Until he opened his mouth.
It happened at our lockers on his second day back. Jamie and I got out into the hall first, and she said to me, “Remember, you are not going to start anything with Bowen, right?”
“Why would I start anything?”
“Well, he’s been kind of mad, because . . . umm . . . apparently, some of the guys were calling him a cheese tool at soccer practice yesterday after school. At least, that’s what I heard last night.”
“So you mean he’s going to start something.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“In that case, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be nice. You’ll see.”
“NO!” she wailed.
“What? You said to be nice, so I’ll be nice.”
“I didn’t say to be nice. I just said not to start anything. Bowen hates when people are nice.”
Because that makes sense, I thought. But I kind of knew what she meant. Bowen seemed to think that being nice was a sign of weakness. If he thought someone was being too nice, he might pounce.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be moderately unfriendly, but not aggressive.”
She beamed. “Perfect!”
Jamie walked into homeroom. And then Bowen was next to me, glaring.
“Uh, welcome back,” I said. Stupid, I thought. Too friendly.
“Yeah, I’m sure you really missed me. Thanks for the new nickname, by the way.”
“Uhh . . . you’re welcome?” That probably wasn’t actually the brightest response, but come on—what was I supposed to say?
“Are you being sarcastic with me?”
“No. Why?” Crud. That sounded sarcastic.
“Because . . . oh, never mind. Just stay out of my way.”
“Okay.”
He fiddled around in his locker for a while, and so did I, because I couldn’t find a worksheet that was due for math class. I’m not generally known for my locker neatness. I mean, it’s not like anybody gets famous for locker organization. But my locker kind of explodes when I open it. So anyway, the worksheet was somewhere in a massive ball of papers at the bottom of everything I owned. I had to move my jacket and textbooks onto the floor first, and then start going through the papers layer by layer, in order to have any chance of finding the stupid homework sheet.
I got down so deep into the bottom of my locker that I felt like I should be wearing one of those miners’ helmets with a lamp attached to the front.
Then I heard Bowen’s muffled voice from far above. “And whatever you thought you saw the other day in my car, you didn’t see it.”
I stopped looking for my worksheet. I stopped moving. I almost stopped breathing.
“Come on, Falconer,” Bowen said. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
I still didn’t move. Then Bowen must have kicked the metal frame between his locker and mine. The noise and vibration were like being inside a gong. I jerked my head up and back, nearly tearing my left ear off against the edge of my locker door.
“Oww! What do you want me to say, Bowen? I’m sorry you started a fight, and then got in trouble with your dad for it?” I clutched my ear, which felt like it was cut pretty badly. I really hoped Bowen didn’t decide to take a swing at me right at that moment, because I was afraid I might bleed to death if I had to stop pressing on the ear in order to defend myself.
I did the Mr. Overbye trick. I stared over Bowen’s head and forced myself to breathe. Then I spoke as calmly as I could. “Bowen, it looked to me like your father punched you. I am sorry that happened.”
Oopsie, now I had done it. I had been nice to Bowen Strack.
“My father didn’t punch me. You must be blind. Or maybe you just couldn’t see from way down at your low level, you stupid, shrimpy little idiot.”
He slammed his locker, nearly breaking my right kneecap with the door, and stormed off into homeroom. Then the bell rang, and as the class filed out, Jamie saw me crouched there, bleeding onto my pile of papers. I finally found the math sheet, just in time to spatter it with a few big drops of gore.
Splendid.
Of course, as soon as I got to class, Jamie whispered something to the teacher and I got sent to the nurse. On my way to The Bird’s office, I realized something weird: Bowen and my mom had reacted in the exact same way. They had both lashed out when somebody got close to the ugly truth, even though they were the ones who had brought it up in the first place.
I didn’t get it.
The Bird sat me down and actually asked me, “What seems to be the problem? What symptoms are you having?”
I was like, I keep feeling this weird urge to clasp both hands to my ear, and all my tissues have turned red. Do you think this means anything?
But then she leaned in very close to my face, stared for a moment, and said, “Oh, dear. Don’t panic, but I think you’re, um, bleeding?”
