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“I don’t know,” I said, “but not your dad, that’s for goddamn sure.”
The peals of laughter seemed to strike Jason in the back as he hunched over and flinched as if the insults were directed at him, instead of me.
“You look confused, buddy,” I said. “You need me to explain that one?”
“You think you’re so fucking smart?” Jason said. “You just insulted yourself ten times over. But you know what?” He smiled darkly. He had the simple truth on his side, and he knew it. “It doesn’t matter how clever you think you are. You’re just Sock Boy, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
His hand snaked out and he shoved my half-full tray of food into my lap, painting my pants and white dress shirt with spaghetti sauce and milk.
“Ooops!” Jason said, jumping out of his seat. “My bad.”
I shot to my feet, ignoring the cold milk in my crotch and hot spaghetti sauce on my stomach, and stared him down, nose to nose. My hands were balled so tightly into fists that my knuckles ached. Jason didn’t back down and the entire cafeteria went quiet, watching.
“Go ahead,” Jason seethed in a low whisper. “Take your shot. I got six witnesses who’ll say it was an accident. You’ll lose your precious scholarship. You wanna take that chance, Sock Boy?”
I sure as hell did. But hitting him would get me kicked out. Ratting on him was out of the question. That left letting it go like a goddamn chump.
“What’s going on, guys?” asked a friendly voice.
Out of my periphery, I saw a tall guy, dark hair, big. He looked older than the rest of us.
Lots of kids talked on the first day of school, informing incoming seventh graders of their place in the Sinclair caste system. Jefferson Drake, a football-playing senior at the Academy, was the most popular kid in school. King of Sinclair. His little brother, Connor, was the prince.
I guessed this was him.
Connor stood with his hands in his pockets, casual, as if he owned the school, instead of being just another twelve-year-old kid.
Jason smirked and turned away. “Nothing,” Jason said. “Sock Boy had a little accident.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Connor said, frowning at the mess on my uniform. “Why you gotta be an asshole, Kingsley?”
“I’m not. Just clumsy, I guess,” Jason said, but he backed off. “See you around, Sock Boy. Shame about your shirt.” He clucked his tongue. “You can always write another essay. Call it ‘Laundry Day’ and maybe the school will pay for a new uniform.”
“Maybe your mom will,” Connor said, grinning.
Jason laughed and the two bumped fists. “See you at practice, Drake.”
“I hope so. You need it.”
Jason flipped him two middle fingers and took his crowd away with him.
Fuck all of these guys, I thought.
I angrily brushed cold spaghetti noodles off my pants. The slacks were black and hid the stain, but my shirt looked like I’d been shot in the gut.
“Shit.”
“You got a spare?” Connor asked.
“Fuck off.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, just trying to help. I have extra, and my house isn’t far from here. If we left now, we can be back before bell.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“It’s either that or you go the rest of the day looking like an extra in a bad horror movie.”
Connor’s friendly grin was seemingly a permanent fixture to his face.
