Free How to Survive Middle School by Donna Gephart Page A

past life. “Your mom seems okay,” I say.
    I think I’m taking Sophie to my room to show her one of my
TalkTime
videos, but I detour instead to Lindsay’s door. I know I’m here to show off Sophie. “My sister’s room,” I say, and knock.
    Just as Lindsay yells, “Enter,” I remember that she might have zit-be-gone cream slathered all over her face.
    “Maybe we should go to my room instead.”
    “Come in!” Lindsay yells in a ferocious voice.
    I crack the door open. “Hey, Linds, you busy?”
    She swivels around from her computer. “Of course I’m busy, moron. I’m in high school now.” Her face is zit cream free.
    I sigh and open the door all the way to let Sophie in.
    “Oh, hi,” Lindsay says. “You’re not Elliott.”
    What is it with people?
    “This is Sophie. She came over to work on a project.”
    “Hey, Sophie.”
    When Sophie wanders to Lindsay’s CD rack, I’m afraid my sister’s going to yell at her to get away from her stuff, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me two thumbs up.
    My neck gets warm.
    “You like Ben Harper?” Lindsay asks.
    Sophie shrugs. “My mom makes me listen to classical CDs. I wish I had a collection like this.”
    “I can burn anything you like,” Lindsay offers.
    “Really?”
    “Definitely.”
    Thank you, Lindsay Melanie Greenberg, for being nice to Sophie. And for not having zit-be-gone cream on your face
.
    I pull my shoulders back. “We’re heading to Bubbe’s now.”
    “Good luck,” Lindsay says, and flops onto her bed.
    When we’re out of the room, Sophie whispers, “I like your sister.”
    “She’s okay. Sometimes.”
    Downstairs, Ms. Meyers is still chatting with Dad, so I grab Sophie’s elbow, and we duck past the kitchen and head to Bubbe’s apartment.
    Sophie’s peppermint whisper on my ear surprises me. “What’s a Bubbe?”
    I lean close. “Yiddish word for ‘grandmother.’”
    “Oh,” Sophie says as Bubbe’s door swings open. Her apartment smells like cinnamon.
    “Bubbe, this is Sophie, one of my friends from school.”
    Bubbe takes Sophie’s cheeks in her wrinkly palms. “I’m so glad to meet one of David’s little friends.”
    “Uh, Bubbe,” I say, pulling Sophie out of her clutches, “we stopped by to say hi, but have to head up to my studio now.”
    “Oh. Your studio.” Bubbe pretends to grab onto lapels and struts around her living room. “Even a big-shot star needs to eat.” Bubbe winks at Sophie, grabs our hands and guides us to the table in her tiny kitchen. “You can go to your studio after you nosh on a little Jewish apple cake. Just baked.”
    Sophie stares at Bubbe with wide eyes, and I can’t tell if she likes Bubbe or is overwhelmed.
    “Eat,
bubelahs
!” Bubbe says, sliding plates of cake in front of us, along with glasses of soy milk.
    I hope Sophie doesn’t think soy milk is weird.
    Bubbe watches us eat. Every bite. You can’t refuse Bubbe. A Jewish grandmother trying to feed you is more persuasive than the heads of the Mafia, the CIA and the FBI combined.
    “It’s delicious,” Sophie says about twenty-seven times. “May I have the recipe?”
    I know she’s just kissing up, but it makes Bubbe glow. “Of course,
sheyn ponem
.”
    Sophie tilts her head.
    “Tell you later,” I whisper.
    The minute Sophie enters my room, she zooms to Hammy’s cage, opens the lid and cups Hammy in her hands. “Mom won’t let me have pets,” Sophie says, nuzzling Hammy’s fur. “Too many germs. Too much trouble. Allergies. Shedding. Blah. Blah. Blah.”Sophie kisses Hammy on top of his head. “You are the cutest thing ever,” she coos to him. “You don’t have any bad germs, do you?”
    Lucky hamster!
    I walk over and pet Hammy with my fingertip. “Now you’ve met the whole family. This is Hammy the—”
    Sophie lets out a peel-the-wallpaper-off-the-walls shriek.
    Before I can restart my heart and ask what’s wrong, Sophie’s mom bursts through the door.
    How’d she get up here so