She gently pulled my hands, and the tissue I’d grabbed during my one second of math class, away from the side of my head. Then she said, “Yes, you’re definitely bleeding.”
And you’re definitely the smartest nurse in this whole building!
“All right,” The Bird intoned ominously, “there’s only one way I’m going to be able to stop this bleeding. But it’s going to sting a bit. And I’m not really supposed to be doing this in school, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this on the—how do you kids say it nowadays? On the down deep?”
“Uh, I think the expression you’re looking for is ‘on the down low.’ ”
“Excellent. Can you keep this on the up tight?”
“The down low.”
“Exactly. That’s what I said. Anyway, I’m going to use an oldie but a goodie on your ear. It’s called a styptic pencil, and it will stop the bleeding right away. Shrinks those blood vessels right up! The only negative is the stinging. Did I mention that part?”
“Yes, I believe it came up,” I said. Meanwhile, I was thinking, Holy cow! This is a woman who routinely sprays Lysol on open wounds. How badly must this stuff hurt if she feels the need to mention it repeatedly?
Unfortunately, I found out.
It sure did stop the bleeding, though. And I was pretty sure my class couldn’t hear my agonized yelps from two halls away.
* * *
I got through the next few classes by completely avoiding contact with Bowen. I even managed to stay out of his way all through lunch. It was Mr. Kurt’s class that did me in. When we got there, he announced that we had a special guest. It was a puppeteer. I was like, Hey! Welcome back to kindergarten!
Apparently, when he wasn’t being an overly friendly hippie, Mr. Kurt spent his spare time befriending bizarre children’s artists. Today’s oddball was called The Incredible Oswaldo, and his mission in life was to teach children about fairy tales through the use of lovable handheld sock puppets.
I thought, I guess once your parents name you The Incredible Oswaldo, it sort of does narrow your career options. But seriously, puppets?
While The Incredible Oswaldo was getting set up for his show, which was titled—I’m not kidding—Fairy Ridiculous Fun, Mr. Kurt warned us that if we didn’t behave, we wouldn’t have any more special guests.
“Special dorks is more like it,” Bowen stage-whispered.
Mr. Kurt gave him what, coming from Mr. Kurt, qualified as a Look of Death. From any normal teacher, it would only have been a Look of the Common Cold, or possibly a Look of Mild Bowel Discomfort. But at least it made Bowen shut up for a while.
Then the show started. I had to say, the “Incredible” part might have been a stretch, but this guy was at least worthy of being called The Perfectly Adequate Oswaldo. Or maybe The Mildly Talented, But Definitely Better Than Worksheets Oswaldo. Somewhere in that ballpark.
He did sock-puppet Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Well, Snow White and the One Dwarf with a Lot of Different Accents. Then there was Rumpelstiltskin on Strings, followed in rapid succession by Hansel and Gretel Get Tangled Up in Oddly Non-Sibling-Like Ways, a
nd then an emergency intermission, during which The Now-Flustered Oswaldo asked Mr. Kurt for his sharpest pair of scissors.
I thought, That doesn’t sound good. Maybe Hansel and Gretel would have been better off with the witch.
The second half of the show was, unfortunately, different. It involved ventriloquism. And a small dummy. And—for reasons known only to The Increasingly Eccentric Oswaldo, who left the room for a moment and came back in wearing a long blond wig—cross-dressing. It struck me that his hair was the exact same shade as Jamie’s. I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
I knew I was in trouble as soon as Oswaldo sat down and put his dummy on his lap. The dummy’s hair was the same color as mine. I thought, Oh, no. This is like third-grade field day all over again. Please don’t notice, Bowen. Please don’t notice. Please don’t—
Before The Doomed Oswaldo even had a chance to begin his skit, Bowen shouted out, “Hey, look! It’s Jamie and Maverick!”
The whole class cracked up. I mean, except for Jamie and me. And maybe Nate. He was sitting right next to me, and I was pretty sure he only fake laughed. But still. After the way Bowen had abused him, why was he still even bothering to fake it? Nothing Nate did made any sense.
