Dexter the Tough

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Mom didn’t get upset. She started laughing again, sending bursts of giggles through the phone.

  “Oh, Dexter,” she sputtered, gasping for air. “Oh, Dexter—yes!”

  Chapter 14

  Grandma wanted to celebrate.

  “Think we should throw a party?” she asked when Dexter got home from school. “Want to invite some friends? How about that boy you met in the park?”

  “Nn-oo,” Dexter said slowly.

  “Okay, just us,” Grandma said. “I understand. Want to order pizza? Ribs? As far as I’m concerned, tonight you can have all the ice cream you want. . . . ”

  The phone rang just then.

  “Yes, yes,” Grandma said into the receiver. “You heard right. We’re so happy . . . ”

  Dexter walked over to the kitchen window while she was talking. The window looked out on Grandma’s garage, where she’d kept Uncle Ted’s bike before she let Dexter ride it. Maybe she’d never get it back now, because Dexter was too ashamed to go over to the Bryces’ to get it.

  Grandma hung up from her phone call.

  “That was Marilyn Dowd, who lived next door when your mom was a little girl,” she said. “And that reminds me”—she began dialing—“I should let Peggy Fristian know, too. . . . ”

  This time while Grandma was on the phone, Dexter pulled his story out of his backpack. Ms. Abbott had told him that, because of the big news, she’d give him an extension on his story. He wouldn’t have to turn it in until next week.

  “You probably don’t feel like concentrating on schoolwork right now,” she’d said.

  Ms. Abbott hadn’t known until today that Dexter’s dad needed a bone marrow transplant. She didn’t know that Dexter hadn’t felt like concentrating on schoolwork since Dad got sick.

  On the phone, Grandma was telling Peggy Fristian—whoever that was—“I just had to share the good news! Of course we still have to pray for Thomas’s complete recovery, but this is such a miracle. . . . ”

  Dexter reread his story, all the way up to the last line: Robin was crying before Dexter hit him.

  The thing was, Dexter did kind of want Robin to come over and celebrate. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter’s dad was going to be okay. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter’s mom hadn’t just left him behind for no good reason. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter was going to get a dog. He even wanted to tell Robin the jokes about tranplanting marshmallow fluff.

  But Dexter had hit Robin. Dexter had beaten Robin up. And Robin had told his mom about it, and there was no way Robin’s mom would want Robin hanging around with Dexter now.

  Dexter remembered how he thought that when Dad and Mom came home, it would be like nothing bad had ever happened. Dexter didn’t really understand how a bone marrow transplant worked—he thought it was kind of like a do-over in basketball, where Daddy’s body would get a whole new chance to make good blood, instead of bad.

  There wasn’t any kind of a transplant that could undo Dexter beating up Robin.

  How could Mom and Dad have such good news, when everything was still so messed up for Dexter?

  Chapter 15

  “Psst.”

  It was time for recess, the next day. Dexter was just walking out of the school—last, as usual. The “Psst,” came from behind the door, then there was a whisper, “Hey, Dexter. Over here.”

  Dexter let the door swing shut. Robin was crammed in behind the door, like some sort of secret agent.

  “I’ve got someone for you to talk to,” Robin whispered. “Follow me.”

  Robin yanked the door open again and slipped inside.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to—,” Dexter started to say.

  Robin poked his head out the door.

  “What? I can’t hear you through the glass. Come on. Hurry up!”

  Dexter sighed and followed Robin. Who had ever heard of anyone sneaking back into a school building during recess?

  Robin led Dexter away from the fourth-grade hallway, into a part of the building that Dexter had never seen before. Judging from the crooked finger paintings hanging on the wall, it was probably the kindergarten wing.

  “There he is,” Robin said softly.

  A man with a broom was sweeping dirt into a dustpan.

  “Mr. Chandler, this is the kid I was telling you about,” Robin said. “Mr. Chandler, this is Dexter. Dexter, this is Mr. Chandler.”

  Mr. Chandler was young and had a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. He had a bandana wrapped around his head, like a pirate.

