Homeroom Headhunters (7 page)

chools look exactly the same no matter where you go. Greenfield Middle was no different.

Same endless hallways that reach from one end of the building to the other.

Same flickering florescent lights buzzing like bug zappers, sucking the energy from my skull:
Bzzst-bzzst!

We may as well have been moths fluttering toward electrified deaths:
Bzzzzzzzzzzst!

The only thing that had changed was my locker, which was never where it was supposed to be. Or where I thought it was supposed to be.

Next to the gymnasium?
Nope
.

The cafeteria?
Nope
.

Library?
Sorry—try again.

Another thing that remained the same as my last school was my leprous rep. Contrary to popular belief, being a boat-rock-star only racked up temporary celebrity points.

What's the old saying?

The more things change, the more nobody knows my name
?

For a while, whenever I passed a pack of werekids, their eyes would tighten at the sight of me, as if my mere presence was an insult to their lycanthropic clique.

A few weeks into November and none of them even looked at me anymore.

I was a ghost.

Fine by me.

I'd survive.

Somebody had drawn a doodle of my face on the front of my locker, with a spear running through my ears and my brain dangling off the bloodied tip by its cerebral cortex.

Below it, in bold block letters, it read:
EYES ON YOU.

It was written in permanent marker, so I doubted it'd be coming off anytime soon.

Sorry, Mr. Simms
.…

Once I got the books I needed, I slammed the metal door shut and came face-to-face with a grizzly bear.

You heard right:
a grizzly bear.

The overinflated head of our school mascot, Griz the Grizzly, popped out of nowhere, like he'd been hiding behind my locker door, ready to pounce.

“Don't do that!”

Griz's plastic eyes stared blankly back at me—or, more precisely,
over
me.

“You take this job way too seriously, Martin.…”

Martin Mendleson always volunteered to slip into Greenfield's mascot costume during pep rallies.

“Pep rally's in the gym,” I said. “Better head over before Pritchard wonders where you've wandered off to.”

Heavy breathing seeped through the wire mesh of Griz's mouth.

“You okay, Martin? You sound sick.…”

There was definitely something different about Martin. Usually he was a little more animated when he wore this getup.

“Martin?”

Nothing.

“Ha-ha, Martin.”

Then from inside Griz's mouth, I heard, “
Kill the pig.
”

Even though it was barely above a whisper, I could make out the slightest giggle. Whoever was settled inside this bear's belly, it definitely wasn't Martin.

Griz stood there staring until I made out the eyes inside the mask's mouth.

Sporkboy.

“Meet us under the bleachers.”

That's when Riley Callahan and his crew waltzed up and slapped the mascot upside his fuzzy head. “What're you two lovebirds up to? Making plans for the winter formal?”

Griz just stared blankly.

“Hey, Riley,” the voice inside said. “What's that smell?”

Before Riley could reply, a fart erupted from deep within the bear's plush bowels. Noxious fumes seeped through the wire mesh mouth, straight into Riley's face.

Perfect opportunity for me to make my exit.

With Riley and his crew gagging on poisonous grizzly-bear vapors, I slipped off into the gymnasium.

Thanks for cutting the mustard gas, Griz
.…

• • •

Fact: Middle-school pep rallies are never enjoyable.

What's fun about being forced to sit through a lame attempt at getting the student body riled up about something as abysmal as middle-school sports?

First, the Greenfield cheerleading squad would stumble through some half-rehearsed routine, chanting, “BE AGGRESSIVE! B-E AGGRESSIVE!”

Then the band would blast through some
rah-rah-sis-boom-belch
.

And then you have to suffer through some prepackaged spiel by the assistant principal about leading your basketball/football/baseball/numbskull team to victory.

You love pep rallies?

To each his own.

Below the bleachers, the sound of pounding feet was deafening, like a thousand students were marching on my head. I had slipped into the latticework of scaffolding that held up the risers, and had a perfect view of hundreds upon hundreds of shoes, all stomping simultaneously.

A cattle stampede of herd mentality.

Spurred on by the chant of cheerleaders: “B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E!”

Sounds like they're out for blood.

