I explode out of the school, running with all my might, looking over my shoulder, panting and wheezing by the time I reach the big tree past the playground. I drop my book bag and sit down. I made it. I’m not a pussy today.

“Hello, Henry.”

I blink and Nicholas is standing above me, and five other kids all appear from behind the tree. I start to wheeze. I can’t breathe. Nicholas shoves his foot on my chest and now I can’t catch my breath at all. “Henry here almost pooped his pants today. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”

The kids start singing that. “Henry is a poo-poo pants. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”

“Read us some more poetry,” Nicholas says, and he holds up a book. “I took Sister Marion’s poetry book just for you.” He opens it and shoves it into my lap. “Read.”

Tears start streaming down my cheeks. Oh God, not the tears. “I—I—I can’t,” I sob.

“You can,” Nicholas says, and he yanks me off the tree, flattening me on my back. Then he’s sitting on my chest, holding the book, reading it for me. “Now you,” he says, shoving it against my face. I suck in air, but it won’t come. I start to push against the book and Nicholas. But suddenly, he’s gone. I scramble back and onto my hands to find the new boy punching Nicholas. Now Nicholas is on his back and the new boy is on top of him. I can’t watch. I scramble to my feet and take off running.

***

“Thomas Whitaker! Kevin is here! It’s time to leave for school.”

At my mom’s shout, I grab my book bag and run downstairs. I head for the door only to have her call out, “Stop right there, young man!”

“Oh, Mom,” I moan, slumping forward and turning to look at her.

She wipes her hands on her apron and leans down, pointing at her cheek. I kiss her and she says, “Much better. Be safe and good.”

“Yes, Mom,” I murmur, and she motions me onward, offering me my freedom.

I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I launch myself toward the door and exit to the porch, where I find Kevin at the bottom of the steps, stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered glazed doughnut. Intending to take half of that beauty for myself, I dash down the steps and vault to a finish in front of him. He laughs and shoves the last bite into his mouth.

Grimacing in disappointment, I watch him lick his fingers. “Dad made breakfast,” he announces, “which means he brought home doughnuts. I love when Mom goes to work early.”

“Jerk,” I say.

He hands me a bag. “One for you.”

“Not a jerk,” I correct, hiking my bag on my shoulder and accepting my prize, while sirens scream in the distance. “Thank you.”