The Take Back of Lincoln Junior High

By Roseanne Cheng

Lincoln Junior High is out of money. For Andrew and Hannah, this means no sports, no music, and no fun. That is, until the principal begins a corporate sponsorship program to ''Take-Back'' the school. A few advertisements in exchange for cool programs and new technology can't be that bad. Or can it?

As the school year progresses, Andrew and Hannah notice that the corporations have become more important than the students. Risking their own reputations, they set out to rid the school of sponsorships, once and for all. In the effort to kick out the corporations, they uncover a secret about the program they never could have imagined, a secret that puts the survival of the school at risk.

Will Andrew and Hannah be able to take back their school from the Take Back program?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940014920

Book preview

world.

Part I

Sixth-Grade

1.

It all started with Whistler Farms.

I was just a lowly sixth-grader then. I was too busy trying to remember my locker combination and not make a total dork of myself on a day-to-day basis to bother with the big issues going on in my school. All I remember is that one morning in September Principal Raasch came over the intercom to make an announcement during homeroom, and Lincoln Junior High was never the same.

I have great news, he said, clearing his throat and making a hollow sounding echo through the speakers. Mr. Khan, our biology teacher, let out a loud Shh! And because we were sixth-graders, we listened.

It is wonderful news, actually, Principal Raasch continued. Students, football has been saved!

A loud whoop came from the classrooms around ours, and the rest of my class joined in. Kids started pounding on the desks and giving each other high-fives. Even Mr. Khan hollered with the rest of us, opening his door to give a thumbs-up to the other teachers standing outside their classrooms, beaming. I’d heard about the cancellation of the football program over the summer, something about a cut in state and federal funding. I really didn’t know what it meant and like I said, I was busy with other things at the time.

It means no sports this year, Dad had said one night in July. He was listening to the news on the TV from the other room while we ate dinner, a habit my mother loathed.

Oh, come on, Mom said. No sports for an entire junior high? That’s absurd.

That’s what they just said, Claire, Dad shook his head. Andrew’s going to go into junior high school and not know what it’s like to cheer for the home team.

The reality was slightly less dramatic. When we went to sixth-grade orientation that August, Principal Raasch made a speech in the auditorium to clear up any confusion.

Sports aren’t fully canceled, he said as the crowd buzzed around me. But we did find out the unfortunate news that our budget for sports has been cut by more than 75 percent this year.

But the sports program in this district was already bare bones! a parent called out from one side of the auditorium, underneath a handmade sign that read: Go Lincoln Lions, Go!

I realize that, Principal Raasch acknowledged. We will find a way to keep sports alive . . . his voice drifted a bit. We always do.

By charging the parents more money! another parent called out, this time from the other side of the auditorium. We can’t afford those kinds of fees in this community. We don’t have hundreds of dollars to spend on uniforms and equipment.

The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement. I kept my head down trying to memorize the schedule I’d been given when I first walked into orientation.

First period science? No!

I understand your concern, Principal Raasch said. We are meeting as a district on a daily basis to come up with a solution to the problem. Believe me; we are doing the best we can.

The best they could do ended up being not enough. Just as one of the parents predicted on orientation night, the fees for football doubled at the beginning of the school year in September. Jess Hitchins, already almost 180 pounds at the beginning of sixth-grade, couldn’t play. The identical Lessgrove twins, halfbacks who had led the Lincoln Lions to victory the previous year against the Wilcox Wild (even I knew the story about that game) had been forced to hang up their jerseys for their eighth-grade year.

From what I’d heard, as of the first few weeks of school, the football team was made up of five sixth-graders, three seventh-graders, and one eighth-grader, all of whom were chosen to play not because they could kick or pass, but because their parents had scraped up enough money to pay the fees.

My biology class continued to buzz around me, and Mr. Khan shushed us again, this time waving his hands up and down like he was getting ready to fly.

Principal Raasch continued. I can hear you all cheering in your classrooms, he said with a chuckle, and that is just wonderful. It really is a miracle. You are probably wondering how this happened, and here it is. Some of you might know of Whistler Farms, about an hour south of here.

Whistler Farms? The ones from our milk containers?

Whistler Farms makes . . . Principal Raasch fumbled through some papers, the noise crunchy over the intercom, high-quality dairy products for our region. Whistler Farms is proud to produce cage-free eggs and dairy made from cows that are not given any excess hormones.

I looked at the kids around me. Cage-free eggs? Cows have hormones? What was he talking about? Erik Jenson, sitting next to me, met my glance and shrugged. I saw two girls in the front row begin to fiddle with their hair.

Papers crunched once more over the intercom, and Principal Raasch continued. Whistler Farms has given us money for our school sports this year, he said, practically giggling. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was an eighth-grader himself.

For a week, this was all anyone could talk about. Football was not only back, but the players were going to be given brand new uniforms. The field was going to be repainted. The concession stand was going to be rebuilt. And when it came time for basketball, those players were also going to get new uniforms. And then there’d be new cleats for baseball; new suits and parkas for the swimmers. Whistler Farms had even given the school enough money for a new team bus for the players. The current bus—it was rumored—had been with the school since it was founded in 1957.

