Free The Divorce Express by Paula Danziger Page A

lot of grown-ups are active politically—fighting for good causes, like against nuclear plants, getting rid of the gypsy moths without using dangerous sprays, people’s rights. There’s even a runaway house and a battered women’s shelter. I think that when kids grow up seeing their parents involved, the kids get involved too.
    Dave and I look at the poem. It feels comfortable being with him.
    We start to laugh as we begin the parody. A couple of kids come over to see what’s so funny. When they realize what we’re doing, everyone joins in.
    When it’s finished, Pete does his imitation of Ms. Douglass, the English teacher. He pretends to readjust a bra strap, points into the air, and says, “Well, class . . . . It’s not Shakespeare, but at least it rhymes.”
    CAFETERIA
    (
to be sung to
“Trees”)
    I think that I shall never see
    A cafeteria as gross as thee.
    A cafeteria where hungry mouths are pressed
    Against food that’s really messed
    A cafeteria that looks at kids all day
    Who have fears of ptomaine, so they say
    A cafeteria that may each day wear
    Out stomach linings that will tear.
    Upon whose food lines people have lain
    People crying and writhing while in pain
    Poems are made by fools like me,
    But a cafeteria like this drives me up a tree.

CHAPTER 14
    W e’re ready.
    Someone’s father’s got a Xerox machine, and we’ve got all the copies of the song.
    One person in each homeroom quietly distributes the paper.
    There’s a note attached.
    IF YOU CARE ABOUT IMPROVING THE QUALITY OF CAFETERIA FOOD, SING THIS AT ASSEMBLY TODAY. IF YOU DON’T, JUST KEEP QUIET. NOBODY LIKES A SQUEALER.
    We march into assembly, sitting down quietly. It’s the kind of quiet where you know that something’s going to happen.
    The Principal announces the speaker, a member of the D.A.R., Daughters of the American Revolution.
    Somehow that seems appropriate.
    The Principal continues. “Now, let’s all welcome her with a rousing rendition of our school song.”
    Rousing isn’t quite the word for it.
    I don’t think the real song has ever been sung so clearly, so loudly, by so many people.
    Probably the Principal, Mr. Beasley, doesn’t want to create a scene about what’s just happened, although he’s got this weird look on his face, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
    Some of the kids, and teachers too, do laugh. Even when the speaker is talking about how her ancestors took part in the American Revolution, every once in a while there’s a little chuckle from someplace, and trust me, this lady’s not doing a comedy routine.
    The bell rings.
    After applauding the boring speaker, we file out.
    All day long everyone’s expecting something to be said by Beasley. But nothing is. Amazing.
    By the end of the day there’s still no word.
    I’m at my locker, getting ready to go home.
    Dave shows up. Even though his locker’s at the other end of the hall, he seems to be in this vicinity a lot.
    “So what do you think they’re going to do?” He holds my books as I put on my coat.
    “I don’t know.” I take back the books. “I kind of expected something, like putting all of us in front of a firing squad, or detention, at least.”
    He says, “Well, on to Phase Two tomorrow.”
    “I know. They won’t be able to ignore that.”
    We walk out to the bus.
    Drat. He’s not on my bus. I wish he were. But then I’d have to make a decision about who to sit with, Dave or Rosie.
    Today I can’t sit with either of them. Rosie’s not going home on this bus. She’s got detention for cracking her knuckles in Music Appreciation class. She was doing it in time to the
1812 Overture.
Some teachers have no sense of humor.
    We stop in front of my bus.
    “What’s your middle name?” I ask. “Since I don’t have much homework tonight, maybe I’ll try to figure what it is rearranged.”
    “A-L-L-E-N.” He brushes the hair out of his eyes. “How about letting me know what you come up with when we go out this