  “Nice to meet you, Dexter,” Mr. Chandler said, holding out his hand. “From what Robin tells me, I think I owe you an apology. Something about polishing the floors too well?”

  “Uh . . . ,” Dexter said. He didn’t know what else to do, except shake Mr. Chandler’s hand.

  “Mr. Chandler’s the janitor,” Robin said. “He’s really a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, I felt terrible when Robin told me about you falling down your very first day here,” Mr. Chandler said. “Think I should change the brand of floor wax we use?”

  Dexter shrugged. Robin started nodding like crazy.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Robin said. “Maybe Dexter and me could help you try out the different kinds, see what works best without getting too slippery. Could we?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Chandler said. “I always like having helpers.”

  “See?” Robin told Dexter. “Didn’t I tell you he was nice?”

  Dexter flushed red. What if Robin had told Mr. Chandler that Dexter hated him?

  “It wasn’t just falling down that made me mad,” he mumbled. “The secretary was mean to me, too.”

  “Oh, right, she went off and left you in the middle of the hall,” Robin said. “And you didn’t know where you were or what you were supposed to do.”

  “Betty Sue did that?” Mr. Chandler said. He looked shocked. “Betty Sue’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. She wouldn’t leave a new kid alone when . . . Wait a minute—when was your first day?”

  “Monday. A week ago,” Dexter said.

  “Oooh,” Mr. Chandler said. “I bet I know what happened, then.”

  “What?” Robin asked.

  “Well, one day last week—it had to have been Monday—Betty Sue caught that stomach bug that’s been going around,” Mr. Chandler said. “She kept having to run to the bathroom to throw up. She said she wanted to finish up her work before she went home to rest and get better. And—I remember now—she said she threw up for the first time right before the first bell rang. That must have been when she was taking you to your class. But Betty Sue would have apologized. She wouldn’t have been mean about it.”

  Dexter narrowed his eyes, staring at some kindergartener’s mess of red and blue paint. Now that he thought about it, he remembered that the secretary had looked pale and clammy. And she’d had beads of sweat on her upper lip, right before she’d run away, leaving him behind. And she’d said something, but Dexter hadn’t really heard her. It’d been right then that he’d stepped forward and his feet had flown out from under him, and he’d crashed to the ground and all those kids had laughed at him. And then he’d run into the bathroom.

  And when he came out of the bathroom, and saw the secretary again, maybe she had said something. Maybe she’d made all kinds of apologies. Dexter hadn’t been able to listen to anything then, because his ears were buzzing and his eyes were blurry.

  And his hand hurt, from hitting Robin.

  “Maybe you should talk to Betty Sue,” Mr. Chandler was saying now. “She’d feel really bad if she knew you were still upset. She’d probably bake you some chocolate chip cookies to make it up to you.” He grinned. “If she does, will you share some with me?”

  It was hard to hate Mr. Chandler when he was grinning like that. And it was hard to hate anyone named Betty Sue.

  “That’s okay,” Dexter mumbled, staring at his shoes. “I’m not mad anymore.”

  “That’s great,” Mr. Chandler said, stepping forw
ard to pick up his dustpan. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really need to finish this hallway before the afternoon kindergarteners—”

  Mid-stride, one of his feet shot out from under him. His arms flailed backward, like he was trying to grab for the broom to hold himself up. But the broom flipped over and landed on the handle of the dustpan. It flipped over, too, sending an arc of dust flying up into the air. The dust landed right on top of Mr. Chandler. Flakes of dirt hung in his eyelashes.

  Dexter didn’t mean to laugh, but it was impossible not to. The giggles came bursting out of him. Robin was laughing, too.

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Chandler,” Robin managed to say, between giggles. “We shouldn’t—are you all right?”

  Mr. Chandler stood up and brushed himself off. He took off his bandana and shook the dust from it down into the dustpan.