It was like Lincoln Junior High had won the lottery a hundred times over. The money brought a new energy and excitement in school. At first I didn’t really care about it because I didn’t play any sports. What would a new football field do for me? But it was like the new football field brought the school to life. People walked faster in the halls. They talked more excitedly. Even the teachers, the ones who had been around for a long time and never seemed to be in a good mood for any reason, were noticeably happier. I swear they extended deadlines on quizzes and homework all because of Whistler Farms.

* * *

Mom and Dad wanted to come with me to the first football game. "No, I said, crossing my hands over my chest at dinner. You cannot come with me to a football game—ever."

They looked at each other, smiling. I hated it when they smiled condescendingly like that. "Fine, we won’t go with you," Dad said. We’ll go with Jackson’s parents.

Jackson was my next-door neighbor, the same age as me. We didn’t have any classes together that year, thank God, but he still came over every day after school to hang out and ask to play Xbox. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Jackson; he was just really different than me. Our parents had been friends forever, even since before Jackson and I were born, and I think they always hoped that he and I would be best friends.

We weren’t.

Jackson liked building computers and playing battle-type video games. I was more into books about space exploration and video games where I got to build whole cities from scratch. Every time I saw Jackson, it was like we had been forced together like pieces of two different puzzles.

I sighed. "You are going with Jackson and his parents?"

Sure, Dad shrugged. We know where we’re not wanted.

But no matter how much they weren’t wanted, the truth was I didn’t have anyone to go to the football game with, either. Junior high was a whole new world for me. For elementary and middle school, my parents had transferred me to another school district, closer to my grandparents, on the other side of town. They both worked and needed my grandparents to take me to and from school, since the bus service had been dropped for elementary and middle school kids back when I was a baby. Now all of my friends from Crescent Middle School were at Wilcox Junior High and were my new rivals.

My parents told me over and over that I was just the new kid in school, and I would find a new group of friends in no time. But what they didn’t know was how hard it was to make friends. I wasn’t exactly the most outgoing person in the world, and I wasn’t exactly the smartest or best looking. I figured that I was the type of kid who fills up space every year in his classroom. I wasn’t the smart one, but I wasn’t the dumb one. I wasn’t the troublemaker, but I wasn’t painfully shy. I was as unnoticeable as a pinch of salt in a vat of tomato sauce.

Plus, junior high was scary. The eighth-grade boys were enormous and the girls were like aliens who spent all their time giggling at their cell phones. I was barely one hundred pounds and had just been given cell phone privileges that summer. The teachers were going to be harder, and I’d been told to expect about three times the homework I used to get at Crescent Middle. I didn’t understand how everyone else seemed to have everything so together, and I was still trying to figure out how to undress from PE and make it to pre-algebra in the five minute passing period. It felt like no one noticed me, but everyone was laughing at me, all at the same time.

I tried to make it seem like I had better options, but I really didn’t. So not surprisingly, I finally caved and went with Jackson, his parents, and my parents to the first football game of the season. It was better than not going at all and further alienating myself from the other kids by not being able to take part in all the exciting sports talk at school.

Principal Raasch made a big production about the football game even before it started. He must have come on the intercom three times that Friday, reminding students that the game started at seven o’clock, but the pre-show would begin at six. None of us knew what a pre-show was since our school didn’t have cheerleaders, and the marching band consisted of the special ed teacher on drums, an eighth-grader on a borrowed trumpet, and two seventh-graders who had been playing the flute since they were kids. But no one asked any questions. They were all just focusing on the football players who would finally get to play.

My dad pulled the minivan into the school parking lot at five forty-five, and I crouched fully into my seat in pure agony.

Please don’t let anyone see me get in or out of this car, I prayed while Jackson rolled down the window and hung his head out like a dog.

There’s like a jillion people here! he called out.

He was right. It felt like every person within an hour’s distance had come to see the Lincoln Lions’ first football game of the year. News crews with long white poles on top of their vans parked in the far corners of the lot. Students even nerdier than me were taking their parents on a tour of the school’s periphery, waiting for the pre-show to start. The stands were packed with people all wearing the school colors of blue and gold.

It’s just a junior high football game, I mumbled as we walked through the parking lot and toward the field. I shoved my hands in my pockets.

It’s more than that, Dad explained, scooping my seven-year-old brother onto his shoulders as we made our way through the crowd. Someday you’ll understand, Andrew. This money that your principal got . . . it’s a big deal. It means you’ll get opportunities you wouldn’t have gotten otherwise.

But I don’t play football, I said. I’m not getting anything from this.

You’re getting the chance to be here, Dad gestured around him, at a sporting event for your school. These types of things are just as important as what you learn in your classes; sometimes more important.

