All Good Children Read Online Free PDF Page A

ultimate, it’s not entirely natural.
    Dallas jumps up from the picnic bench and slams my shoulder. His jacket strains at the armpits and his pants hover above his shoes. We ordered our uniforms in August and he’s already outgrown his. Life is not fair. “Did you hear about that poor Chinese kid who was beaten to death with a fencepost?” he asks. “Disgusting.”
    â€œYeah, I saw that. What a bunch of freaks.”
    â€œWhat would you rather be beaten with? Fencepost or barbed wire?”
    â€œFencepost,” I say.
    â€œMe too.”
    Xavier stands alone across the grounds, waving. The sun shines off his hair like a halo, rippling as he makes his way over to us. He’s three sentences into his speech before he’s within earshot.
    Tyler Wilkins rushes in and trips Xavier, who crumples into the pavement. The crowd parts to ensure him a painful landing. Tyler laughs and shouts, “Walk much, unit?”
    Tyler is a funhouse mirror image of Xavier. He’s six foot and blond, but skeletal and homely. He reeks of deli meats and cigarettes. One day he’ll slash Xavier’s face out of jealousy. We all know it, every one of us, but we’ll be sure to act surprised.
    Tyler’s goons leap over Xavier’s legs, giggling. Tyler puts a foot on his back to stop him from getting up.
    It’s like watching the planets align.
    I strut over to Tyler and throw a right hook that staggers him. The crowd steps back to form an arena. Xavier commando-crawls to the edge of it.
    Tyler swears at me and rubs his jaw. “You’re dead, Connors.”
    Somewhere in my brain I wonder if I should be nervous. Nah. I spent two hundred and twenty hours of summer preparing for this moment. I’m zesty.
    I let Tyler take a shot. I block it easily with my left forearm and wallop him in the gut with my right fist. I knock the wind out of him and follow with an elbow to the cheek. A hoot of excitement escapes my lips. The crowd starts buzzing.
    I bounce on my toes and laugh. Tyler is bleeding and shocked. He knows I’m going to win this fight. But he’s a scrapper, nerve-deadened and self-important. Backing down is not an option for a kid like him. He wipes his cheek on his sleeve and comes at me, spitting.
    I pummel him in the face—hook, jab, elbow strike. Pow, pow, pow. When he returns the blow, I grab his arm and twist it behind his back. I force him to his knees and kick him into the ground, much harder than I intend to. I hear groans from the watching girls and giggles from the gay boys.
    Tyler drags himself up and tries to hit me, but he’s angry and embarrassed, and I can read his moves before he makes them. I dodge his blows, hopping away so he has to come at me; then I rush in and trip him. He slams into the pavement, just like Xavier did five minutes ago. The crowd gasps, laughs, narrates their recordings.
    I’m ready to beat Tyler Wilkins to a pulp of sodden flesh, but Mr. Graham steps between us with his arms outstretched. Tyler shoves him aside to get at me. I laugh—shoving the principal won’t go over well—and take him down hard with a wrist lock.
    Two security guards pull us apart. Bystanders start yelling. “Tyler started it!” “Max started it!”
    The principal is shaking, he’s so mad. It turns his stomach to be in a crowd of teenagers. “You are both suspended for the week,” he says through gritted teeth. “Wait outside the front doors until your parents collect you.” He walks away, probably to wash his hands.
    So I’m stuck at the front of the school with two security guards and the kid I hate most in the world, waiting to tell my grieving mother about my latest wreckage. My heart thumps. My hands throb. Yet I feel absolutely premium.
    They say violence is wrong and such and such, but I have never felt as happy in my life as I do now. I’ve shaken off a future of swallowing Tyler Wilkins’s