I get my schedule and rush over to Dare to compare. When we see we have lunch together, we high-five. We also have the same social studies and PE classes. Two fist bumps. I wish we were together in every class, but Dare’s better at math and science than I am, so she’s in the advanced classes. We both have honors Language Arts, but different teachers and at different times.
Our homerooms are at opposite ends of the school, so when we escape the noisy, smelly cafeteria, we quickly hug, then separate.
I don’t get far when I see Dunkin heading toward me. I smile.
Just then, John Vasquez and a couple of his Neanderthal friends, like Bobby Birch, who have grown taller and bulkier over the summer, step in front of me. Testosterone at its finest. The good feeling from seeing Dunkin evaporates.
My heart pounds. My legs want to run. But where would I go?
I don’t want this to be how I start my first day of eighth grade.
It irritates me that I have to look up to the Neanderthals because of their growth spurts.
I should be in homeroom now. The bell’s going to ring soon. I think of saying that’s why I need to go, but I don’t, because no one cares about being on time the first day. Returning students are too busy catching up, and new kids are too busy getting lost.
“Hey, fag!”
With that one word, all the hope about this year being different leaks out of me.
Nothing has changed from last year, except the size of the Neanderthals.
I can’t believe Vasquez says it just like that. Right in the hallway with tons of kids around. He says it like the words are maggots in his mouth. Says it like it’s a true thing. It isn’t. It’s an ugly thing, the way he says it. It’s not the right word, even if he’d used the correct word, the inoffensive word. Still, it makes my stomach squeeze into a tight, sick ball.
“Fag!” Vasquez says again. “Nice hair.”
I’m instantly self-conscious about my blond hair. The hair I had to fight Dad to keep long. The hair that looks just like Mom’s. The hair I love.
Vasquez wears a crew cut. He reaches over and yanks my hair. “Fag.”
“Yeah, friggin’ fag,” Bobby Birch echoes, clenching and unclenching his fat fists.
If it’s this bad when I’m dressed in stupid boy clothes, I don’t want to imagine what this reunion would have been like if I came to school wearing Dare’s skirt and silky blouse. I’ve heard that Vasquez and his buddies have done some awful things to kids outside of school. I imagine if I dressed how I wanted to, in clothing people label for girls only, I’d probably be on the floor in a puddle of my own blood, their hard fists pounding my body.
I pull into myself, wishing they’d leave. Hiding in my boy-appropriate clothes was a good idea this morning. I hate to admit it, but Dad was right.
Vasquez shakes his head at me. “Why are you such a fag, McGrother?”
I assume that’s a rhetorical question.
The Neanderthals saunter off, probably to harass someone else, like a kid with crutches or in a wheelchair. These guys clearly emerged from the shallow end of the gene pool.
I wish I could go home and curl up under my ugly brown comforter with Meatball nestled behind my knees. Or climb into the welcoming branches of Bob, with a good book. But I can’t do any of those things. I’ve got to get to homeroom and meet my new teachers and classmates.
I pull my shoulders back.
I won’t let the Neanderthals ruin my first day of eighth grade.
Marching toward homeroom, I shake off that ugly word and let it fall to the scuffed hallway floor, along with a lone tear that slips out.
