8 Ch8-Why Dead People Are Lucky

Chapter 8 Why Dead People Are Lucky At lunch I was sitting in the vomitorium with Ryan and Michael and Neil the nude kid. The school lunch was spaghetti and meatballs, which was disgusting and probably poisoned. Ms. LaGrange, the lunch lady, was selling homemade French cupcakes, but I couldn't buy one

because I didn't have any extra money. Bummer in the summer! No way was I going to tell the guys what Ms. Coco said about my poems. They would probably make me sit with Andrea and her annoying nerd friends. Speaking of which, Andrea must have been burning through her encyclopedia, because at the table next to us, she was showing off all the new things she'd learned. Did you know that hummingbirds are the smallest birds? Andrea told her friends. And they're the only birds that can fly backward. Did you know that a parrot will die if it eats chocolate?

Ugh. It was horrible. The girls were hanging on to Andrea's every word like she was queen of the world. Me and the guys stuffed napkins in our ears to block out the sound. How many poems are we up to? asked Ryan. Six hundred and something, said Michael. Man, National Poetry Month stinks, Ryan said. There's only one thing worse than

National Poetry Month, said Michael. TV Turn-off Week, we all agreed. I hate writing poems, said Neil the nude kid. I just can't do it. I kept my mouth shut. Writing poems came easily to me. In fact, I wrote a poem right there in my brain, but I didn't tell the guys. It went like this: Dirt bikes are fun. Dirt bikes are cool. I'd rather ride dirt bikes Than go to school.

If we reach a thousand poems, said Neil, Mr. Klutz is gonna bring in a famous poet. He should bring in a famous skate- boarder instead, I said. That would be way cooler. Maybe Mr. Klutz will bring in Dr. Seuss, said Michael. He's a poet. He's also dead, dumbhead, said Ryan. Dead people are lucky, I said. They don't have to celebrate National Poetry Month. Instead of sending criminals to jail, they should force them to write poems, said Neil the nude kid. Writing poems stinks. Yeah, we all agreed.

Then we made a list of things we would rather do than write poetry: Jump off Mount Everest Fat a live spider (Ryan's idea) Hit our thumbs with a hammer Eat razor blades for breakfast (also Ryan's idea) Listen to our parents' old CDs Go to school Dress up like a girl Kiss a girl Ugh! It was getting too disgusting. I could barely eat my lunch. Ryan, Michael, and Neil kept complaining