The Miller brothers smiled at each other, then nodded. They were famous for fighting as a team—and winning. Hank didn’t think he and Clay were going to win the fight or anything, but with the two of them, at least Clay might not get totally pounded.
Clay had taken the bus home first, and then ridden to the bowling alley on his bike. He had shown up actually wearing his dad’s bowling shoes.
Around three thirty the four boys squared off among the tall weeds and litter behind the Town and Country Lanes. A handful of other guys and a few of the tough girls had come along to watch.
Donnie Miller didn’t waste time. He lowered his head and charged at Clay. At the last second, Clay jumped aside, but his shin caught Donnie’s foot. Donnie clutched at Clay’s shirt, and Clay grabbed Donnie’s arm. The rest was pure physics—mass, speed, and gravity.
That collision with Clay’s shin pitched Donnie forward. He tumbled head over heels and landed flat on his back with a solid whump. But to all the kids watching, it looked like Clay had grabbed onto Donnie’s arm and flipped him like a kung-fu master.
As Donnie flew past, his foot had bumped Clay’s nose, which began gushing blood. Clay barely noticed, and immediately he sat down hard on Donnie’s chest, his knees pinning both of the bigger boy’s arms to the ground.
He raised a fist, and Donnie said, “Yeah, go ahead, hit me!”
Clay didn’t want to. So he just sat there, dripping blood on Donnie’s shirt, and watched Hank and Dave circle around, taking swings at each other. But neither of them had any real reason to fight.
The whole event quickly fizzled out, and ten minutes later the four guys were drinking sodas in the bowling alley, laughing and slapping one another on the back.
But Clay’s reputation as a tough guy had been established, and word spread through the school. He was an instant legend.
And the two pals, Clay and Hank? They had arrived in sixth grade this fall at the top of the food chain—cool, tough, and funny.
That’s why Hank had been watching Clay so closely this morning. If Clay suddenly turned into a goody-goody, it would change everything.
Hank sniffed the air as they got closer to the cafeteria—was that SpaghettiOs? Because SpaghettiOs were always good for some fun.
As weird as Clay looked, and as strange as he’d been acting all morning, Hank was hoping that once they got to lunch, he’d be his regular old self again.
One way or another, he’d find out soon.
CHAPTER TEN
LUNCH EATS BOY
Clay scanned the room as he picked up a tray and headed for the food line. There were about a hundred and fifty kids in the cafeteria, plus two teachers and the custodian. The place sizzled and popped with energy—the kind that only happens in a room where kids outnumber the grown-ups by fifty to one.
Clay smiled, and a slight swagger came back into his step. After keeping such careful watch over every thought and action all morning long, he suddenly felt like he could breathe again. It was time to relax a little, go with the flow.
“Check it out,” Hank said, pointing at the green grapes in the salad cooler. “My favorite fruit!”
Clay grinned and nodded. “Yeah, mine too.” He put a cluster on his tray. Then he got a plate of SpaghettiOs, a small paper cup of American cheese cubes, and some vanilla pudding. At the drinks cooler he chose a tall box of organic chocolate milk.
It was a perfectly balanced meal. But it was also an arsenal. He had a tray full of edible missiles—a launchable lunch.
Hank looked around. “Wanna sit over near the fifth graders?”
“Absolutely,” said Clay.
Hank’s lunch was the same as Clay’s, except he’d gotten green Jell-O instead of the pudding. For the first few minutes, they both ate: most of the SpaghettiOs, gulped; most of the grapes, chomped; most of the desserts, gobbled; and all the chocolate milk, chugged. Neither of them touched the cheese cubes.
As Clay ate, he stayed on high alert. He was checking out Mrs. Hale and Ms. Yagin, the two fifth-grade teachers on lunch patrol. They were standing up front by the stage, talking. Not much of a threat. And the custodian wasn’t watching anything except the floor, trying to keep up with the worst of the spills.
