Untouchable Read Online Free PDF Page B

giggle to each other about how strong he was.
    The dodgeball was hollow, red rubber, basketball-sized, and when it bounced off the wall behind the boys’ heads it made a loud, vibrating punching sound, and when it bounced off the boys themselves it made the same sound and hurt like heck.
    Brian and Razz found The Kid wherever he stood in line. They were helped by other boys who stood next to The Kid and held his arms so he couldn’t duck or jump or fall out; not even surrender, not even quit.
    The line winnowed down as boys fell out or got hit. Matthew Crump fell out, Little Rey Lugo got beaned in the stomach and stumbled forward from the wall, clutching his middle like all of his guts were going to spill out. The Kid got hit right above his left eye, but there was a rule someone had made that if you got hit in the head it didn’t count toward elimination, you had to stay in the line, so over the course of a game The Kid could get hit in the head six or seven times and he just had to stand there while the other kids got hit in the stomach or shoulder or fell out.
    The Kid adjusted his notebook, made sure it was safe where he always kept it during P.E., tucked into the waistband of his shorts, covered by his t-shirt.
    The rule about getting hit in the head was not an official rule, was not spelled out by the P.E. teacher when he ran down the instructions for the boys before the game began, but the P.E. teacher was over on the other side of the courtyard anyway, supervising the girls’ relay race and talking to Miss Ramirez, telling her his loud, dumb jokes, so the made-up rule about getting hit in the head was in play and strictly enforced.
    One by one, the other boys were eliminated. After they got hit or fell out they became spectators, standing in loose groups behind Brian and Razz, watching the game. The Kid could feel the cold-slap sting in the places where the ball had hit him. Cheeks, forehead, chin, neck. Brian stood fifteen feet away, dribbling the ball, planning his next throw. The Kid tried to avoid eye contact with Brian, tried not to antagonize him, get him angry.
    Brian made a few quick stutter steps toward The Kid and fired the ball. It slammed into the right side of The Kid’s head, bounced off and away into the courtyard. Cheers from the other boys. Someone ran to retrieve the ball. The Kid stumbled, woozy, but he stayed upright, kept his hands at his sides. It was important not to cry, not to show that the ball hurt, although of course everyone knew that it hurt, could see that it hurt. Crying or covering up would only make things worse in the long run. The Kid knew this from experience. So he stood as straight as he could after getting hit, kept his head up, his hands at his sides, ready for the next throw.
    Brian did his stutter step and hurled the ball again, his face twisting with the effort. The Kid ducked but still got hit, this time in the forehead. More cheering from the boys as the ball bounced out in a long, high arc.
    The Kid watched the P.E. teacher’s back, hoping that he’d turn around, see that it was just The Kid left against the wall and blow his whistle, stop the game. But the P.E. teacher was busy yelling at Michelle Melendez, who all the kids called Michelle Mustache. Michelle was tall and fat and had dark hair on her upper lip, and she never hustled or ran or even seemed to care in P.E. class or in school in general, for that matter. The P.E. teacher was yelling at her because she was refusing to run during the relay race. She was just grabbing the baton from the girl who passed off to her and then walking her leg of the race in her heavy, rolling swagger, shoving the baton hard at the next girl on the team when she reached the end.
    Brian stepped and threw, hitting The Kid squarely on the nose. The sting was bad enough to make The Kid’s eyes fill, to blur his vision for a few seconds. Hoots and hollers from the crowd of boys. Was his nose broken? He felt it with his hand. It