I was going to continue arguing, but that’s when I saw it. We’d reached the front entrance to the football field and had a clear view of the newly painted lines on the grass and the people buzzing with excitement all around us. Straight ahead, on the other side of the field, was supposed to be the same giant scoreboard that had been there since the dawn of humankind, as far as anyone was concerned. No one could remember it ever working. We were used to seeing the decaying wood beneath the blue and gold paint that had once framed the board, and the paint had simply fallen off in large chunks over the years. At one point, the bottom of the board had read: Go Lions, Go! But more recently it read: G ion , o!

At least that’s what it used to look like. In its place was a giant monstrosity, a scoreboard so bright and big that it almost made me dizzy to look at it. The words Home and Visitor were so vibrant and electric that I actually brought my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes. The entire board had been painted blue and gold and a huge comic book-like lion had been painted on the right hand side. The lion was standing and wore a gold shirt with the letter L on it. He had his thumb up, and a giant talking bubble came out from the right side of his mane that said: I Break for Whistler Dairy! in bright gold letters.

Dad noticed it, too. How could he not? As we stopped and took it all in, Mom and Jackson’s parents did the same thing we did, silenced by the enormity of the new scoreboard.

It’s so . . . Mom began, looking to Dad, "big."

Jackson’s parents smiled.

Looks a heck of a lot better than the one before, Mr. Schroder said, and Mom nodded in agreement. Dad frowned.

We found seats at the very top of the bleachers and sat while the rest of the crowd filed in through the front gates. At six on the dot, Principal Raasch took his place at the fifty-yard line, while the band played a somewhat sad rendition of the Lincoln Lions fight song. The crowd cheered, and Principal Raasch beamed.

Welcome, everyone! he called into the microphone, his voice echoing through the field. He was greeted with more cheers. Welcome to the first football game of our brand new school year!

The crowd continued to whistle and clap.

It is my great honor to be with you here today! I want to thank you all for your support over the last few months. As you know, we as a district have struggled to maintain our sports programs through these difficult economic times. That is why I’m so pleased to tell you all tonight about the Take Back Program we are piloting here at Lincoln Junior High!

People cheered, but no one knew what they were cheering for. Principal Raasch was just so excited that it was hard not to be as happy as he was.

You are probably wondering how we made all this happen. Well, with our school in financial crisis, I had to take dramatic action. I reached out to local businesses for help and am so pleased that Whistler Farms was willing to come to our rescue.

The crowd cheered again, and that’s when I noticed two men in dark blue suits and shiny black shoes approach Principal Raasch at the podium. I would like to introduce Mr. Maxwell DiDia and Mr. Samuel Lee, from the executive board at Whistler Farms. Let’s thank them for their support!

The crowd went crazy. People cheered and clapped and stomped their feet on the metal bleachers, all for two men who didn’t look like they belonged in a junior high school. I guess it was about what they represented. And from what Principal Raasch had implied, it was about the money they represented.

Thank you, Principal Raasch, the taller one began. The crowd quieted down and listened. Whistler Farms is committed to the Take Back Program, and we are committed to Lincoln Junior High! The crowd erupted again. We’d like to take this opportunity to tell you about some of the exciting products Whistler Farms has in your local grocery store.

The men in the suits talked forever. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But by the time they were done talking about yogurt and free-range eggs, Jeremy had fallen asleep in Mom’s lap and Jackson was bored with his Nintendo DS. Dad and I kept looking at each other and then at the giant clock that hovered over the new scoreboard, its hands moving slowly while the Whistler Farms logo loomed enormous and still in the background.

The football game was fairly uneventful. It was junior high, after all; we weren’t exactly a professional team. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the new white uniforms—the players looked as bright as burning light bulbs as they passed the ball down the field.

Is that the Whistler Farms’ logo on the kids’ arms? I heard Mom whisper to Dad during the game.

Looks like it, Dad said, raising his left eyebrow the way he always did when he was worried. I’ll be interested to hear what this Take Back Program is all about.

2.

Dad didn’t have to wait long for his explanation. Principal Raasch sent an email out to all the parents the following Monday morning. The only reason I knew about it was because Mr. Khan spoke about it during first period science.

Don’t forget to tell your parents to check their email tonight, he said, as if anyone didn’t check their email every day, even our parents. Your parents might have some ideas to help the school pilot the Take Back Program. Education as we know it is changing, right before our very eyes.

No one said anything, and Mr. Khan sighed. Take out your homework.

If anyone else thought that the new football field and scoreboard were a little over the top, no one said anything. In fact, the school was buzzing about the email that Principal Raasch had sent home already and what the details of the Take Back Program were.

I heard NASA is donating a billion dollars to our school! Jackson said when he found me in my usual spot at lunch, sitting in the hallway between the science and the math wings.

I rolled my eyes but made room for him and his tray of pizza next to me. That doesn’t make any sense.

That’s just what I heard, Jackson repeated.

Once again the truth was a lot less dramatic, but it was just as exciting as the news about Whistler Farms. By