But I had other things to worry about.
Oswaldo seemed to be doing some kind of comedy routine about an elf and a fairy princess, but I couldn’t hear any of the dialogue, because Bowen was substituting his own, just loudly enough that every kid could hear what he was saying, but Mr. Kurt didn’t seem to notice. That was probably because he was messing around on his laptop.
I had to admit, Bowen had a certain flair for evil. Anyway, his lines went something like this.
JAMIE (high-pitched voice): Oh, Maverick! What did you say? The evil wizard has cast a spell on you? And now you’re the smallest elf in the kingdom?
MAVERICK (even higher-pitched voice): Yes! Help me!
JAMIE: I don’t know, Maverick. The last time I tried to help you, you knocked out my two front teeth. Then I went to the wizard for help, and he turned me into an ugly giant!
MAVERICK: But you can’t just leave me like this. I’ll be eaten by an eagle. Or a hummingbird. Or a really hungry mosquito. Maybe—
JAMIE: Maybe what?
MAVERICK: Maybe you could just kiss me. That always works in these stories!
JAMIE: That sounds kind of risky. You’re so small. What if I accidentally swallow you?
MAVERICK: Oh, Jamie, for a kiss from you, there’s no chance I wouldn’t take. Now, bend down here and smack one on me, you titanically huge mega-babe.
JAMIE: Mmm . . . mmm . . . mmm . . . this is great . . . I mean, I think I feel something. Like a teensy little tickle.
MAVERICK: Whooooaaaa! This is like kissing a Transformer!
JAMIE: Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . ahchoo! Oh, no! He’s GONE! I just sneezed away my mini-elf boyfriend. What am I going to do?
During this entire horrifying scene, I sat slumped in my chair, too embarrassed to move or say anything. I didn’t want to get in trouble. And I didn’t want to get in another scene with Bowen after I’d told Jamie I wouldn’t. But I wasn’t sure how much of this I could take before I snapped. I decided to count down from ten and then take heroic action, whatever that meant.
I made it to three.
That was when Jamie jumped up out of her seat and said, “Shut up, Bowen Strack, you drooling, evil gorilla!”
His friends started to make their usual ooh sounds. In response, she spun around, pointed her finger at each of them in one sweeping motion, and said, “You, too! You’re all too immature to live. I swear to God, if Bowen didn’t tell you to breathe, you’d probably all suffocate.”
The Defeated Oswaldo sadly placed his hands in his lap, and Mini-Elf Maverick collapsed in a heap. I knew how both of them felt.
Mr. Kurt asked Jamie, “What has gotten into you? My friend here is trying to put on a show for all of you. Why on earth would you suddenly jump up and ruin it?” He looked like he might cry.
This was definitely the most pathetic English class ever, and that included the time I’d glued the Captain to my finger. Plus that other time in second grade when that one girl had wet her pants at story time, and then tried to pretend a puddle of apple juice had mysteriously appeared all around her. Her family had moved out of town within a month. Coincidence? I think not.
Anyway, Jamie laughed. That was never a good sign.
“I didn’t ruin your class. Bowen did. How did you not hear him? Every kid in here did. He was making fun of me under his breath for the last five minutes while you were checking your email.”
Oswaldo gave Mr. Kurt an injured look, and Mr. Kurt shrugged at him. Then Mr. Kurt said, “Whatever you heard, young lady, I didn’t notice any disturbance until you stood up and stopped the show. You will write my friend here an apology letter by tomorrow.”
“But Bowen—”
“Is that understood?”
“But—”
“I said, is that understood?”
Jamie nodded.
Wow, she had gotten Mr. Kurt so mad, he had forgotten to be a hippie.
Dude.
Right after class, Jamie and Bowen almost started throwing punches in the hallway. I pushed my way up to them, grabbed Jamie’s shoulder, and pulled her aside.
“Jamie,” I said, “I thought you said not to pick fights with Bowen.”
“Ooh,” Bowen said, loudly enough for everyone around us to hear, “Looks like fairy tales do come true! Is little Mavvy going to stand up for his supersize girlfriend?”
