CHAPTER

1



It’s not like I’m looking for trouble.

I’ve just scored two seats in the back of the cafeteria—as far away from the food-fight starters and wedgie-givers as I can get—when I look up to see a kid with armpit hair and a bad case of acne standing over me.

“You call that a sandwich?” he says. A thick finger reaches down and grinds into what was about to be my lunch. Ketchup oozes everywhere.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?” he grunts. “You got something to say?”

What I want to say is that he should consider investing in a toothbrush. Instead I stare at the nutrition facts on the back of my milk carton and pretend to be fascinated by how many grams of protein are in a half pint of chocolate milk.

A raspy voice from across the table answers him for me.

“It’s a veggie burger, you idiot.”

I look up and cringe. Franki Saylor may be my best friend, but if word gets around Gatehouse Middle School that a girl had to stick up for me on the first day of sixth grade, I might as well write my own death warrant.

The kid shoves me sideways, knocking me off my chair.

“You talking to me, girl?” he growls, pushing his nose up against hers.

“Who else would I be talking to?” she growls back.

I jump up and try wedging myself between them. “Hey … uh, it’s okay.… I wasn’t g-going to eat it anyway,” I stammer. “I don’t even like veggie burgers. I only bring them because my dad—”

“Charlie…” Franki says my name like it’s a warning, and my stomach tightens in the way that makes me think I’ve pulled the cord on my gym shorts a little too tight.

Acne Guy looks down at me, a creepy grin sliding across his face.

I start to weigh my options. I could make a run for it, but that’ll just call more attention to me. A fake seizure? Probably worse. I know I’m a pretty fast runner, but I’m not too sure about my acting abilities. Maybe if I—

A bell rings and a grown-up’s voice booms from the speaker overhead.

“All right, listen up,” it demands. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m your principal, Dr. Daryl Moody, PhD.” He spells out the last three letters very slowly, as if we’re kindergartners and his first order of business is to review the alphabet with us. A couple of kids boo, while someone throws a half-eaten bagel at the ceiling. “For those of you who don’t wish to know me, I suggest you get moving. Fifth period starts in exactly three minutes. Now scram.”

The kid pulls his finger out of my sandwich.

“This ain’t over, Goldilocks,” he says, flicking one of my curls. I feel a spray of ketchup hit my ear and start dripping down my neck.

“Hey!” Franki warns, but I shoot her a look that thankfully shuts her up.

I swat at the glob hanging from my earlobe and realize I’ve just learned my first lesson at Gatehouse Middle School.

Even the wrong sandwich can put a guy in the hot seat.

And then, as I feel a pair of meaty hands grab my gym shorts and yank them south, I learn my second one.

Never show up at middle school if you’re not wearing underwear.



Copyright © 2016 by Gretchen Kelley