You Dont Know Me Book Pdf

  Also past David Klass

Screen Examination

Danger Zone

California Blue

Wrestling with Honor

You don't know me

Yous

don't

know me

a novel by

David Klass

Copyright © 2001 by David Klass

All rights reserved

Distributed in Canada by Douglas & Mclntyre Ltd.

Printed in the United states

Designed by Filomena Tuosto

First edition, 2001

15 14 13 12 11 10 9

www.fsgkidsbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Klass, David.

You lot don't know me / David Klass.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Fourteen-year-old John creates alternative realities in his mind as he tries to bargain with his mother's calumniating young man, his trounce on a cute, but shallow classmate and other problems at school.

ISBN: 978-0-374-38706-viii

ISBN: 0-374-38706-0

[1. High schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Self-perception—

Fiction. iv. Child abuse—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.K67813 Yo 2001

[Fic]—dc21

00-22709

For Giselle

You don't know me

Contents

one Who I Am non

2 Anti-School

3 Band Practise

4 Get Me Out of Here

5 Losing by a Snout

6 Dinner Theater

seven Torture Island

viii Permit me a Father Fantasy

9 The Happiest Twenty-four hours of My Life

10 The All-time day of My Life Gets Ameliorate

11 In the War Zone

12 The Bonanza Ranch Firm

13 My Big Date

14 The Worst Matter that Could Happen

15 A Brusk Haul

sixteen Trump Card

17 Running away from Abode

18 Fateful Tuesday Begins

xix Fateful Tuesday Picks upwardly Steam

20 Fateful Tuesday Reaches a Crescendo

21 The High Control

22 Floating

23 No-view Alley

24 The Vacation Trip the light fantastic

25 Gotcha

26 Who I am

Epilogue, Whatsoever that means

1

Who I Am not

You don't know me.

But for case, yous think I'one thousand upstairs in my room doing my homework. Incorrect. I'm not in my room. I'm non doing my homework. And even if I were up in my room I wouldn't exist doing my homework, so y'all'd still be wrong. And it's really not my room. Information technology'south your room considering information technology's in your house. I but happen to alive at that place right now. And information technology's really not my homework, because my math teacher, Mrs. Moonface, assigned it and she's going to cheque it, so it'south her homework.

Her name'due south not Mrs. Moonface, past the way. It's really Mrs. Garlic Breath. No information technology's not. Information technology's really Mrs. Gabriel, merely I just call her Mrs. Garlic Breath, except for the times when I call her Mrs. Moonface.

Confused? Deal with it.

You don't know me at all. You don't know the first thing about me. You don't know where I'm writing this from. Yous don't know what I look like. You accept no power over me.

What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wirerimmed spectacles over brown eyes? No, I don't call back so. Improve look again. Deeper. It'south like a kaleidoscope, isn't information technology? One infinitesimal I'm brusk, the side by side minute tall, one minute I'm geeky, 1 infinitesimal studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my dark-brown eyes. Watching you.

That'south right, I'chiliad watching you right at present sitting on the couch adjacent to the man who is non my father, pretending to read a book that is non a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Allow's be real, the man who is not my father isn't a very nice man. Not just because he is non my father but because he hits me when you're not around, and he says if I tell you about it he'll really take intendance of me.

Those are his words. "I'll really have intendance of y'all, John. Don't rat on me or you'll regret it." Nice guy.

But I am telling you lot now. Can't you hear me? He's petting the height of your caput similar he would pet a dog, with his right mitt, which simply happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn't curl his fingers up into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I'm watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me and then that I tin can't run away. And at present he'due south holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I'yard telling you lot this every bit I watch through the window, but your eyes are airtight and you lot couldn't care less, because he's stroking you the fashion he would stroke a cat and I bet you're purring.

You don't know me at all.

You think I'm a good student. Hah!

You call back I have friends. Hah!

You think I'chiliad happy with this life. Hah, hah!

