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for the door, but he’s forced to stop before he can make his escape.
    â€œJerry, when you come back, I want you in short sleeves! Don’t know what you’re thinking, wearing that jacket.”
    He pauses. How can he agree to this?
    â€œYou hear me? Short sleeves. It’s ridiculous, you wearing that on a day like this.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”

    In the empty hallway the boy opens his locker, his movements frantic. He takes off his jacket; he is shirtless underneath. From the locker he pulls out a plain white T-shirt. Plain except for a handwritten message, scrawled in ballpoint pen.
    I WET THE BED.
    He turns the shirt inside out, which obscures the print somewhat, then puts the shirt on back to front. The tag is now beneath his neck. Grabbing it with his teeth, he tries to rip it off. The tag is stitched in tight. He puts his head into his locker, digging around for a compass, a pair of scissors, anything sharp.
    He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it’s too late.
    â€œI wet the bed?”
    And then giggles.
    He flings his back to the wall of lockers with a mighty clang. Three girls have semicircled him. They’re seventh-grade girls. Popular girls. They giggle like seagulls ripping apart a crab.
    â€œIs that what your shirt says?” asks the redhead. She speaks with a cold authority.
    â€œNo,” he lies.
    â€œLet me see!” squeals the prettiest brunette. She grabs his shoulder and tries to pull him forward. He’s a head taller than her and a lot stronger. His back stays pressed against the metal lockers.
    The less pretty brunette is rough, aggressive. “C’mon! Show her!”
    â€œIs it true?” asks the redhead. “Do you wet the bed? Do you?”
    The less pretty brunette pulls on his other shoulder. She’s an athlete and makes some headway. The boy’s planted feet squeak on the linoleum.
    The redhead keeps up her simple interrogation. “Do you wet the bed? Do you?”
    â€œNo!” He’s panicked now. The brunettes are too close to success. The redhead doesn’t move a muscle. She’s in charge of giggling and asking questions.
    The less pretty brunette grabs the front of the boy’s shirt and pulls with everything she has, forcing him off balance. He takes a stagger-step forward, and the pretty brunette seizes the moment, pushing her foot against the back of his knee. The boy’s leg buckles. One more shirt tug sends him to the floor.
    â€œSee! It does say he wets the bed! You wet the bed! You wet the bed!”
    He looks up, and something crystallizes within his brain. He is bigger than them. He is stronger than them. He should be the boss of them.
    The boy bursts from the floor with his right fist raised, catching the redhead under her chin with such force she’s knocked out cold. His next motion is to grab the pretty brunette. She tries to run away, but her long hair is easily caught. She’s ripped off her feet, and a second later she rolls on the floor, grabbing her head and crying. A small fist cracks the boy across the cheek. It’s the less pretty brunette, scrappier than her fellows by half. Her punch only serves to further enrage him.
    When he unleashes on her, everything falls together. Like a crick in the neck snapped into place, the boy’s brain pops and is put right. It is a beautiful undoing, a beautiful becoming. He doesn’t stop to think about it when the punches follow her down to the ground. He doesn’t stop to notice when she goes still or when the pool of blood under her head pillows out into a great, liquid heart. He doesn’t stop until he’s pulled off her, and he doesn’t start to think again until that night, when he’s back at home. For hours and hours his brain stays beautifully popped into place.

CHAPTER FOUR
    I’M FROZEN, THINKING OF MY parents, who believe I’m with my friends, and my friends, who believe I’m with my