And there they were—perched on the metal framework that held up the bleachers. From their own personal ringside seats, they stared through the gaps in the risers.

Peashooter gave a quick nod. His paper-clip piercing had a shine to it, even in the shadows. I could just make out the tattoos on his arm. They had changed. Now cursive letters wrapped the length of his right arm like ivy:
THE
ARTFUL DODGER
.

Pretty cool.

I found a spot on a metal bar covered in scabs of bubble gum, next to Sully. Her hair was hiding most of her face, but I could see her eyes peering out.

“Funny bumping into you down here,” I said. “How did you score such good seats?”

“What did you just call me?” she asked, her voice competing with the pounding of feet. I saw her hand graze her slingshot.

“No.” I leaned into her ear. “I said: It's good. To see. You.”

Compass hissed at me, acne flaring up, and pressed his index finger against his lips. His right arm now read
GUINEA PIG
in bold block letters. Once I was sufficiently shushed, he took his finger and pointed toward the basketball court.

I turned to look.

Our assistant principal had stepped up to the microphone at the center line, flanked by a V-formation of pom-pom girls. He cued the band behind him to stop, with a wave of his hand.

“Thank you,” he said as the instruments faded. “I have a few general announcements before the fun begins. As a lot of you know, our winter concert is coming up and.…”

But no one was watching Pritchard.

All eyes were focused on Griz waddling up behind him. The bear began to moonwalk across the court, causing some in the crowd to giggle.

“This year's concert will be held right here in the—”

Confused, Pritchard stopped and turned around to see what was so funny. The band thought this was their cue to start playing again, and launched into the next song.

Peashooter nodded at Compass as the music got louder. Compass nodded back.

What are they up to?

I suddenly spotted the umpteen thin-wicked, round red pellets taped to nearly every bracket of scaffolding. How I hadn't noticed them before was beyond me.

B-E P-E-R-C-E-P-T-I-V-E, Spence.

Peashooter pointed to a door tucked behind the bleachers with the word
BASEMENT
stenciled across the front.

Am I supposed to book it to the boiler room?

Before I could ask, Peashooter had lit the first smoke bomb with a match.

Compass lit the wicks lining his section.

So did Yardstick.

Sully pulled out her slingshot and slipped a lit smoke bomb into a little leather pouch. As she aimed, I took a better look at her weapon of choice. The forked frame was a pair of safety scissors, open and locked into place with the blades duct-taped together to form a handle. She had tied off a braided belt of rubber bands through the scissor's finger rings.

One eye closed, Sully took aim—and fired.

Her smoke bomb shot out from beneath the bleachers, a trail of red streaking across the basketball court, and landed in the bell of a tuba. The poor kid playing it burped out one last gaseous note before crimson fumes spewed from the rotund funnel, like a tomato fart.

You definitely don't see something like that every day.

Scattered coughing spread over our heads. You could hear the confusion as werekids began to question one another: “What's going on? What's happening? Is the gym on fire?”

At the mention of
fire
, the word began to sweep from mouth to mouth—until it lit everybody's tongue. “Fire? Fire!? FIRE!”

“Remain calm,” Pritchard stammered into the mic. “Everybody walk single file to your closest exit in a calm, collected manner.…”

But it was too late.

The sound of pounding feet picked up again, only this time, there was no rhythm. The tempo was pure panic as werekids raced for the exits.

No one in the frightened stampede could hear the Tribe beneath their thundering feet, chanting along with the chaos—“BE AGGRESSIVE! B-E AGGRESSIVE!”

“B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E!”

moke rises,” Sully yelled over the commotion. “Keep your head down and follow me.”

While the rest of the student body blindly collided into one another escaping a blanket of colored smoke, I scuttled to the basement with the Tribe.

“We heard you burned your last school to the ground.” Sporkboy had Griz's head tucked under his arm, and he was plucking tufts of fur off its face. “Sounds like a flat-out fib to me.…”

“What? You think I made it up?”

“What about stapling Pritchard's hand to his desk?” Compass asked. “Are you gonna cop to that too—or is it just another tall tale?”

“Yeah, I took Pritchard down.”

Sully snorted. “Looked more like you lost your balance to me.”

