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was, there was no way I could look glum enough
to show her just how much I d enjoyed my intro-
duction to Bullywell.
Our eyes met, and in that instant, I saw how
the last month must have looked, from my mom s
point of view, the terrible sorrow and confusion of
having Dad die so horribly before they could
begin to sort things out. I saw what it must have
felt like to know that she d been just a few
degrees of fever my fever away from dying
herself and leaving me to . . . what? To be raised
by Gran or one of the aunts? I saw how terrifying
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it had been for her.
Mostly I saw how desperately she wanted
things to be positive and normal, how much she
needed me to like my new school, how badly she
wanted me to appreciate the privileged education
that had come as a gift, a pitiful consolation prize
for all that pain and disaster. She wanted me to
have the kind of education she thought I d get at
Baileywell. Or maybe she wanted me to get to
know rich, powerful people or, at least, rich kids
who would grow up to be powerful people as if
that could somehow protect me and keep me safe.
But didn t she know that plenty of rich and power-
ful people had died, along with Dad, along with
weak and poor ones? And didn t she understand
that there was nothing safe about Bullywell?
At that moment, I understood that even with
the new and better job, the new clothes, even with
the satisfaction of firing Caroline, she wasn t a
new person. What had happened to Mom to us
both would never just go away. Life would never
be the same for her, she might never completely
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recover. And the strangest part was, it was as if Dr.
Bratwurst was right, as if Baileywell was teaching
me to see things from the little guy s point of
view maybe not the little guy, but more impor-
tant, my own mother.
I looked at Mom, and I actually smiled.  It
was fine, I said.  I liked it. The kids are really
nice. I learned a lot.
For a heartbeat, I worried that maybe I d laid
it on a little too thick. Maybe I shouldn t have
added that part about the kids being nice. But
Mom didn t seem to notice, or maybe she didn t
want to. She hugged me, then pulled back to look
at me again, and there were tears in her eyes.
 I m so happy, she said.  I m so relieved. Are
you hungry? I m making pot roast.
 I could eat, I said.
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CHAPT ER F I VE
nd so began my sad career as one of the
Abully-ees at Bullywell. Because that was
how it broke down: the bullies and the bullied.
And though it always took place in secret, totally
undercover, you knew that it was happening,
because it was happening to you.
At first I thought I was the only unfortunate
victim, but then, from time to time, I d catch a
certain look in someone s eyes, and I d understand
that it was happening to that person, too. After a
while, I began to see that there was a system: Every
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bully had his own personal bully-ee as well as
groups of fellow bullies to help with the bullying
process. It was as if the school population was
divided into little cults or cliques or clubs, each of
them based on who was doing the pushing around
and who was getting pushed.
Tyro Bergen, my so-called Big Brother, had
appointed himself and his friends to be my chief
tormentors. At first the incidents were so subtle, I
wasn t even sure if they were really happening or
if they were just my paranoid fantasies. Did some-
one purposely dip my tie in the open-faced-turkey-
sandwich gravy on the lunch line, or had I done it
myself, by mistake? The first time I tripped over
someone s foot in the hall and nearly landed on
my face and the kid said,  Hey, man, I m sorry, I
sort of believed him. But by the fourth time it hap-
pened, I d stopped believing that it was an inno-
cent mistake. I d had a silver ballpoint pen I liked
that had belonged to my dad. When it disap-
peared, I honestly didn t know if I d lost it or if
someone had swiped it. I was really sad about that,
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sadder than I would have imagined. I kept telling
myself that I d lost a pen, not a person. But I had
lost a person the person who d given me the
pen. Whenever I thought about that, I d feel awful
all over again. So I tried not to dwell on it.
I suppose I should have been honored,
because Tyro was such a star. I should have been
flattered that this school celebrity had chosen to
torment little me. But of course I wasn t flattered.
I was nervous and unhappy and a little well,
more than a little scared. Because I didn t know
how far things would go, how far Tyro would take
it, how crazy he was, and what he had in store for
me until I gave up and left school or threatened to
jump off the tower.
It was almost like we had a relationship.
Practically like we were dating, or conducting
some insane romance. When I was in the seventh
grade I d had what I guess you could call a crush
on a girl named Anna Simonson. I d find myself
thinking about her when I didn t think I was
thinking about anything at all. I d wonder if she
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was thinking about me. At school I was always
superconscious of where she was, superaware
when I passed her in the hall or on the stairs. In a
strange way, it was like that with me and Tyro. I
thought about him semiconstantly, and I won-
dered if he was thinking about new ways to tor-
ment me. Thinking about Tyro occupied as much
of my spare time as thinking about Anna
Simonson had taken up.
Little by little, the bullying escalated. I knew I
should been taking some action. I should have
told Mom or one of the more sympathetic teach-
ers, or even sucked it up and gone to Dr.
Bratwurst. What did I care about being a snitch? I
had something to snitch about! There were
important things at stake. My life, for example.
Even if Tyro s dad owned the school and they
had to decide between him and me, it was fine
with me if they decided to keep him and kick me
out on my butt. But I knew that would break my [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]