Hank launched first. The stiff plastic straw that came with the chocolate milk had a sharp, slanted end. He stuck it into a grape. Gently pinching the grape between his thumb and index finger, he flexed the straw, glanced back over his shoulder, and took careful aim.
“All clear?” he whispered.
“Fire when ready,” said Clay.
It was a perfect reverse-release. The grape shot up and over Hank’s right shoulder in a low arc, a small green grenade. It smacked against the cheek of a fifth-grade girl sitting four tables away.
“Hey!”
She turned around and accused a boy at the table next to hers.
Both the teachers looked over to see what had caused the commotion, but it died down right away. They resumed their chat.
It was Clay’s turn.
He speared a cube of cheese, his favorite missile. Cheese this soft was unpinchable, so it required special launching skill. Touching only the straw, he flexed it, paused, scanned, then released.
The force of the launch was quite good—truly excellent. But the arc was all wrong.
Only two tables away, a large redheaded fifth grader named Tobin took that cheese bomb right in the ear, and it stuck. When he instinctively smacked at the impact point, he forced the soft cheese into his ear.
He stood up and bellowed like an angry bear, then whirled around, looking for his attacker. He stared straight at Clay.
Then he pointed and yelled, “That’s not funny, Hensley! It’s not funny at all!”
Mrs. Hale agreed with Tobin. She was on the scene in seconds, and the straw on Clay’s lunch tray was a dead giveaway—the sharp end was filled with sticky orange cheese.
“Go to the office, Clay. Immediately!”
Ms. Yagin was already leading Tobin out of the cafeteria, headed to the nurse’s office for some ear swabbing.
As if he’d jolted awake from a dream, Clay suddenly realized what he’d done—he’d broken his promise to Mitch!
“Please, Mrs. Hale. I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have done that, I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. And I won’t mess up at lunch again for the whole rest of the year—I promise. Please, I won’t mess up again.”
The teacher glared at him. “I’m supposed to believe that? From you? Just go to the office.”
Clay stood up. The kids around him smirked and giggled.
Hank couldn’t watch. Clay had just begged a teacher not to send him to the office. This was his pal, the guy who always grinned and said, “Sure, no problem.” And he was begging?
But Hank didn’t understand. Because if Clay had thought it would do any good, he would have fallen down onto his knees in front of Mrs. Hale and begged some more.
He knew it wouldn’t help.
Clay dropped off his lunch tray and then headed for the office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SURPRISES
Mrs. Ormin looked over her notes. The meeting in the principal’s office had been short but still quite remarkable. In fact, the whole sequence of events had been astonishing. Why, when Clayton had walked into the office from lunch, she’d hardly recognized him—what a dramatic haircut!
She glanced at the clock—still five minutes before fifth period.
Propping up her notebook beside the keyboard, she opened a new document on the computer screen and began to type.
Monday, October 20
12:32 p.m.
Disciplinary meeting with Alfred Kelling, Principal
Witnessed and recorded by Claire Ormin
Student: Clayton Hensley, grade six
Sent to the office by Mrs. Hale
Infraction: Throwing food in cafeteria
“There are four hundred million hungry children in this world who would love to eat the food y
ou throw around and waste in our cafeteria. It’s a waste, it’s dangerous, and it is not funny, Clayton. It’s never been funny. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“And this is the fifth time you’ve been in here for discipline this month. So now I have to call and get your parents to come to school for a conference.”
“Please, Mr. Kelling, I really don’t want that to happen. It would be . . . bad. Really bad.”
“Bad? In what way?”
“I . . . I can’t say.”
“Are you afraid you might be hit by someone, for example? Because there are laws about that, and we can—”
“No, no one’s going to hit me . . . but I made a promise. To my big brother. And I forgot and I messed around at lunch. And I’m sorry, and I really don’t want him to know about this. He . . . he can’t know about this. Is there maybe another way I can get punished, besides calling my folks? Can you do that? Because I’m not going to mess up anymore. Not at all.”
“That’s a lot to believe, Clayton.”
