from our school.
“Switch it off and we’ll do the same to you,” one grunted.
Sinus cocked his head and looked them in the eye. “Interesting image,” he said. “But it doesn’t really make sense as a threat, does it? Why not just tell me you’ll deck me if I touch it? Far more effective that way, isn’t it?”
They looked at each other, completely baffled by this lesson in bullying, before both throwing their fists in his direction.
Strangely, Sinus understood this threat clearly, and ran toward the exit, pulling the TV’s plug out of the wall as he went.
I’d never seen him move so quickly, especially when they threatened to pick him up by his nose.
They could’ve fit a fist up each nostril with ease. Not that I bothered telling them myself; I was in enough trouble as it was.
Sadly, the ribbing wasn’t limited to the cafeteria. It started when I stepped inside the gates at eight a.m. and didn’t stop, even when I was taking orders over the takeout counter in the evening.
I had a nickname too, one to rival Sinus. But it wasn’t the Pocket Rocket, as it had once been.
Nope, I was now the Bubble Wrap Boy to anyone who knew me, and to plenty who didn’t.
Sinus and I hid our way through the school day like a couple of outcasts, trying to find humor in the new and varied ways they found to ridicule me, but every minute of every day physically hurt. Especially since I’d been so close, for once, to some kind of acceptance.
I felt their taunts whacking me on the head, pressure building, making me feel shorter by the second, but each time I was in danger of disappearing into the mud, Sinus picked me up and told me not to worry.
“It could be worse—you could be our Bunion,” he’d offer, and that would keep me going to the end of break, at least.
He was no less weird than usual, though, still as obsessed as ever with his notebook and walls.
He became really fixated on one massive expanse of brick just outside the school gates, the side of a row house that overlooked the classrooms. It loomed large enough to remind me of the skate ramp, and was visible from pretty much every part of Bellfield Academy.
It was, in short,
his
kind of wall, and so when some graffiti appeared on it, he took a particular interest in it.
Well, I say graffiti. At first it was just one letter, a huge, thirteen-foot-high
B
that had been crudely sprayed. Someone either had very long arms or a freakin’ big ladder.
“What do you make of that?” he asked as he stared critically at it.
“What?”
“That!”
He nodded, like he needed to debate the merit of it.
“What, the graffiti?”
“Is it graffiti?” he asked. “Is that what you think it is?”
“Well, it’s not the
Mona Lisa,
is it? And unless we’re living on Sesame Street, then what’s the point? We all know what a
B
is.”
He didn’t say anything else, just stared at it over his shoulder as we walked away, pausing for one last look before we turned the corner.
“Is it all right if Sinus comes in for a bit?” I asked Mom from the other side of the counter at Special Fried Nice.
She eyed my friend suspiciously, Sinus returning her stare with the most innocent one he owned. He knew Mom didn’t like him, but as usual, he didn’t care.
“We’ve got homework to do. A project.”
“I say he can,” chipped in Dad, eyes watering as he skillfully diced the biggest onion I’d ever seen.
Mom glared at him, leaving Dad to shrug and continue chopping.
“As a trial, yes,” she said eventually. “But don’t think I’ve forgiven you or your brother for lending our Charlie that skating board.”
I cringed at her mistake.
“Skateboard.”
“Whatever. Death trap is what it was. A noose on wheels.”
She shook her head and pulled her scarf around her neck.
She must have guessed what had been going on for me at school those last few weeks. Maybe this minute softening was her way of telling me she was sorry for what she’d caused? Doubtful,
“Switch it off and we’ll do the same to you,” one grunted.
Sinus cocked his head and looked them in the eye. “Interesting image,” he said. “But it doesn’t really make sense as a threat, does it? Why not just tell me you’ll deck me if I touch it? Far more effective that way, isn’t it?”
They looked at each other, completely baffled by this lesson in bullying, before both throwing their fists in his direction.
Strangely, Sinus understood this threat clearly, and ran toward the exit, pulling the TV’s plug out of the wall as he went.
I’d never seen him move so quickly, especially when they threatened to pick him up by his nose.
They could’ve fit a fist up each nostril with ease. Not that I bothered telling them myself; I was in enough trouble as it was.
Sadly, the ribbing wasn’t limited to the cafeteria. It started when I stepped inside the gates at eight a.m. and didn’t stop, even when I was taking orders over the takeout counter in the evening.
I had a nickname too, one to rival Sinus. But it wasn’t the Pocket Rocket, as it had once been.
Nope, I was now the Bubble Wrap Boy to anyone who knew me, and to plenty who didn’t.
Sinus and I hid our way through the school day like a couple of outcasts, trying to find humor in the new and varied ways they found to ridicule me, but every minute of every day physically hurt. Especially since I’d been so close, for once, to some kind of acceptance.
I felt their taunts whacking me on the head, pressure building, making me feel shorter by the second, but each time I was in danger of disappearing into the mud, Sinus picked me up and told me not to worry.
“It could be worse—you could be our Bunion,” he’d offer, and that would keep me going to the end of break, at least.
He was no less weird than usual, though, still as obsessed as ever with his notebook and walls.
He became really fixated on one massive expanse of brick just outside the school gates, the side of a row house that overlooked the classrooms. It loomed large enough to remind me of the skate ramp, and was visible from pretty much every part of Bellfield Academy.
It was, in short,
his
kind of wall, and so when some graffiti appeared on it, he took a particular interest in it.
Well, I say graffiti. At first it was just one letter, a huge, thirteen-foot-high
B
that had been crudely sprayed. Someone either had very long arms or a freakin’ big ladder.
“What do you make of that?” he asked as he stared critically at it.
“What?”
“That!”
He nodded, like he needed to debate the merit of it.
“What, the graffiti?”
“Is it graffiti?” he asked. “Is that what you think it is?”
“Well, it’s not the
Mona Lisa,
is it? And unless we’re living on Sesame Street, then what’s the point? We all know what a
B
is.”
He didn’t say anything else, just stared at it over his shoulder as we walked away, pausing for one last look before we turned the corner.
“Is it all right if Sinus comes in for a bit?” I asked Mom from the other side of the counter at Special Fried Nice.
She eyed my friend suspiciously, Sinus returning her stare with the most innocent one he owned. He knew Mom didn’t like him, but as usual, he didn’t care.
“We’ve got homework to do. A project.”
“I say he can,” chipped in Dad, eyes watering as he skillfully diced the biggest onion I’d ever seen.
Mom glared at him, leaving Dad to shrug and continue chopping.
“As a trial, yes,” she said eventually. “But don’t think I’ve forgiven you or your brother for lending our Charlie that skating board.”
I cringed at her mistake.
“Skateboard.”
“Whatever. Death trap is what it was. A noose on wheels.”
She shook her head and pulled her scarf around her neck.
She must have guessed what had been going on for me at school those last few weeks. Maybe this minute softening was her way of telling me she was sorry for what she’d caused? Doubtful,
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