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science project volcano lava onto my desk and ruined my Cooper’s hawk drawing. In third grade he stole my shoes and hid them under the teacher’s desk. In fourth grade he started calling me Fish Boy (because of Camilla), and so dideveryone else. In fifth grade he locked me in the equipment room, and I was stuck in there for the last two periods of the day.
    But last year, in sixth grade, the weirdest thing happened. He didn’t do anything. Maybe he was too busy ruining someone else’s life.
    So it’s obvious that we just can’t get along, mostly because he’s always picking fights with me and being an annoying ogre.
    As far as our future together, well, I hope he’s not part of mine.
    There’s something else to know about Mouton. He has Tourette’s syndrome, a brain disorder that makes him blurt out words, even if it’s at inappropriate times. The worst part is when he gets stuck on a word or phrase and then repeats it until you can’t take it anymore. My mom says they’re called vocal tics. Mouton has the same one all the time (Yip!), which gets worse when he’s nervous. I know I’m supposed to ignore his outbursts, but it’s hard to do that when he makes my life miserable on purpose.
    I decide to stay where I’m standing, and keep my distance from Mouton. “Leave my mom out of it,” I say.
    â€œSure thing, Big Bird,” he says.
    â€œDid you steal my bike?” I ask him.
    â€œWhat bike?” he says. He picks a pebble up off the street and throws it at my cheek.
    â€œOuch.” I rub my cheek to make the stinging go away.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” he says. “Got a little boo-boo? Maybe mommy can help you when you get to school. Or maybe she’s too busy cleaning toilets.”
    I ignore Mouton. Sometimes it’s the only way to handle him. Up until third grade I gave it right back to him, but now he’s three times my size.
    Gabriela looks at me, like she’s waiting for my response to Mouton. If only I could explain to her that he comes with special handling instructions, and if you’re not careful, he’ll explode and stomp on buildings like Godzilla.
    Bus number thirteen squeals to a stop, black smoke spiraling from the tailpipe. The door opens.
    Mouton shoves me aside and cuts in front of everyone.
    Gabriela steps back from the crowd, letting others get on the bus in front of her. I hang back a little too, until we’re the only ones left standing outside the bus.
    Mouton sticks his head out the back window and yells, “Eddie-shovel-truck! Eddie-shovel-truck!”
    He’sbeen saying that for two years now, and no one knows why. I think it’s because he wants to dump me into a trash truck and then bury me with a shovel.
    I turn to Gabriela and say, “He’s a jerk. Just ignore him.”
    â€œWhat is a jerk?” she asks.
    I could go many places with this one, most of them dark and ugly, but instead I say, “Someone who acts like Mouton.”
    â€œThe jerk is named Mouton?”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Ogre’ is what I call him. It means ‘a big, clumsy monster.’ ”
    â€œOh,” she says.
    â€œCan you believe his parents named him Mouton? What were they thinking?”
    â€œThe name Mouton is interesting,” she says. “I like it better than ‘Eddie.’ ”
    I can’t decide whether to be embarrassed or mad or both. So what do I do? I say the dumbest thing ever said in The History of Responses to Girls:
    â€œYeah, you’re right. My name is stupid.”
    Sandy, the bus driver, whistles. “Come on, lovebirds. I’ve got a schedule to keep,” he says, waving us up the steps.
    I walk up the first two steps, and Sandy looks up atme from underneath his gray hat, which is round in the front and flat on top. “Good to see you, Eddie.”
    I smile at Sandy and say, “Good to see you, too.”
    I drift