Okay, now you're putting down the book that is not a book. It'southward a Reader's Assimilate condensation of literature, which is like drinking orange juice made from concentrate. It has no lurid. The cardinal vitamins take been processed out. Y'all're pressing your head confronting his shoulder. I can see your toes move inside your pink socks on the coffee table. What's with this toe movement? Is it passion or athlete's pes? In that location is some kind of serious itch there.

And now the man who is not my father puts downwards his book, which is a existent book, considering he'due south non a stupid or shallow man, merely cruel and self-centered. He kisses yous long and full on the lips, and so on the side of your neck. And you glance upstairs, nervously, because you think I'grand upwardly in my room doing my homework. You don't know that I'm floating twenty anxiety to a higher place our backyard, watching this display of misplaced amore.

No, I am non levitating. I do not have secret wings that permit me to fly. I am not a vampire. I am not hanging by my heels from the roof or clinging to a drainpipe.

So where am I?

You don't know me at all.

I'll requite y'all this i. I'm in the apple tree, which is not an apple tree tree. The man who is non my father calls it an apple tree, but it has never produced a unmarried thing resembling an apple. Nor has it produced a pear, so it is non a pear tree. Nor has it produced a pair of apples. Nor has information technology produced a pineapple, and so it is clearly not a pineapple tree. The simply thing I have ever seen it produce is thin gray leaves, so I will call information technology a gray-leaf tree.

That'south where I am. Sitting in the grayness-leaf tree. In that location's a full moon out tonight, so if I were a werewolf or a vampire I would be hungry or thirsty for mankind or blood. But I'm full with the pasty spaghetti and golf ball meatballs from dinner. The only outcome the moon has on me is to make me think of Mrs. Moonface and my five pages of algebra homework that is really her homework, except that for some reason I'thousand the one who got stuck with information technology.

Mrs. Moonface assigns u.s. so much homework because she is miserable and solitary. I wrote a verse form to her. Information technology's non a very good poem, but I don't really care. The first stanza goes like this:

Mrs. Moonface, get a life,

Get a olfactory organ ring, fly a kite,

Observe a beau, acquire to ski,

Just stop taking it out on me.

The man who is not my father is switching off the lamp. Now our house is dark except for the light in my room, which is actually non a room, where I am not doing homework.

Except that I am really up in that location doing homework later on all! Did you actually recall that I was upwardly in the branches of an apple tree? Non necessary. You don't take to meet things to know that they are happening. Anyway, I don't like climbing trees. It'due south a common cold fal

l night. The wind is howling around our house like a live brute.

I cease the last algebra trouble. Put downwardly my pencil.

Downstairs I can hear the springs of the couch creaking. The human being who is not my father is repeating your name, with passion in his voice. Merely information technology'southward non really your name, even though it belongs to y'all. Information technology's really the name of his pretty first wife, Mona, who died in a car accident five years before he met you and decided to move into your house, and take on the duties of disciplining your son.

And now he is repeating your proper name and thinking of Mona.

And y'all are listening to him and thinking of my begetter.

And I am not in this house at all. I am in the heart of a hurricane. Thunder is cymbal-crashing higher up and beneath me. Lightning makes my hair stand up. Winds are spinning me like a meridian. Do you really think I will come up down to breakfast tomorrow and call the human who is not my father sir? Do you call back I will become to school tomorrow and manus in my homework to Mrs. Moonface? I won't even be in this hemisphere tomorrow. This storm could prepare me down anywhere.

Y'all don't know where I'll end up.

The good news is that you may have created my past and screwed upwardly my present simply you take no command over my future.

You don't know me at all.

2

Anti-School

This is not school, this is anti-schoolhouse. If school and this place e'er came together in that location would be an explosion that would destroy the entire universe.

How exercise I know that it's anti-school?

School is a fun place and this place is torture.

School is for learning and this place is for becoming stupid.

This place doesn't even have a library, and who ever heard of a school without a library?

I'1000 sitting in the centre of 3rd menstruum of anti-school, in anti-math class, listening to Mrs. Moonface get over the problem sets. Hither is what she is saying:

"The coefficient of a multiplied by the divisor of c yields the identity of the variable."