“I know . . . but I’m trying not to do that kind of stuff anymore.”
“Because of your brother?”
“Yeah, mostly. Because of him. I . . . I’m really going to try to do better. From now on. I really am.”
“I’m going to take you at your word, Clayton.”
“You are? I mean, that’s great!”
“I’m taking you at your word, but how this turns out is going to be up to you. Because if you’re not telling me the truth, the consequences will be that much worse later on.”
“So . . . you’re not going to call my parents?”
“I’m supposed to. You’ve had five infractions in October. But I’m going to break my own rule. I think this is a special case. But you will have to stay after school.”
“Um . . . then my brother’s still going to find out that I messed up.”
“Yes, I see. Then there will be double punishments the next time . . . if there is a next time.”
“Thanks. Really, Mr. Kelling, thanks a lot.”
“I have to say it again, Clayton. The way this turns out depends on you.”
“I know.”
“All right, then. Off you go.”
Student returned to cafeteria at 12:37 p.m.
Scrolling through the document, Mrs. Ormin felt cheated. The actual conversation in the office had been loaded with emotion, positively electric. The words on her computer screen didn’t reveal even half of what had gone on during those three minutes. She wanted to add information, maybe in brackets, like the stage directions an author inserts when writing a play: [Clay bites his lip, looks down at his hands, then up into the principal’s eyes.]
The way Clayton’s voice sounded when he begged not to have his parents called? The poor child had seemed terrified. And the look on Mr. Kelling’s face? She had never seen him so surprised before—almost shocked, but he had managed to hide it pretty well.
Then there was that long pause after Clay said he was really going to try to do better. When Mr. Kelling was deciding what to do, the man sat there completely silent—almost thirty seconds! And the child’s face during that time? It was hard to believe this was the same boy who had glared into the principal’s eyes just last Friday, and told him that preposterous story about newspaper cartoons. Why, Clay had practically called the principal a jackass, right to his face!
What had happened to this boy over the weekend?
She shook her head. All these children, all these different lives.
The bell rang for fifth period.
Mrs. Ormin saved her document. She’d have to print it out later so the principal could sign it.
Then it would go into Clayton’s folder.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHICKEN OR SOMETHING
Hey, little guy—you keepin’ out of trouble?” Mitchell grabbed a banana, then stopped, one hand on the kitchen door.
“Yeah, I am,” said Clay. “How about you?”
Mitch held out his arms, showing off his work uniform. He’d found a job making coffee at a doughnut shop. “You think I’m looking for tough-guy action dressed like this?” Then he got serious. “It’s not so easy, huh?”
Clay shrugged. “I’m doing okay.”
Mitchell smiled at him. “Good man.”
This was the first time in four days that they’d been awake in the same room together. Nodding down at his feet, Mitch said, “I see you’re switching things up a little, huh?” Clay had on his old Velcro high-tops, the ones with the hand-drawn decorations around the white edges. Also, he was wearing one of his new school shirts unbuttoned down the front, with a black T-shirt underneath.
“Well, yeah,” Clay said. “I mean, I can’t wear the same thing every single day, can I?”
Mitch nodded. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah . . . that makes sense. Listen, I gotta get to work. See you at dinner, okay? Straight home from school—no hangin’ around with Hank and them, all right?”
“Yup. See you later.”
It had been ten days since he’d been caught flicking cheese in the cafeteria. Clay had been keeping two promises since then—the one to Mitch, and the one he’d made to Mr. Kelling.
Word had gotten around the school that Hensley was on probation, or that he’d turned chicken or something. That first week after the lunchroom business, every guy in sixth grade had tried to pick a fight with him, or at least that’s how it had felt to Clay.
Even the younger kids had started mouthing off to him on the school bus. And Tobin, the big fifth grader who took that cheese bomb in the ear? The guy tripped him out on the playground, knocked him flat on his face in the grass. Then he stood there with all his little buddies, laughing. But Clay didn’t lose it. He got up, brushed himself off, and walked away. He didn’t even say anything—like, Bet you loved suckin’ on those orange Q-Tips in the nurse’s office, huh? Mmm—all that cheesy goodness!
