how to help Gaynor.

  He is definitely dead meat.

  hat night, after tutoring Stevie with multiplication-table flash cards his little brother let us borrow, I’m about to crawl into bed. But I decide to say a prayer first.

  “Hi, God. It’s me again. Jamie Grimm. Thanks for, you know, everything. That sunset tonight was awesome. One of your ten best. Love how you worked in all those golds and purples. Oh, and thank you for not letting my cousin Stevie kill me today, especially when he got stuck on his nine times tables.

  “Anyway, I’m not really here tonight to pray for myself. If it’s okay, I need to ask a favor for a friend, a great guy named Joey Gaynor. Don’t let his tattoos or nose ring fool you. Joey has a good heart. Seriously. He was one of the few kids in Long Beach to be nice to me when I, you know, rolled into town. Now he’s in big trouble. They say he’s been stealing stuff at school. I don’t think it’s true, but, well, you might have some inside information on that, since you are omniscient and have videos of everything everybody down here does every day.

  “But even if Joey did steal, well, I’m sure he feels terrible about it now. He’ll give it all back, too. So please, God, don’t let them kick him out of school. Maybe he made a mistake. You know what they say: ‘To err is human, to forgive is divine.’ And they don’t get any more divine than you, sir, so I hope you’ll cut Joey some slack. Like I said, he’s a good kid. I swear on a stack of Bibles, a book I’m sure you’re familiar with. It’s a good read, sir. Action, adventure, life lessons. I don’t mean to go all brownnoser on you here, but, well, whatever you can do for Joey, er, Joseph, will be greatly appreciated. Thanks for listening. Have a good night. If, you know, it’s night where you are.

  “Oh, and please take good care of my mom and dad and my little sister. Tell them I miss them. I miss them a lot.”

  Okay. Done. I tried, anyway.

  I lock my chair at an angled position next to my bed, putting one fist at my hip and another at the edge of the mattress. I rock forward on my bed arm and use the hand by my hip to push my weight off the chair and transfer it onto the bed. Once I’m on, I put both hands behind my hips and get ready to slide myself up the covers.

  But I stop.

  Because I think Gaynor may need a few more prayers.

  So I plead his case to Apollo, Hera, Poseidon, Dionysus, and Artemis—Greek gods I read about in Rick Riordan’s books.

  And while I’m at it…

  I toss up a few quick pleas to the top god from that movie The Immortals and ask Zeus to lend Gaynor his Warhammer of Ares, the thing Zeus used to smash the Titans’ Epirus Bow to bits. I also have a quick chat with the Norse god Odin (you know, Anthony Hopkins) from that other movie Thor.

  Hey, Gaynor needs all the help he can get.

  I just hope God (or one of his backups) is listening.

  n the day of the big hearing, Gaynor, Pierce, and I go to school dressed like the Blues Brothers or those dudes from the Matrix movies, minus the sunglasses and the random philosophical ramblings.

  Gilda would’ve joined us, but she doesn’t own a dark suit.

  We’re trying to look respectable, like attorneys on TV do when they head to court.

  (I mean the classy lawyers from shows like Law & Order, not the cheesy ones who do their own late-night TV commercials and say stuff like “Have you or a loved one slipped on a grape at the grocery store? Your case may be worth millions of dollars. We’re the lawyers at I Can’t Believe It’s a Law Firm, and you’ll pay us no fee unless we win your case, in which case you will pay us those millions of dollars I was just talking about.”)

 

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