Hither is what she is really proverb:

"I do not wish to exist Mrs. Moonface and I detest algebra as much as you practise. I really wish to exist a Hollywood pic star and accept my ain trailer with mirrored walls and a sandwich tray delivered every hour past a handsome man named Jacques."

Mrs. Moonface, you volition never be a Hollywood star. You could assign sixteen m pages of algebra homework and you would non become a Hollywood star. Yous are Mrs. Moonface, named after the lunar surface, past me, for obvious reasons that have to exercise with the colour of your pare and the roundness of your chin. And I am John, named after a toilet, by my father for reasons that are not then obvious. He could have called me kitchen. He could take chosen me living room. He named me John.

Side by side to me is Billy Beezer, whose proper noun is really Neb Beanman but who I have rechristened Beezer on account of his nose, which is three times longer than seems natural, and which I accept nicknamed Beanman's Beezer. He could be an aardvark, which is a kind of anteater that lives in the front end of the dictionary. He could exist a sloth, which is a tailless mammal that eats, sleeps, and travels upside down. But he is neither aardvark nor sloth; he is Billy Beezer, my friend who is non a friend.

He is non a friend because we are both in dearest with the same girl. Her name is Celebrity Hallelujah and she is the ugliest girl in our entire anti-schoolhouse. She is then ugly her mirror tries not to wait back at her in the morning time. Her hair is so greasy that lice iceskate on it. She is also the stupidest daughter in our anti-school. She is then stupid that she might actually like me.

Okay, I'll requite yous the truth here. Because it'south important. Her name is not Glory Hallelujah just Gloria. She is not ugly at all. In fact, she is the most cute girl in our anti-school. She is likewise smart as a whip, any that means. I just pretend that she is ugly because I am thinking of asking her out on a date, and when she says no I desire to be able to tell myself that I didn't really want to go out with her anyway, because she is so ugly.

Billy Beezer is likewise thinking of asking her out on a date, only he is likewise self-conscious about his long beezer to always actually do information technology.

"John," Mrs. Moonface says, "can you tell us the lowest prime that is also a factor of xl-eight?"

No, Mrs. Moonface, I can tell you a lot of true things, but I cannot tell yous that. I tin can, for example, tell you exactly the mode Glory Hallelujah's ankles are crossed at this very second, correct on top of left, with her white socks stretched up taut almost to her knees. I can tell you that Billy Beezer is smart not to ask her on a date, because she would express mirth at him, whereas she would never laugh at me, even if she said no, which she volition never say, considering I will never get the courage to ask her.

"John, are y'all thinking? Are the wheels turning?"

I tin also tell you, Mrs. Moonface, about this African tribe I was reading near in National Geographic called the Lashasa Palulu who, when they are in their homes, walk on their hands so that they will non leave footprints in their houses. No, that is a lie. At that place is no such tribe. Merely it's not a bad idea. The man who is non my male parent WHOPPED me yesterday for leaving mud tracks across the kitchen that is not a kitchen.

It is non a kitchen considering information technology cannot produce a good meal. Nothing resembling edible food has ever been prepared in that location. Surely, if it were a kitchen, something good to eat would eventually come out of it. That is the definition of a kitchen. It must be a bedroom or a bathroom masquerading as a kitchen. This is the problem with my house. None of the rooms are what they seem to be. My bedroom, for example, is non a bedroom, because I cannot sleep in it. I doubtable it is a cupboard, considering it's so pocket-sized.

"John, we tin't expect forever . . . ?"

Anyway, Mrs. Moonface, I was crossing the kitchen that is not a kitchen when the human who is not my begetter grabbed me then difficult his fingers dug into my shoulder and he shouted, "Await what the hell you're doing!"

