The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

Seven
     
    G YM CLASS. H OSTAGES. There's a duct access hatch in the weight room. I dodge a hail of bullets ... A dozen or more jock idiots are cut down right away...
    The ball glances off my hip, which is fine. I don't mind being the first out. Just head for the Dead Zone and hope the game lasts awhile. The longer the game lasts, the longer I can spend taking advantage of the free time. The hostage scenario is fine, but pointless—I need to spend more time thinking about
Schemata,
working on that.
    Mitchell Frampton lumbers over. I can't believe this is an accident. He must have done this on purpose. He leers at me as he comes close. His bottom lip is still cracked. I look away from him, pretending to watch the game.
    "Hey," he says.
    Just ignore him. That's all I need to do: ignore him.
    "Hey."
    "What?" Watching the game. As if I care. Scanning the gym. Mr. Burger and Mr. Kaltenbach in a corner, laughing, occasionally watching the ball as it darts from one player to another, paying no mind to the losers in the Dead Zone.
    "Look at me when I talk. What're ya, rude?"
    So I turn to look at him and just then he punches me in the shoulder. My head jerks with shock and it's whiplash and my eyes widen in the sudden pain and I don't say anything.
    He giggles. "Just wanted to see the look on yer face." And again. Same spot. Pounding me. Punching. My fingers itch and curl. I want to gouge his eyes out. I want to bite into his throat. I want to rake furrows into his stupid, doughy face.
    You'll get in trouble.
    Just ignore him.
    I want to grab that bottom lip and rip it in half, right down the center where it's split already, let it gush, tear his face in two, right down to the bone.
    Instead, I just stand there. I go away into my own little world. But before I do, I see someone up on the bleachers again, a black blur with a white blur stuck into it, as if a solid black figure has been mashed in the face with a thumb dipped in white paint.
    In the locker room, I find a spot with as few people as possible and change as quickly as possible. We're supposed to take showers, but I didn't work up a sweat, so I'll be skipping that specific ritual of humiliation, thank you very much.
    A guy next to me sees the massive bruise on my arm. "God, what a wuss! You got bruised from playing
dodge ball?
"
    I look at him, and I realize that I don't know him. I don't even recognize him from walking through the halls or assemblies. I couldn't tell you what grade he's in or what classes he takes. So why does he even bother? Why does he even bother being mean to me?

Chapter Eight
     
    H OMEWORK IS "T HE P IT AND THE P ENDULUM, " ten trigonometry problems, a chapter of bio, and an essay on William Jennings Bryan. I've read the Poe before, the trig's a cakewalk, and the bio goes down on the bus. At least I'm done with gym for the week. And maybe next week they'll finally have the sod put down on the field outside so we won't be playing dodge ball anymore. If we are, I'll have to take the unprecedented step of trying to stay in the game. Just long enough that I won't be alone with Frampton in the Dead Zone. He wouldn't hit me while other people are standing right there, would he?
    Then again, who ever thought he'd hit me at all? A teacher could look over and see at any moment, but he just doesn't care. or doesn't think. one or the other or both. Who knows how Cro-Magnon brains work? And really, given that it's gym class, I guess it isn't that much of a risk for him. After all, Mr. Burger's the one who, last year, yelled at me when I dropped a fly ball during baseball. Bad enough I can't play the damn game to begin with, but now I have to get noise from the teachers, too? So regardless of what's really happening, what would Burger choose to see—some big lug punching that useless wuss. "Eh, fine. It'll toughen the little pussy up."
    I can see that.
    Mom's not home when the bus drops me off. I make a sandwich and steal some of the step-fascist's potato chips.