CHAPTER 10

I’D ONLY TAKEN a few steps into the hallway of my new school when a tall, athletic girl stopped me. Was every kid in this school a giant? She leaned down and asked, “May I help you?”

I kept walking.

She followed me. “I’m on the student council. Probably I’ll be elected president this year—you can trust me.”

I still kept walking.

Her legs were so long she took one step to three of mine. This time she stepped in front and cut me off.

“Please let me help you,” she insisted.

I sighed. “I’m fine. It’s my first day here.”

“Yes, but I think you’re at the wrong school. The bus stops here at the middle school first and then goes to the elementary school. You just got off the bus too soon. Come with me. I’ll take you to the office and get this straightened out.”

Then she patted me on the head, like I was a dog or something. If only I could bite her hand to make her stop.

Instead I swallowed so hard I made a gargling, not a growling sound, and said, “I go to school here. I’m new. In fifth grade.”

Student-council girl gasped. “Really?”

I nodded.

She gasped again. “I’m so sorry. I was trying to help. I really thought you were at the wrong school—by mistake. My mistake. Sorry, sorry, sor . . .”

Then she raced away with those long legs. Probably worried she’d lost my vote.

She was right—she had.

As I walked toward homeroom, a group of boys jammed the hallway. There was no way to walk around them, only through them. So I put my head down and tried to find the quickest way through without being noticed.

I flunked!

“Look, guys, a new one.”

“Yeah, a real pipsqueak.”

“Hey, shrimpy, where you from?”

I lowered my head even more, said, “Excuse me,” and tried again to make my way through without touching any of them.

But one of them touched me. Put a finger to my chest and said, “Hey, shorty, we’re talking to YOU. Where you from?”

I still kept my eyes down. Sort of like not looking a vicious dog in the eyes—to try to avoid an attack. (Not that I knew anything about vicious dogs. Maxi was the opposite of vicious. She loved everyone—probably even these losers.)

“Portland,” I answered.

“Oh, from the big city. That explains your mucky-muck attitude. Out here in the sticks, we answer when people—”

Someone interrupted. “Hey, guys. Isn’t the new assistant principal from Portland?”

Finger boy stabbed me in the chest again. “What’s your last name? Harris?”

I gulped, saw a gap between two of the boys, and quickly darted through.

“Hey, get back here, squirt.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“We’re not done talking to you.”

I heard big footsteps behind me. I could see the headline in the newspaper: TINY MIDDLE SCHOOLER SQUISHED DEAD LIKE A BUG ON FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. I ran down the hall. Good thing I’d scouted out my classrooms before school. I raced past a few more doors and burst into homeroom, trying to catch my breath and act cool all at the same time.

Ms. Sanborn nodded at me. “Everything okay, Timminy?”

I nodded back, put on a fake smile, and decided against telling her about my recent male bonding experience.

Ms. Sanborn smiled a real smile and said, “You’re just in time. We’re all heading back out to the hall.”

“Hall?” I gulped.

“Yes.” She handed me a paper. “Here’s your locker assignment and combination.”

I didn’t look at it. The only combination I could imagine was a deadly one: 1 Shrimp + 1 Mob of Angry Boys = 1 Less Shrimp in the World.

I stalled and headed to the back of the line, hoping the angry boys would be gone by the time I got out there.

I peeked both ways, didn’t see any of them—although I had no idea what they looked like. During our “chat,” all I saw was their big feet.

“Right here, Timminy.” Ms. Sanborn pointed at locker 168. “Why don’t you practice your combination a few times? Did you have lockers at your school in Portland? Here at Skenago Middle School, lockers are the bane of many a fifth grader’s existence.”

Bane of existence? What the heck did that mean? This Ms. Sanborn sounded like my dad, throwing around fancy-schmancy words.

I focused on the lock . . . 22 right, 18 left, 9 right . . . nothing happened.

Again—22 right, 18 left, 9 right . . . still nothing.

“Want some help?” The beaming boy at the locker to my right was practically busting out of his shirt, all ready to give tours of his open locker.

“No, thanks.”

22 right, 18 left, 9 right . . . NOTHING!

“Oh, let me try it.” He grabbed the paper from my hand and started spinning the lock . . . 22 right, 18 left, 9 right . . . OPEN!

“See. I’ve got the magic touch,” he said.

“Then maybe you can make yourself disappear,” I mumbled.

I wished magic-touch boy and angry boys and student-council girl would all disappear. They were all the bane of my existence—whatever that meant.

• • •

SECRET #10

When all you want is to be left alone, that’s exactly when the world swarms you like a mob of thirsty mosquitoes.