switchblade out of her purse. “You broke the Coke machine, bitch!”
“—justice,” I finish. Crap. How am I supposed to get out of this?
I look around for Darla, like: yo, Taser girl, a little help here? But she’s not the one who comes to my rescue. No, it’s Mr. Nerdly, the math teacher—armed with a yardstick—who grabs me by my collar and drags me out of the fray.
“Calm down, people!” he shouts, in his nasal tough-guy voice. “This is a cafeteria, not a cage match. Get back to your seats!” He’s still holding my collar. Thanks, but I can stand upright by myself. I wriggle away and he shoots me a dirty look, menaces me with a shake of the yardstick.
Back at my seat, I manage to squeeze some juice out of my apple. Okay, actually, I obliterate it by crushing it with my fist.
“Are you okay?” Darla says.
Yeah—I’m gonna pretend she didn’t notice. I’m sure her friends destroy fruit all the time. “Fine,” I say, wiping up the pieces with my lunch bag.
My heart’s racing. I don’t want to get into a fight here. I don’t want to lose my cool and snap, then pay for it later—with 120 years of incarceration.
When the bell rings, I try to make a swift exit, but Butch and his bonecrushing posse are waiting for me by the door.
“We’ll finish this after school,” Butch says. “And if you punk out and don’t show . . .” He crunches his knuckles in his fist. “You’ll regret it.”
He doesn’t even wait until the teachers are out of earshot to threaten me. Mr. Nerdly’s right there by the door, busy chewing on his thumbnail, then pulling his hand back to examine it, like magic marshmallows are growing out of it instead of fungus. What is this guy’s purpose? Seriously?
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.” It’s not like I’m afraid of these guys. But how am I supposed to put an end to this? Show up and let them pummel the crap out of me? Call my mom and get her to pick me up in the middle of it, so I look like a little kid?
Not cool.
One last threat and a clumsy throat-slitting gesture, and Butch and his posse are gone. I breathe. Exhaaaale. Three more hours until I have to deal with that crap.
As I push through the mass of messed-up students, my eyes catch Catherine’s. She’s studying me. No idea why. Maybe because she already suspects I’m an idiot, and today’s spectacle just confirmed it?
I nod like, “hey,” and keep going, moving with the wave of delinquent students into the hall, where the clang-and-bang of lockers meets shouts of, “Ha! You’re gonna get your ass kicked!”
I shrug it off, try to look tough—but honestly? I’m posing hardcore. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
7
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER the last bell, when the buses have pulled away and most of the adults have jumped ship, I’m standing on the run-down baseball field behind the school, surrounded by the more bloodthirsty half of our screwed-up class. Some of the kids are clinging to the metal backstop, the rest are spread out along the foul line, chanting:
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Butch and Big Dawg and the rest of the Bonecrushers are closing in. They’re wearing huge toothy grins—they don’t look like they ever get in fights with anyone who could actually hurt them. For a second I’m tempted to change that, put a stop to their bullying by showing them what it feels like.
But that would open up a whole other set of consequences.
Before Butch has a chance to “bring the pain,” Darla tries to stop the inevitable. She climbs to the top of the bleachers and starts waving her cell phone (which now has a blinking antenna poking out of it) like it’s a conductor’s baton. “Listen up!” she shouts. “You’d better make yourselves scarce, because a ginormous robot is about to bust out of those trees and kill you all !”
I wince.
A few heads turn toward the wooded lot that borders the school. Curiously, like, eh, a giant robot? A bird chirps.
I
“—justice,” I finish. Crap. How am I supposed to get out of this?
I look around for Darla, like: yo, Taser girl, a little help here? But she’s not the one who comes to my rescue. No, it’s Mr. Nerdly, the math teacher—armed with a yardstick—who grabs me by my collar and drags me out of the fray.
“Calm down, people!” he shouts, in his nasal tough-guy voice. “This is a cafeteria, not a cage match. Get back to your seats!” He’s still holding my collar. Thanks, but I can stand upright by myself. I wriggle away and he shoots me a dirty look, menaces me with a shake of the yardstick.
Back at my seat, I manage to squeeze some juice out of my apple. Okay, actually, I obliterate it by crushing it with my fist.
“Are you okay?” Darla says.
Yeah—I’m gonna pretend she didn’t notice. I’m sure her friends destroy fruit all the time. “Fine,” I say, wiping up the pieces with my lunch bag.
My heart’s racing. I don’t want to get into a fight here. I don’t want to lose my cool and snap, then pay for it later—with 120 years of incarceration.
When the bell rings, I try to make a swift exit, but Butch and his bonecrushing posse are waiting for me by the door.
“We’ll finish this after school,” Butch says. “And if you punk out and don’t show . . .” He crunches his knuckles in his fist. “You’ll regret it.”
He doesn’t even wait until the teachers are out of earshot to threaten me. Mr. Nerdly’s right there by the door, busy chewing on his thumbnail, then pulling his hand back to examine it, like magic marshmallows are growing out of it instead of fungus. What is this guy’s purpose? Seriously?
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.” It’s not like I’m afraid of these guys. But how am I supposed to put an end to this? Show up and let them pummel the crap out of me? Call my mom and get her to pick me up in the middle of it, so I look like a little kid?
Not cool.
One last threat and a clumsy throat-slitting gesture, and Butch and his posse are gone. I breathe. Exhaaaale. Three more hours until I have to deal with that crap.
As I push through the mass of messed-up students, my eyes catch Catherine’s. She’s studying me. No idea why. Maybe because she already suspects I’m an idiot, and today’s spectacle just confirmed it?
I nod like, “hey,” and keep going, moving with the wave of delinquent students into the hall, where the clang-and-bang of lockers meets shouts of, “Ha! You’re gonna get your ass kicked!”
I shrug it off, try to look tough—but honestly? I’m posing hardcore. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
7
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER the last bell, when the buses have pulled away and most of the adults have jumped ship, I’m standing on the run-down baseball field behind the school, surrounded by the more bloodthirsty half of our screwed-up class. Some of the kids are clinging to the metal backstop, the rest are spread out along the foul line, chanting:
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Butch and Big Dawg and the rest of the Bonecrushers are closing in. They’re wearing huge toothy grins—they don’t look like they ever get in fights with anyone who could actually hurt them. For a second I’m tempted to change that, put a stop to their bullying by showing them what it feels like.
But that would open up a whole other set of consequences.
Before Butch has a chance to “bring the pain,” Darla tries to stop the inevitable. She climbs to the top of the bleachers and starts waving her cell phone (which now has a blinking antenna poking out of it) like it’s a conductor’s baton. “Listen up!” she shouts. “You’d better make yourselves scarce, because a ginormous robot is about to bust out of those trees and kill you all !”
I wince.
A few heads turn toward the wooded lot that borders the school. Curiously, like, eh, a giant robot? A bird chirps.
I
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