“I told you not to fight with Bowen,” Jamie said. “I didn’t say I wasn’t allowed to kick his butt.”
“Oh, she’s feisty, too! Is that how you like your women, Maverick? Big and spicy?”
Jamie turned away from me and raised a fist. I reached up, grabbed her arm, and said, “No! This is what he wants!”
“Hey! It’s Maverick, the Elf Psychologist!”
Jamie said, “Come on, Maverick! I just want to hit him once.”
“Kissy kissy, Jamie!”
“I mean twice!”
“Kissy kissy, tiny Mavvy!”
“Well, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to hit him first!”
Some random eighth-grade teacher arrived a few seconds later, but by the end of the day, it was arranged: Bowen and I would meet at a park off school property. There wasn’t going to be any backing down this time. The Bee wasn’t going to show up. I felt like the whole year had been leading to this point.
Actually, I felt like we’d been heading for this fight since that day we’d rolled around next to the Dumpster in third grade.
It seemed as though everybody in the entire sixth grade showed up for the fight. I got there a little bit late, actually, because I had stopped in a school bathroom for a few moments after the last bell just to be alone. Well, that, and to have a panic attack. I locked myself into the far corner bathroom stall, which had a window ledge running all along one side, and hoisted myself up onto the ledge so my feet were dangling down. Then I tried to take deep breaths.
It was bad enough that Bowen was going to pummel me. But if I fainted at his feet before the fight even started, my cowardice would become legendary. Middle school poets would sing of it for decades to come. I needed to concentrate on something that would calm me down. I rubbed my hands frantically on the fronts of my pant legs, because my palms were dripping with sweat.
That was when I felt my dad’s star, and got an idea.
I slid down off the ledge, took the star out of my pocket—carefully, because if it slipped out of my hand and into the toilet, it would be tragic. I lifted up the white hoodie I was wearing, and carefully pinned the star onto the left front of my T-shirt, right over my heart. Then I pulled the sweatshirt back down.
I thought, Calm down. Dad was a hero. You are his son. You can do this.
Another part of me was murmuring, very quietly, Wait!
Dad DIED a hero. Why is this comforting again?
But I tried really, really hard to ignore it as I strode manfully out of the stall, washed and dried my hands, and headed out to the park.
The crowd parted for me as though they could feel my force field of doom. There were whispers around me, and I might have detected a few snickers. For all I knew, some people might have been placing bets, although probably the odds weren’t running in my favor. I headed for the mulch-covered area between the picnic pavilion and the swing sets, where Bowen stood, surrounded by a sea of black jackets. Nate was there. I caught his eye, and he looked away.
Jamie was there, too. Apparently, she had cooled off some since the scene in the hall, because she grabbed my sleeve and said, “You don’t have to do this, Maverick. It’s stupid. It doesn’t prove anything. Everybody knows Bowen’s a jerk.”
I stopped and looked up at her for a minute. She was breathing hard and fast, and I realized that she was the only kid on the whole playground who looked scared for me.
Then she said, “Besides, he’s three times your size. Why should you—”
But I had already pushed past her. In the end, it was always about how the little guy is just supposed to step aside and let things happen without fighting back.
Forget that. “Let’s go, Bowen,” I croaked. It had sounded a lot tougher in my head.
I was rather surprised to see that Bowen didn’t have his usual smirk going. “Are you totally sure you want to do this, Maverick? We’re off school grounds. Nobody’s going to stop this once it starts.”
I forced myself to laugh. “Oh, sure,” I said. “You were brave enough when you were making fun of a girl today. But now that it’s fighting time, you’re hoping I chicken out for you? Well, it’s never going to happen. So come on!”
“You come on!” he snapped.
“Unlike you,” I said, “I don’t start fights. I finish them!” I thought that sounded pretty cool for a guy who was practically shaking.
Then Bowen said something else I don’t remember, and I said something lame back, and each of us got shoved from behind by the crowd somehow. When we banged into each other, I put up my fists, and so did he.
The Secret Sheriff of Sixth Grade Page 9