For a full week Clay had spent time each day clenching and then slowly unclenching his fists. And his jaw muscles. Lots of times it had felt like his stomach was strangling itself. Still, nothing had snapped—not yet. He was taking it one day at a time.
And today was Thursday.
Clay left the house about fifteen minutes after Mitchell. He nodded at the two girls who were waiting at his bus stop, and they both said, “Hi, Clay.” One of them even smiled a little, which was a surprise—somebody being halfway nice to him.
But by the time the bus pulled up a couple of minutes later, he was ready for the worst. He walked up the steep rubber steps with his face set in a tight mask, prepared to ignore everybody, to not react to anything that came flying his way—whether it was words, rubber bands, or spit wads.
He glanced along the aisle and saw that a gang of fifth graders had claimed the seats in the back, and part of him wanted to stomp back there and show the little creeps who was boss. Instead, he mentally shrugged and sat down in the first open seat.
It’s not important. That’s what he told himself. One seat on the bus worked the same as any other.
And sitting there, bouncing around on the hard bench, he realized he wasn’t saying that just to make himself feel better. It was actually true, and he knew it. Front seat, back seat, middle seat—it didn’t matter. At all.
Nothing happened during the whole ride to school. Nobody tossed stuff at him, nobody teased him, no one insulted him. No one paid any attention to him at all. He was feeling like this might turn out to be a pretty good day.
As the bus turned into the wide school driveway Clay looked out the window. Then he groaned to himself.
Hank and the Miller brothers were waiting on the front sidewalk.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HATERS
The school bus squealed to a halt, and when Clay stepped down onto the curb, Hank waved him over.
“Hey, Hensley—I’ve got some news. That girl who moved here from Florida? Allie says she’s got a crush on you. Let’s go around back to the fi
eld and check her out.”
“Yeah!” said Donnie.
Clay smiled. “Sounds like fun . . . except I gotta go to the art room.”
“Now? Oh yeah—you’re still doing that special project, right?”
Hank was smiling, but Clay caught the way he’d said the word “special.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Mr. Dash thinks I’ve got a shot to win something, so I’m goin’ for it.”
Hank shrugged. “No problem. We can catch Allie ’n’ them at lunchtime.”
“Yeah,” Clay said. “Listen, thanks for waiting for me. See you after chorus, okay?”
“Sure thing,” said Hank.
As Clay went in the front doors, he felt Hank watching him. They both knew they weren’t going to be hanging around together at lunch.
Hank was the hardest part about all this, even harder than the new clothes—or those fifth graders acting tough. He was a good guy. Clay wanted to stay friends and everything, but it wasn’t working out.
Last Saturday, after he’d made a ton of promises to Mitch, he and Hank went to see a new sci-fi movie. They sat up in the balcony, and about halfway through the show, Hank started tossing candy wrappers over the railing, and then popcorn, and then chunks of ice from his drink.
An usher came and threw both of them out. Hank began acting like he wanted to start a fight about it. Clay managed to pull him outside, and then Hank tried to start shoving him around. Clay finally got him calmed down, and they waited until Mitch came and drove them home.
It was almost like Hank was turning into him, only meaner. Already it was starting to feel like they weren’t very good friends, at least not like they used to be. Clay felt bad about it.
It wasn’t like he was making up excuses not to hang out, though. What he’d said about going to the art room? That was true. He’d been spending most of his free time there.
The day after the cheese bomb incident, Mr. Dash had told him about an art contest. He said it was a little late to begin, but that it would be good experience anyway. The contest rules were simple. Before November 10 each participant had to turn in a self-portrait, and it could be created in any medium or artistic style. The contest was open to students in grades six through eight in the Belden County schools. A jury of five faculty members from universities and art schools around St. Louis were going to select one grand prize winner, plus some honorable mentions.