Wednesday’s our last day of school because of teacher conferences the rest of the week. Teacher union rules forbid sports practices or extracurricular activities of any kind that need to be coached or supervised for the rest of the week—with the one exception being the varsity football game Friday. That means no gymnastics practice, no football practice, no theater rehearsal, no cross-country running. Nothing.

At the promise of four days off, students go nuts. Five minutes after last bell the halls transform into a sea of crumpled notebooks, old tests, torn folders, wadded-up paper towels, and anything else that can be dumped out of a locker like it’s Oregrove’s very own ticker-tape parade. Girls cluster in groups and squeal for no reason whatsoever. Cigarette smoke drifts out from a bathroom. Guys lay traps for littler guys, pushing us around in a fit of jailbreak fever. I keep to the side of the hallway, surfing the walls, preparing for random shoves with one arm extended as a bumper. Rondo Holmes, the football team’s blimpy ballsnapper, sideswipes me. A locker dial bites into my hip bone and Rondo chuckles but otherwise lets me pass without incident. I make it to Bruce’s locker, hoping to catch him there and avoid going down to the gym. I don’t like going there alone anymore, can barely stand it during regular practice with the whole team there. I text Bruce again while waiting at his locker, trying to blend into the background as much as possible to avoid extra smacks, shoves, and squishes. After ten minutes I still get no reply and he’s not showing.

Crap! I’ve got to go down there, keep him from doing something really stupid.

“Watch it, fat ass!”

I recognize the voice before I even look up from my phone. It’s that supertough goth girl, Tina, who saved me from Jankowski in the hallways. She’s at it again. This time she’s turning hellcat on Rondo Holmes. Unlike Jankowski, Rondo just looks cowed by the girl.

“You know who runs that Jumbotron, Blubber Boy?” she spits. “Me! I can put your plumber’s crack up on the big screen next game, freeze-frame it for the entire halftime show. That will really win over the ladies.”

Rondo drops his head and one of his teammates, Pullman, starts laughing. Rondo shoves Pullman and moves off down the hall, trying to get away from Tina.

“Keep waddling!” she shouts after him. In the crowded hallway, the ones paying attention are laughing. I can’t help myself. As she passes I speak.

“That was great!” I tell her. Tina’s head flicks at me, eyes narrowed, mouth pouty as if readying to fend off another attack. She sees it’s only me and her face softens.

“He deserved it,” she says. “Blubber Boy shoved my friend into the wall.” Then she smiles. She’s got a nice smile.

“You’re good at that,” I say. “Sticking up for people. I . . . uh . . . never thanked you for that time in the hall with Jankowski.”

“Yeah.” She nods at me. “I remember thinking you were a total jellyfish after that.”

Seeing my reaction, Tina puts her hand up to her mouth. “But then I saw you that night at the gymnastics meet,” she races on. “You were flying through the air, doing totally crazy tricks. Better than any martial artist I’ve ever seen on TV. So if you can do all that stuff, how come you can’t stick up for yourself?”

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t know. It’s not the same.”

“Of course it is,” she says, then totally switches gears. “I’m sorry about your teammate. I saw you at the funeral, but didn’t get a chance to talk.”

“Um, it’s fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s not fine. I mean it’s okay that we didn’t talk.”

“I saw you there with Kurt,” she says. “He was at your meet, too. You guys pretty good friends?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, unsure if Kurt would say the same. “He hangs out with me and Bruce and—”

“Bruce is waiting for me downstairs,” I say. “Gotta go.”

“Okay, see ya, Danny.”

“Bye.”

Downstairs, the main locker room is empty. So is our team room. No sign of Bruce, so he must already be in the gym, drawing up revenge plans or pacing the vaulting runway, impatiently waiting for me, his plucky sidekick, to begin our next adventure.

The door to the gymnasium is closed, but I see light seeping under the crack, so someone’s in there and has fired up the halogen lamps. Out of nervous habit, I check my phone for a text. Nothing. Doesn’t make sense. I think, just as I push open the door, that it’s strange I don’t hear any music. Ever since the attack, Bruce habitually turns on the team’s portable stereo soon as he enters the gym, especially if he’s in there alone. Phone in hand, I walk inside, about to shout out his name while texting him at the same time.

My mouth stops.

Across the gym Tom Jankowski squats on a squirming body while Scott Miller stands above them with his arms crossed. It takes another half second to realize it’s Bruce that Tom’s sitting on, crushing him with his weight.

This time I don’t freeze.

This time they won’t get away with it. I’ll scream bloody murder at the top of my lungs and race out of the gym to get help, get whatever teacher, janitor, or parent remains in the building—even if that means Mrs. Doyle, the old school secretary. I don’t care if they call me crybaby or scaredy-cat. Name-calling can’t touch the terror pissing through me. I can scamper faster than either Tom or Scott and they’re across the gym with Bruce. I have a good head start. I’ll be upstairs and have someone back down here in less than a minute. That’s all Bruce has to survive for.

Run! my brain screams, spinning me around, preparing me to leap in a single bound the three steps I’d walked into the gym before spotting the ambush. I’ll pull open the door, fly through the locker room and out toward safety ...

. . . except a body stands just to the side of—and now in front of—the door. A big body. A big, mean body with an ugly face.

Studblatz.

He’s there, waiting for me, waiting to spring the trap and cut off my escape. Studblatz reaches for my wrist but I yank my arm away and spin from the exit, head into the gym, buying precious seconds. Phone’s open and I’m pressing buttons, initiating a final SOS before I’m overrun. No time now. Press send before Studblatz catches me and wrenches down on my arm, breaking my grip on the phone. As Studblatz yanks me toward him, smushing my face into the sour cotton of his sweatshirt, all I can do is pray the Bat Signal’s been sent.

“We’ve been waiting for you, dickweed,” Studblatz hisses. A thick arm locks around my head, flattening my nose into his side and rubbing fiber into my eyelids. Blinded, I make my free hand into a fist and flail at him. Might as well be swatting at sandbags. Studblatz laughs at the punches. He releases my head long enough to snatch my flailing wrist out of the air then pin both my arms against my body. I yank back frantically but his grip’s too strong. My fright amuses him. Plus something more, something I recognize from the attack on Ronnie. Studblatz is excited. The way his eyes gleam should spur me to fight even harder, scream out, start kicking or scratching—anything! But his excitement, with its unspoken promise to enjoy my hurt, get off on my pain, petrifies me. The more I struggle and beg, the more his eyes light up. That’s when my limbs start freezing in terror. Just like last time.