morning already. I even thought about taking out my secret box.
I drag myself to the bus stop. All I wanted to do was stay in bed. I was going to tell mother I was sick, but she goes ballistic if I’m still home when she wakes up.
I’m waiting for the stupid bus when a car pulls up to the curb. I hardly notice it at first, assuming it’s just one of the moms dropping her kid off. But then I see who’s in the car.
It’s Audrey. With her friends.
This is not good.
“Hey, scuzball!” Audrey yells.
All the kids at the bus stop stare at me.
“What kind of loser takes the bus when they’re old enough to drive?” she speculates.
I kind of have to agree with her on that one.
The kids standing closest to me back a few steps away. Everyone knows that Loser is catching.
The car squeals away. For the first time in my life, I can’t wait for the bus to get here. It picked the worst possible day to be late.
A minute later, another car turns down the street. Except it’s not another car. It’s the same car with Audrey and her friends.
As the car gets closer, I realize that they’re all holding shotguns.
This is it.
They’re going to kill me.
I can’t believe this is how it all ends. On a gorgeous spring day under an impossibly blue sky, waiting for the bus.
Unreal.
Audrey leans out the back window. She positions the gun on her shoulder. She targets me through the viewfinder.
Everyone at the bus stop runs.
I should be running, too. I tell myself to run. But really, what’s the point? When I’m dead, I won’t have to endure this relentless pain. Maybe I’ll come back as a kid with a better life. Or maybe I’ll pass over into that alternate universe where outsiders don’t even exist.
So I stand there. Looking straight at Audrey. Daring her to do it.
The first impact hits me in the stomach. Someone screams. Ilook down at myself. There’s a splatter of red on my shirt. More splatters start showing up on my arms. I put my hands over my head and crouch down. I hear the car zoom by.
When it sounds like the car is gone, I slowly take my hands away and look up. One of the middle school girls is crouched behind a tree, crying as her friend hugs her. A freshman boy runs over to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
That’s a good question. Shouldn’t I be dead by now? Red is splattered all over me. Some of the places where I got hit really sting.
“Those paintballs can be rough,” he says.
Paintballs? They shot me with
paintballs
? Those guns looked
real
.
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “But I should probably go home and change.”
“Good thing you crouched down. It could have been a lot worse if they hit you in the face.”
I’m a trembling wreck going home. I try to wipe some paint off my arm where it stings the worst. The red paintblood smears.
My key shakes when I try to put it in the lock. There’s a good chance I might throw up. I try not to wake up mother as I go to my room and close the door. My shirt is ruined. And of course I had to be wearing my only jeans that fit. I take everything off, careful not to get paint on the carpet.
Mother bangs on my door.
“Just a minute,” I say.
“What are you doing home?” she demands through the door.
“Can you give me a minute?” I yell. I put on a fresh shirt and jeans and open the door.
“Why are you here?” mother says.
“I had to change my clothes.”
“Why?”
I kick my splattered jeans and shirt over to her.
“What happened?” she asks. “What’s this all over your clothes?”
“I was waiting for the bus and—” My throat closes up.
I will not cry about this. Not now.
“Some kids shot paintballs at me,” I manage to whisper.
“Are you okay?”
Am I
okay
? Since when does mother care if I’m okay? She even looks concerned like a real mom.
“It hurts,” I say.
“Go to the nurse when you get to school.”
“I missed the bus. Can you drive me?”
Mother never drives me to school. She always makes me walk the
I drag myself to the bus stop. All I wanted to do was stay in bed. I was going to tell mother I was sick, but she goes ballistic if I’m still home when she wakes up.
I’m waiting for the stupid bus when a car pulls up to the curb. I hardly notice it at first, assuming it’s just one of the moms dropping her kid off. But then I see who’s in the car.
It’s Audrey. With her friends.
This is not good.
“Hey, scuzball!” Audrey yells.
All the kids at the bus stop stare at me.
“What kind of loser takes the bus when they’re old enough to drive?” she speculates.
I kind of have to agree with her on that one.
The kids standing closest to me back a few steps away. Everyone knows that Loser is catching.
The car squeals away. For the first time in my life, I can’t wait for the bus to get here. It picked the worst possible day to be late.
A minute later, another car turns down the street. Except it’s not another car. It’s the same car with Audrey and her friends.
As the car gets closer, I realize that they’re all holding shotguns.
This is it.
They’re going to kill me.
I can’t believe this is how it all ends. On a gorgeous spring day under an impossibly blue sky, waiting for the bus.
Unreal.
Audrey leans out the back window. She positions the gun on her shoulder. She targets me through the viewfinder.
Everyone at the bus stop runs.
I should be running, too. I tell myself to run. But really, what’s the point? When I’m dead, I won’t have to endure this relentless pain. Maybe I’ll come back as a kid with a better life. Or maybe I’ll pass over into that alternate universe where outsiders don’t even exist.
So I stand there. Looking straight at Audrey. Daring her to do it.
The first impact hits me in the stomach. Someone screams. Ilook down at myself. There’s a splatter of red on my shirt. More splatters start showing up on my arms. I put my hands over my head and crouch down. I hear the car zoom by.
When it sounds like the car is gone, I slowly take my hands away and look up. One of the middle school girls is crouched behind a tree, crying as her friend hugs her. A freshman boy runs over to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
That’s a good question. Shouldn’t I be dead by now? Red is splattered all over me. Some of the places where I got hit really sting.
“Those paintballs can be rough,” he says.
Paintballs? They shot me with
paintballs
? Those guns looked
real
.
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “But I should probably go home and change.”
“Good thing you crouched down. It could have been a lot worse if they hit you in the face.”
I’m a trembling wreck going home. I try to wipe some paint off my arm where it stings the worst. The red paintblood smears.
My key shakes when I try to put it in the lock. There’s a good chance I might throw up. I try not to wake up mother as I go to my room and close the door. My shirt is ruined. And of course I had to be wearing my only jeans that fit. I take everything off, careful not to get paint on the carpet.
Mother bangs on my door.
“Just a minute,” I say.
“What are you doing home?” she demands through the door.
“Can you give me a minute?” I yell. I put on a fresh shirt and jeans and open the door.
“Why are you here?” mother says.
“I had to change my clothes.”
“Why?”
I kick my splattered jeans and shirt over to her.
“What happened?” she asks. “What’s this all over your clothes?”
“I was waiting for the bus and—” My throat closes up.
I will not cry about this. Not now.
“Some kids shot paintballs at me,” I manage to whisper.
“Are you okay?”
Am I
okay
? Since when does mother care if I’m okay? She even looks concerned like a real mom.
“It hurts,” I say.
“Go to the nurse when you get to school.”
“I missed the bus. Can you drive me?”
Mother never drives me to school. She always makes me walk the
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