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“You got a shit leak in those saggy diapers, dork?” the even dumber-looking one asked, and they bothsnorted.
“Yeah, she’s so full of shit her eyes arebrown.”
“What’s wrong, baby dork? You gonnacry?”
No. I wasn’t going to cry. My brother had a lot of friends and while they were neverthatmean to me, twelve-year-old boys could be relentless. I knew how to hold my own. I’d cry later, at home, when no one could seeme.
Besides… the new boy was coming over, and I definitely wasn’t crying in front ofhim.
He was in seventh grade, but the rumor was that he was thirteen or even fourteen and had flunked a grade or two. Obviously, he was super cool. He wore an actual leather jacket, black with silver zippers, like rock stars wore. He smoked outside the school, hung out alone at the edge of the school grounds, and spent more time in the principal’s office than the principal. I never knew what he did to get in trouble, but whatever it was, he did it alot.
The other kids in my class thought he was scary. I just thought he wassad.
Ever since Dad died, I knew sad when I sawit.
The bullies saw him coming and they started getting squirrelly. I thought they’d run but he was there too fast, closing the distance with his leisurely, long-leggedstride.
“You guys’re so interested in shit, there’s some over here I can show you, yeah?” He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, as the bullies started goingpale.
I slipped my headphonesoff.
“Naw, I don’twanna—”
“Sure you do, it’s right over here.” He toed the ground at his feet with his sneaker. The grass was still damp from a bit of rain in the afternoon and mud squishedout.
The bullies started shaking and sniveling, babbling apologies and excuses. There was a brief, almost wordless negotiation, at the end of which they ended up on their knees in front ofhim.
He hadn’t moved. His hands were still in hispockets.
“Just have a little taste and tell me if it’s fresh,” he told them, in a tone that brooked no argument, squishing his foot in the muckagain.
Then he looked up, his brown hair flopping over one eye, and winked atme.
I stared from my perch atop Thunderdome with unabashed, eight-year-old awe as the bullies bent forward,shuddering.
He was going to make them eatshit!
Forme!
I was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it was just wet mud, but those bullies were scared enough to believe it. And ate it, theydid.
He then told them to apologize to me, which they also did, eyes downcast and shaking, spluttering mud. One of them was crying, snuffling through his snot and tears. Then he told them to beat it and they ran away, blubbering and tripping over their ownfeet.
I stared down at my savior as his unkempt hair fluttered in the breeze. He wore a Foo Fighters T-shirt under his leather jacket and his jeans were ripped, like mine. “You can go home now, you know,” he said, like maybe I wasslow.
I just sat there, picking dried mud from myjeans.
“Aren’t your parentswaiting?”
I didn’t answer. I knew better than to answer questions likethat.
When other kids found out what happened to Dad they either made fun of me or worse, they felt sorry for me. And Jesse said not to tell anyone Mom was sick again. He said if they knew how sick she was, they might take us away fromher.
So I said, “I’m waiting for mybrother.”
He glanced around at the empty playground. “Who’s your brother? And why isn’t he here kicking those little shits up theass?”
“Jesse,” I said. “My brother is Jesse. He’s in detention withZane.”