“Wait…that was
you
in the ceiling?”

“Surprise.”

“We are the eyes and ears of this place,” Peashooter said. “If anything happens, we're there.”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean…what are you guys doing here?”

Fair question, right?

“Take a look.” Peashooter craned his neck. “What do you see?”

“School?”

“We see a fortress. A castle. A sanctuary.”

“So the school's your own personal clubhouse?” I asked. “And here I thought it was just another boring building.”

“To everybody else it is.” Peashooter lifted his chin. “But for us,
it's home
.”

“What about TV?”

“No television.” Compass shook his head. “No cell phones. No video games.”

“And cafeteria grub for the rest of your lives?”

“You get used to it,” Sporkboy said as he rubbed his tummy.

“Sloppy joes from now to the day you die?” I asked. “Really?”

“Nobody out there cared about us,” Peashooter said. “There was nowhere in the outside world that we felt like we could call home.
But this is ours.
”

“And if you get caught?”

“Nobody knows we're here.”

“
I
know.”

“Because we let you.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why choose me?”

Peashooter grinned as if he'd been waiting for me to ask him that all day long. I couldn't help but get a little nervous. He raised his arms over his head and took in a deep breath.

“You've fought forgotten ancestors,”
he recited
. “They've quick
ened the old life within you, the old tricks which they've stamped into
the heredity of the breed are your tricks.”

“Uh…” I couldn't help but stare. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You've got potential,” Peashooter said. “We've seen it.”

“You mean it's not my stunning good looks?”

Awkward silence.

The acne scattered across Compass's face deepened in color like some kind of poisonous deep-sea coral. He spoke first, not amused. “It's your skill with manipulating information.”

“Sounds like you're calling me a liar.”

“Not a liar.” Peashooter shook his head.
“A public relations
specialist.”

“You want me to be your tribal press agent?”

“More like minister of information,” Compass suggested.

“You've got to be kidding.…”

“No modern war has been won without managing the distribution of information,” Peashooter said. “Besides, somebody's got to record what happens here for those who come after us. Like Winston Churchill said, ‘History is written by the victors.'”

War? Victors?
He can't be serious.

Peashooter continued. “Our war is against the status quo. The state of affairs as the students in this school know it. We know you want to shake things up just as much as we do. Just one look at your clashes in class and it's easy to see whose side you're on.”

“Which side is that?”

“We saw you handle Mrs. Witherspoon,” he said. “You whipped up that bogus oral report on the Swanahanzi headhunters on the fly, didn't you? Just think what you could do for us.”

“You guys don't need a minister of fibs,” I said. “What you need is a tailor. You look like some postapocalyptic, dystopian athletic squad.…”

“You really think that matters to us?” Compass asked. The slightest whiff of superiority escaped in his tone. “We don't have to fit in anymore.”

“Don't you want to—I don't know—
grow up
? Go to high school? Get a driver's license?”

“And then what?” Peashooter asked. “Graduate? Get a job you hate? Get married and have a family you only see on weekends until you get divorced and retire and end up looking back at your boring, worthless life and realize that it was never your life to begin with?”

“Who says that's the way it's got to be?”

“Isn't it for your parents?” Peashooter shot back, his paper-clip piercing twitching.

Quick
.
Change the subject
.

“What about you?” I nodded to Yardstick. He'd been quiet this whole time, reflexively rolling the corkscrews of his hair. “Ever get homesick?”

“This is home,” he whispered.

“Don't you miss your families?”

“This is our family,” Sully said.

“Odd family.”

“Maybe.” Peashooter shrugged. “But we're happy. Can you say the same?”

Can I?

“Wanna play their game?” Peashooter asked. “Go ahead. Riley Callahan will always treat you like crap. Sarah Haversand will never know you exist. No one here will ever believe you. And then you have us—offering you the chance to actually be a part of something.”

I pictured it in my head.

Me. Answering the call. Joining up.
Belonging
to something.

It would be like being thirteen forever.

And you want to know the crazy part?

What Peashooter was proposing didn't sound crazy at all.

Greenfield Middle School. Home, sweet home.

Kind of had a ring to it.