Chapter 1
Nearmont, N.J.
2011
I dont fit in at school because I dont do what Im told if its stupid. I dont keep my mouth shut when I have something to say. I dont let bullies push me around. And I cant just stand there and watch bullies pick on other kids. Thats how I got kicked out of my last middle school.
I was in the cafeteria minding my own business but keeping my eyes unstuck, as usual. You have to stay alert. I was eating at one of the tables back near the trash cans. The zombies call kids who eat at those tables losers, dorks, orcs, humps, trolls, Goths, stoners—you know, because they cant stand people who arent undead like them.
I call us rebels.
This was on a Friday before a football game, and there was a pep rally going on in the center of the cafeteria. I cant understand why middle school kids play football.
Jocks are dumb enough already. They dont need their brains banged around more. The jocks yelled, their girlfriends danced, and the zombies clapped. At the rebel tables we pretended to ignore them.
One of the jock bullies noticed that we werent clapping, so he walked over with that jock-bully walk, toes pointed in, shoulders rolling, and said, “Wheres your school spirit?”
The rebels froze up and looked down.
This is a problem. It takes a lot to get rebels to do something as a group. Rebels need leaders, but they have trouble following one. Theyre rebels.
The jock bully picked up a tray from our table and let the food slide down on a kids head. Spaghetti and chocolate pudding. The jocks and their girlfriends cheered, and the zombies clapped harder. The teachers pretended they were too busy on their BlackBerries to notice. Teachers let jocks get away with stuff. Maybe theyre afraid of them, too.
I recognized the bully, a guy who was always slamming into kids shoulders in the hall. He wasnt even a good football player. Typical.
He picked up two more full trays and started strutting around the table, balancing them on his palms. He kept turning his head to make sure the jerks at the jock tables were watching. They whistled and pounded their feet as he circled my table deciding whom he would trash next.
I waited until he was three steps away before I slipped out my TPT GreaseShot IV. Its about as big as a pencil flashlight: the smallest cordless grease gun you can buy online. It has an electronic pulse and can be set for semi or full automatic. I had only one chance and Id never used the grease gun in combat before. I put it on full automatic.
He was about a foot away when he turned his head again back toward the jock tables. Thats when I fired grease in front of his red LeBron X South Beach sneakers.
The right sneaker hit the grease puddle, slid, and went up in the air.
He went down in slow motion.
It was funny. I was thinking, Too bad nobodys shooting this.
Too bad, somebody was. You can see it on YouTube.
The two trays rose off his palms. He was howling like a dog as the veggie tacos, burgers, fries, and drinks avalanched onto his head. Then his left sneaker slid into the grease and he was lifted completely off the floor.
Kids were screaming as he slammed down on his back, arms out. Im not sure exactly what happened next because that part wasnt on YouTube and I was moving out.
I try not to hang around the scene of my paybacks. Its a sure way to get caught—standing around looking like youre waiting for applause.
It didnt matter. The YouTube clip shows that the person shooting the grease gun was wearing the same blue Bach Off! hoodie I was wearing that day.
It was a zero-tolerance school.