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    The Bully
     
    by
JASON STARR ©
     
     
     
     
     
    I was sitting by myself at a table in the corner of the cafeteria eating a salami-on-rye sandwich, when Billy Owens came over and sat down next to me. I expected him to steal my Twinkies or slap me on top of my head and walk away like he usually did, but he just sat there staring.
     
    Billy was the ugliest kid I’d ever seen. He had a crew cut and his face was covered with dark freckles. His nose was wide and flat and his teeth were crooked and chipped. He looked like Alfred E. Newman, except more deranged.
     
    “If you want my Twinkies, you can have ’em,” I said, hoping this would make him leave me alone.
     
    He kept smiling at me in his demented way, for what seemed like a very long time, then said, “I don’t want your Twinkies, blubber ass.”
     
    I continued eating my sandwich, ready for Billy to punch me or smack me. I was the fattest kid in school and I was used to getting picked on, especially by Billy.
     
    But instead Billy said, “Today’s the day, fatso. I’m gonna beat you up so bad, your mama won’t recognize you no more.”
     
    Other kids nearby heard Billy threatening me and a commotion started. Soon the entire cafeteria was chanting, “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight…”
     
    The cafeteria attendant, Mrs. Ferretti, came over and told Billy to leave me alone. I was trying not to cry, but finally I couldn’t help it. When the tears came, all the kids started laughing.
     
    “After school,” Billy said to me. “Get ready to die.”
     
    * * *
     
    The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop staring at the clock above Mrs. Rosenberg’s desk. I wanted the hands to freeze, for three o’clock to never come. I imagined it would be just like the time Billy beat up Rodney Foster. Rodney was a big, tough, mean black kid. I’d watched the fight with everyone else after school, hoping to see Billy get beat up, but Billy knocked Rodney down with one solid punch to the face and the fight was over. I can still remember the cracking sound the punch made, like two rocks smashing together.
     
    At ten to three, Mrs. Rosenberg was finishing her math lesson. I was in my usual seat in the back of the class—we were seated alphabetically and my last name is Zimmerman—and Billy Owens was sitting in the middle of the class, several rows ahead of me. I was hoping Billy would just forget about me, but at five to three he turned around in his chair and looked at me, smiling cruelly, showing me his fist. Then when I was at my cubby, putting on my jacket, he came over to me and whispered, “They’re gonna have to put you in the hospital tonight, blubber ass.”
     
    As usual, the class lined up behind Mrs. Rosenberg, and then she led us downstairs. I made sure that I was behind Billy as the class exited. When Billy entered the stairwell, I sprinted down the hallway in the other direction, toward a stairwell leading to a different exit. At over 150 pounds, I couldn’t run very fast, but I don’t think I’ve ever run faster than I did that day. My lungs hurt as I dashed down the stairs and out of the building, and then across Glenwood Road toward my house on East Twenty-second Street. The whole time, I kept looking back over my shoulder, convinced Billy was following me. Only when I reached my house and was safely inside did I start to relax.
     
    But my relief didn’t last for very long. Maybe I’d made it home today, but tomorrow I had to return to school, and I knew I couldn’t run away from Billy Owens forever.
     
    * * *
     
    As usual, my father was home, working in his study. Several months earlier, he’d quit his job at an advertising agency in Manhattan and he was trying to finish the novel he’d started before I was born. He never told my mother or me what the novel was about, but he was convinced it was going to be a bestseller and make him a fortune.
     
    Usually, I didn’t bother my father while he was working. He