Regular Guy by Sarah Weeks Page B

toothpicks into a miniature pyramid. We used the garlic twists for footballs, shooting finger field goals at each other across the table. As always, I tossed the hot dog. Just because my mother thinks that a cold, raw wiener is the same thing as bologna doesn’t mean I do.
    â€œAny progress in the search for your roots?” Buzz asked as we headed out to the playground, where we normally spend the second half of our lunch period.
    â€œNot yet. But I’m working on it.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that switched at birth thing some more,” said Buzz. “The way I see it is that if that happened, whoever you got switched with would have to be exactly the same age as you, right?”
    â€œYeah, so?”
    â€œWell, if they moved away, you’re pretty much sunk, because it’s very hard to track down people who traipse all over the world, especially if you don’t even know their names. If they didn’t move, though, couldn’t that kid who’s living with your real parents be right here under your nose?”
    â€œYou mean at school?”
    â€œYeah, he’d be in the sixth grade, just like you, right?”
    â€œYou know, you could be on to something there, Buzz.”
    â€œYour birthday’s July fourteenth, right?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œWell, I happen to know that there’s a file in the office that has all that sort of stuff. You know—birthdays, addresses, allergies, and junk for every sixth grader in the school. All we have to do is take a look in there and see if anybody else has a birthday right around yours.”
    â€œHow are we going to get into the file?”
    â€œWe gotta get detention.”
    â€œ Detention? ” My voice cracked on the word. I’ve never been sent down to the office for anything in my life. I’m a major do-gooder, and I can’t remember a teacher ever even looking at me sideways, let alone sending me down for detention.
    â€œYep. We’ve got to do something bad enough to get us both sent down to the office. That way one of us can search the file while the other one distracts old Mrs. Dipnower.”
    The bell rang, and I went inside to French class. Buzz was taking Spanish, so I knew there was no point in trying to misbehave when I couldn’t be assured that he’d get sent downstairs too. Next was a double period of Humanities. Buzz was already in his seat when I got there. He gave me a look like, “Get ready,” as I took my place across the table from him.
    My teacher, Mr. Glass, really likes me. He’s always reading my papers out loud to showhow well I follow directions, and on the big homework chart I’m the only one who has check-pluses after every assignment. Maybe I’m not the most creative student in the world, but my work habits are pretty impressive, I guess. It wasn’t going to be easy to rub him the wrong way. Buzz doesn’t work quite as hard as me, but Mr. Glass likes him too, on account of his sense of humor. Buzz can write terrific stories. Like the one about the boy who eats a thesaurus for breakfast and starts using a million synonyms whenever he talks. That was a good one. Especially when he has to go to the bathroom and he says, “It is imperative that I espy a comfort station or I shall indubitably detonate.”
    We were studying Greek myths this term, so Mr. Glass started reading to us from The Odyssey . I was watching Melanie Mason doodle in the margins of her notebook. She was drawing horses with long flowing manes. A total girl thing, but still they were pretty realistic looking. Meanwhile, Mr. Glass was up tothe part about the one-eyed monster and the soldiers hiding underneath the sheep. I felt Buzz kick me hard under the table. Looking up, I saw him tapping his pencil rapidly on the top of his paper. Written upside down so I could read it was: I HAVE A PLAN .
    â€œWhat is it?” I mouthed to him.
    FOLLOW MY LEAD , he