  “That’s okay. You can’t be a janitor and be afraid of a little dirt. And—I guess I deserved that for polishing the floor so much that even I slip on it. We’re testing new floor cleaners, tomorrow, you hear? And—” He rubbed his elbow, the part that had hit the floor the hardest. “I definitely need your help!”

  Chapter 16

  Dexter sat at Grandma’s kitchen table. With the graham cracker box and two cans of pears, he built a little fortress around his homework paper. He glanced once toward the living room, where Grandma had the TV turned up loud. If he leaned forward a little, he could see her on the couch, slumped over. This time, he wasn’t scared that she was dead. In fact, he was glad she was sleeping. That meant she wouldn’t see what he was working on.

  The reason Robin was crying was because he was homesick. And kids teased him about his name and called him a crybaby. And he’d never gone to school before, just had his mom teach him. And he didn’t know how to make friends. And . . .

  What was he supposed to write next? “And so I hit him”?

  Dexter crumpled the paper and hid it behind the graham cracker box. He got out another sheet of paper. He smoothed it down flat and started over.

  Robin had lots of reasons for crying. None of them had anything to do with me. It wasn’t my fault he was crying.

  I had lots of reasons for being mad, too. The secretary . . .

  Dexter stopped again. He’d sound really stupid if he said he was mad at the secretary for getting sick. That’d be as bad as saying he was mad at Dad for getting sick.

  Wait a minute. Had he been mad at Dad for getting sick?

  Dexter crumpled up that piece of paper, too. He tried again.

  A bunch of kids laughed at me . . .

  Except, Dexter had laughed, too, when Mr. Chandler slipped and fell. He’d looked so funny, spinning his arms in the air, pumping his legs like someone in a cartoon. Nobody could have watched that without laughing.

  Maybe Dexter had looked even funnier.

  Another balled-up piece of paper joined the others behind the graham cracker box.

  Dexter pulled out one more sheet of paper and stared at it. It was blank and white and empty. It stayed empty. The longer it stayed empty, the angrier Dexter got. Finally he picked up his pencil and scrawled:

  This is a STUPID asinement. Nobody should have to do this. It’s dumb. Really, really, really dumb!!!!!

  He’d never in a million years hand that in. But it made him feel better to write it down.

  Chapter 17

  “I am not going to go talk to the principal!” Dexter snapped.

  Robin was bugging him again at recess. He’d found Dexter’s hiding place in the bushes, and crawled in behind him.

  “But, see,” Robin said, pushing leaves out of his face, “my mom says she has a lot of respect for Mr. Wiseman. And she says she can’t imagine him being mean to a new student on purpose, for no reason. So it must just be uh, a misunderstanding, and he’ll apologize, just like Mr. Chandler did. And you’ll feel better—”

  “Wait a minute,” Dexter said, jerking upright so fast that he bumped his head on a branch. “You told your mom that the principal was mean to me?”

  “Ye-essss,” Robin said slowly.

  “Why’d you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

  Robin backed up a little.

  “Because . . . I thought she could help.” he said. “And . . . I didn’t know what else to do. And . . . my mom always helps me.”

  Dexter glared at him.

  “You’re such a baby,” he said. “Don’t you know, by the time you’re in fourth grade, you shouldn’t have to go running to Mommy for every little thing?”

  Robin glared back. Or tried to. His eyes were starting to look a little too watery to hold a good glare.

  “This isn’t a little thing,” he said in a choked voice. “If a principal’s mean to kids—that’s wrong! My mom says sometimes principals even get fired for things like that. And if he was really, really nasty, maybe you should even file a complaint with the school board, so he can be kicked out, so he’s not mean to anyone else. It’s like . . . like why we put criminals in jail, so they can’t hurt anyone else!”

  Dexter pulled a branch down a little so it hid his face.

  “Mr. Wiseman wasn’t that mean,” he said finally. “I mean, he didn’t do anything he should get fired for.”

  “What did he do?” Robin asked.

  Dexter stayed quiet. He kind of hoped that if he stayed quiet long enough, Robin would get bored and wander off. But he peeked out of the leaves, and Robin was still there.

