Thirteen

Mr. Petrucelli bounded onto the floor, swiping the microphone from Coach Wilder’s sound system as he jogged past.

“Thank you.” He held up a hand. “Thank you.”

His microphone squealed. The cheerleaders stopped cheering. They still bounced and shook their pom-poms (they were cheerleaders; they couldn’t help themselves), just not as noisily.

I stood there gripping my spotlight, stupidly flipping the switch back and forth, as if our anti–pep assembly would magically start back up again if I could just get the dang light to come back on.

I guess we all thought that. Noah tapped furiously on the keys of his laptop. Audiovisual Club jiggled their projectors. Coach Wilder squeezed out from behind the sound system, Mrs. Frazee threw down her clipboard, and the two of them stalked across the gym floor, aimed like lasers straight at Mr. Petrucelli.

Mr. Petrucelli didn’t seem to notice. “Very nice. Let’s give them all a nice round of applause.” He flashed his wide principal smile and waved an arm in the general direction of Art Club, who mostly stood paralyzed, mouths open in shock. Earhart Middle, still squinting under the bright gym lights, clapped politely.

Mr. Petrucelli got down to business. “We don’t want to waste precious learning time on just one club, so this afternoon we’re combining the Art Club assembly with an end-of-season pep rally for our basketball teams. Give it up for the Earhart Middle School Fighting Aviators.”

Before we knew what was happening, the pep band marched into the gym, blaring the school fight song. About mowed down Coach Wilder and Mrs. Frazee, who had to scramble for their lives. The cheerleaders danced, revved up now to maximum cheering fervor.

The side doors banged open and a thundering pack of basketball players bounded onto the floor, Wesley Banks leading the boys from one side, the Kaleys leading the girls from the other. As I watched in horror, I realized both lines were barreling straight toward the screens.

And they didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

They charged right toward the screens, our screens, the screens we’d spent an entire week constructing—

—and crashed through.

I stared at the shreds, at the wobbling frames.

The toughest kids in our school had just beat up paper.

Our paper.

Earhart Middle erupted in cheers.

I stood there in my combat boots, the noise and glaring gym lights spinning around me, and clutched my spotlight.