100 Days Read Online Free PDF

you, Agnes?”
    â€œI need to talk to Principal Weaver.”
    The secretary’s eyes appear over the edge of the counter. “May I ask what this is about?”
    I draw myself up to my full height, which isn’t exactly impressive, but still. “You certainly may.”
    Blank stare.
    â€œSomething happened last week,” I tell her. “In the cafeteria. My friend Moira and I were bullied. Threatened.” I know the words to use to keep the secretary from trying to turn me away. It’s not easy to get a spur-of-the-moment audience with the principal. “Something needs to be done.”
    â€œWhy did you wait so long to let us know?”
    â€œI … I needed some time to think about it.” This was true. More specifically, I’d needed some time to think about whether or not to throw an old friend under the bus, even if he clearly isn’t my friend now and hasn’t been for a long time.
    *   *   *
    â€œAnd what did he call you?” Principal Weaver is squeaking from side to side in his chair, turning toward and then away from sunlight filtering through the window blinds. His entire office smells like the half-eaten sandwich sitting on his desk. Pastrami and Swiss, I’m guessing.
    â€œâ€˜Gollum,’” I answer. “Which is fine. I don’t even care. But he called Moira ‘Shamu.’ Like the orca. And nobody should be teased about their weight. Isn’t that what you’re always trying to teach us here?”
    â€œIndeed. But nobody should be called ‘Gollum,’ either.”
    I’m a bit taken aback by this. I didn’t come here to defend myself. I came here to defend Moira. I’m wearing one of my favorite wigs today, the auburn one with old-fashioned Shirley Temple curls. The principal’s smirk makes me realize that he’s having a hard time taking me seriously. No doubt between the wig and my helium voice, I’m coming off as too adorable. It’s a fairly common problem. I reach up and pull the wig from my head, exposing the nearly bald expanse of skin there. I have a few wispy strands left, but that’s it. Give me a little styling gel and I can create the world’s most hideous comb-over. Long, pronounced veins run like rivers across the map of my skull.
    Predictably, Principal Weaver blanches and stammers. This is nothing new. Just yesterday at the grocery store, a toddler gaped at me until the pacifier fell from his mouth. Kids are usually the easy ones to deal with, though. All I have to do is smile or wave, and they’ll do the same, like I’m a cartoon character come to life. Adults are the worst. They want to be able to check me out while pretending not to. But it’s an impossible thing to hide, even when someone’s wearing sunglasses or watching you from the corner of their eye. I don’t bother to wave or smile at most staring adults because, usually, they just act like they never saw me. Which is preposterous.
    Other people’s fascination and pity are powerful, heavy things. They’re as heavy as those lead-filled X-ray cloaks the techs put over me when I’m getting a scan to check my arteries or bones. Sometimes, when I’m out in public, it’s like people are piling lead cloak after lead cloak on top of me until I can barely walk or breathe or see. People mean well; I understand this. I’ve had more bake sales in my honor than I can count. I’ve been the honorary mascot of my school and my town. If I live long enough, I could probably take the state, maybe even go national. With my nearly hairless head and beaky nose, I might even replace the bald eagle eventually. Who knows? Before I met Moira, it was like I was living in a glass display case with all these people (strangers and acquaintances) on the other side of the glass, telling me how much they loved me, how “there for me” they were as I “battled this