  “He just, uh, he . . . ” Dexter mumbled.

  “What?” Robin demanded.

  “He asked me where my parents were.”

  Dexter was whispering now. He hoped Robin hadn’t heard him.

  But then Robin said, “That’s it! That’s all he did?”

  Dexter shrugged.

  “Did he say it in a really mean way, like—” Robin hunched up his shoulders and made his voice deep and scary-sounding. “ ‘Where are your parents, young man? That’s right! I’m talking to you! Where are your parents?’ ”

  “No,” Dexter admitted. “He didn’t say it like that.”

  “Then how was he mean?”

  Dexter closed his eyes, and it was like he was back in the school office, that first day. He was standing in front of the counter, barely able to see over.

  “Um—hello?” he said, but none of the adults behind the counter heard him. He saw the secretary make a bad face and clutch her stomach for a minute. Then the phone rang and she answered it.

  “Oh, Ethan and Emma are both sick today? What a shame . . . Yes, there is a lot of that going around. . . . ”

  I’m invisible, Dexter thought. I could stand here for hours and nobody would notice. Nobody would care.

  Then a deep voice had boomed overhead.

  “You don’t need a pass to get into class,” the voice said. “The first bell hasn’t rung yet. Just go on to your classroom and you’ll be fine.”

  Dexter looked up at the biggest man he’d ever seen in his life. The man was leaning down toward Dexter, like a giant in a fairy tale. A name tag dangled from a string around the man’s neck: “Jonathan Wiseman, Principal.”

  “I’m new,” Dexter said. “I don’t know where my classroom is.”

  “Oh.” The principal looked around, a puzzled squint on his face. “Where are your parents? They need to come in to register you. . . . ”

  After that, Dexter’s memory got fuzzy. It seemed like he stood there for hours, his face burning, his eyes prickling, his ears ringing with those words, “Where are your parents?” Those words made him feel like an orphan; they made him feel like a kid that nobody loved.

  But maybe it was only a few minutes before the secretary walked over and said, “Oh, this is Dexter Jackson. His grandmother stopped in to register him last week. Her work schedule prevented her from coming in this morning, and she wanted to make sure . . . ”

  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The only words that mattered were the cruel ones: Where are your parents?

  Now he told Robin stiffly, “Y
ou wouldn’t understand.”

  “But . . . then . . . do you want to go talk to the secretary? Remember, Mr. Chandler says she makes really good chocolate chip cookies, and—”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go help Mr. Chandler test out new floor wax?”

  “Robin, that is so stupid! Just leave me alone! Just go away, okay?”

  Dexter’s voice sounded every bit as mean as the pretend-principal voice Robin had imitated.

  On the other side of the branch, Robin’s face was getting blurry. Dexter pulled the branch down all the way in front of him, so it hid him completely.

  When he looked out again, Robin was gone.

  Chapter 18

  Dear Ms. Abbott,

  You know how you said I should do something else, not write about a fight? And I said I wanted to write about a fight? I changed my mind. I don’t want to write about a fight anymore. I’ll write about anything you want me to write about. Just not that fight.

  Sinserly,

  Dexter Jackson

  Dexter clutched his paper as he walked to Ms. Abbott’s desk. He hoped she’d count a letter as his next writing assignment.

  But Ms. Abbott’s eyes narrowed as she read the letter. She tapped her finger on her chin.

  “Dexter?” she said gently. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “I don’t know” Dexter said. “I just did.”

  Ms. Abbott raised one eyebrow.

  “Hmm. We have a problem, then,” she said. “Because I changed my mind too.”

  “You did?” Dexter said. Suddenly he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Yes,” Ms. Abbott said. “Now I think you need to write about that fight.”

  That wasn’t fair. Teachers weren’t supposed to change their minds. They were supposed to know everything. They were supposed to make a decision and stick with it.

  “Why?” Dexter asked.

  Ms. Abbott toyed with one strand of her hair. She wrapped it around her finger, then let it spring free.

  “I have a theory,” she said.

  “What?” Dexter blurted out.