Homeroom Headhunters by Clay McLeod Chapman

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    â€œThis is your introduction to the reign of primitive law,” he bellowed. “The law of claw and fang!”
    Sporkboy raised his fist into the air. Yardstick and Compass, too. Each one of them, save for Sully, had scribbled CLAW across the knuckles of their left hand and FANG over their right.
    They roared—“Claw and fang!”
    â€œClaw and fang!”
    â€œClaw and fang!”
    â€œSilence!” Peashooter had spotted me. “Look who finally made it.”
    Sully looked over first.
    â€œSorry I’m late.… What did I miss?”
    â€œWe’ve brought in new blood to strengthen our tribal line,” Peashooter continued. “But first—the lamb must prove he’s worthy of our ranks. He must earn his place among us, as we all did.”
    Just what is Peashooter getting at here?
    â€œReady for your first pop quiz, Spencer?”
    â€œUh…pop quiz?”
    â€œTonight we put your survival skills to the test.”
    â€œSurvival skills? What’s there to survive?”
    â€œ Life is for the strong, ” Peashooter thundered, “ to be lived by the strong, and, if need be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? ”
    I recognized this.
    â€œThe Most Dangerous Game.” He was quoting “The Most Dangerous Game”!
    I’d just read that. I quoted right along with him: “ … I hunt the scum of the earth.”
    Peashooter flashed me his patented grin. “Guess somebody did their homework after all. Sure hope you took notes.”
    â€œSo…what am I supposed to do?”
    â€œYou’ve got to find a way out of the building—or your head will end up mounted to the boiler room wall.”
    Peashooter nodded to Sully.
    â€œThirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight,” her voice intoned. The Tribe all stood, one after the other, picking their javelins up from the floor.
    Hold on a sec, I thought, kicking myself for not finishing my assignment. How exactly did “The Most Dangerous Game” end?
    â€œTwenty-seven…twenty-six…”
    And why is everybody else armed with track-and-field equipment?
    â€œTwenty-five…twenty-four…”
    This doesn’t feel right, Spencer. Something’s really wrong here .…
    â€œTwenty-three…”
    Run, Spence!
    â€œTwenty-two…”
    Now!
    I booked it out of the gym and into the hallway. I could hear the numbers as they slipped away: “Twenty-one…twenty…nineteen…”
    I kept the countdown going for myself, maintaining Sully’s metronome pace just under my breath. “Eighteen…seventeen…sixteen…”
    I had barely made it to the end of the hall before I’d reached the single digits—“Nineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone…”
    A shrill cacophony of gym whistles pierced my ears.
    The hunt was on.
    â€¢ • •
    Let me take this opportunity to briefly explain the layout of Greenfield Middle School.
    Picture an enormous bat.
    Beginning with the two fanged flagpoles on the front lawn, Greenfield was designed to suck the very marrow from its students.
    The administrative offices serve as its head. Once kids walk through the gaping maw of the main entrance, they are plunged into the central hallway. All of the administrative offices funnel through the gullet, from Pritchard’s lair, to attendance, guidance, and the school nurse. From there, you reach the expansive quarters—spaces like the gymnasium, cafeteria, and library—all connected together at the building’s core. Think of this area as the bat’s torso.
    The cafeteria is fittingly positioned around the stomach.
    The library is the heart.
    The gym? Let’s consider that the part of the bat’s anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine.
    But what Greenfield has most in