Bullying
At recess, Stewart and I played catch. I forgot about Joe for a few minutes.
Then someone tapped me hard on my shoulder.
I spun around.
It was Joe.
"How's Dimples' little boo-boo?" he asked.
"Stop calling me that," I said.
"Now don't get so excited," he sneered. "It makes your face look like a tomato—a tomato with worm holes."
He launched himself at me again, raking his claws down my arm. I grabbed a book and beat him back. When he was on the floor on the far side of the bed, I dashed out the door, slamming it behind me. I leaned against it, panting, while he screamed and clawed at the door. What had I done?
At school, I suddenly knew what it was like to be popular. Everyone wanted to talk to me and I didn't for a minute kid myself into thinking they had taken a genuine interest in me. They didn't care about my running or my thoughts on music anymore than they ever had. They always started out with some lame personal questions, but it was all just a lead-up to the inevitable inquisition. Do you know where he is? Did you ever see his dad beat him? What does squirrel meat taste like?