And I looked downwardly. There were iv or five muddy footprints on the linoleum floor, and by coincidence and bad luck they happened to be about the same size every bit my feet. Now, if I were a Lashasa Palulu, this would never have happened, because I would take been walking on my hands. But since I am who I am—a person you don't know, and will never know—they were at that place, and I got WHOPPED. A WHAP is a slap to the arms or body, and WHAPS injure badly enough, simply a WHOP is a difficult smack to the dorsum of the head that makes your eyes come across red and yellowish, and makes your ears ring.

"So," the man who is not my father said, "I guess yous'll think twice about tracking mud through the house over again."

Now, if I were a Lashasa Palulu, I would probably have kicked him in the nose, because one reward of walking on your hands is that information technology leaves your feet free for combat, but since I was not built-in into that tribe that is not a tribe, all I could practise was start to weep, because the WHOP injure then much.

"Go ahead and weep," the man who is non my father said. "Yous make me sick."

And then I cried, considering making him sick seemed to be the simply way I could harm him, and, bluntly, because I couldn't stop myself. Information technology hurts to cry like that when you don't want to practice it, in front of someone you hate.

Every tear burns.

"Look at y'all," the man who is not my father said, "just expect at you. You'll never be a human being. Quit babble. I said quit information technology." And he WHOPPED me once more, even harder.

"John?" Mrs. Moonface asks. 'Are you with us? Are y'all in the Milky Way galaxy? We're running out of time."

Mrs. Moonface, plainly I cannot answer your question, considering my ears are however ringing from the two WHOPS, so why don't yous select another member of the studio audience? The homo with the chapeau, or the woman with the false teeth, peradventure . . .

"John, do you even hear me? Are you not well?"

Baton Beezer gives me a hard elbow in the ribs. "Doofus, just say you don't know. You're making an idiot of yourself."

Simply, thankfully, at that moment I am rescued by Glory Hallelujah, who raises her hand and at the same time calls out the correct ans

wer to Mrs. Moonface's question without whatever hesitation, thereby saving me from eternal doofusness.

"That's correct," Mrs. Moonface says, with an blessing look to Glory Hallelujah.

Glory Hallelujah gives no obvious sign that she knows she has saved my life. She doesn't expect at me. She doesn't say anything to me. But what she does practice next is brush her blond pilus off her cervix with her left paw, which can just be a undercover signal to me.

I scratch my right ear, which is the secret answering signal of gratitude.

That is when I determine that I will inquire her out on a appointment.

3

Ring Practice

I do non play the tuba. The tuba plays me.

My tuba is actually not a tuba, because information technology has never produced a musical sound. Information technology is actually a giant frog pretending to exist a tuba. Every so often information technology forgets that it is pretending to be a tuba, and it gives a loud croak that causes Mr. Steenwilly to wiggle his head around so fast he near gets whiplash. He looks at me with his baton quivering in the air and his mustache quivering on his upper lip, and I know what he's thinking. "Y'all are killing this slice of music," he is thinking. "You lot are murdering this song. You should be arrested by the music law. They should hang you from a music stand up."

Mr. Steenwilly, I cannot fence with you—I am murdering this piece of music. That is a fact neither of us tin dispute. But surely y'all must sympathize that I cannot get a musical sound out of what is really a behemothic frog pretending to be a tuba. I move my fingers and blow my lungs out. Occasionally information technology croaks.

No one is to arraign here.

Furthermore, Mr. Steenwilly, I practice not wish to be here any more than than y'all wish me to be hither. Band practice is non my idea of a good time. Music is non in my blood. I do not sing in the shower. I do non whistle in the dark. I cannot sing on key. I cannot fifty-fifty sing off primal. Mr. Steenwilly, I cannot sing, I cannot whistle, and I cannot maybe play a tuba that is really not a tuba.

You lot just gave me that expect again, considering the tuba that is non a tuba just played a note that is not a note. In fact, I believe it was a bullfrog croak that means "I'm hungry. Where are the insects in this swimming?" I admit that there are no hungry bullfrog croaks in this march past John Philip Sousa, but the salient bespeak hither, whatever that means, is that I am non to arraign.

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