DALTON COOKE

I was standing in front of the school, waiting for my mom to pick me up, when all of a sudden, a sharp whack on the back sent me staggering forwards.

It was Dalton Cooke, of course. His signature “slap” on the back is his way of letting you know who’s boss.

“Hey, Pace Man, you’re just the guy I wanted to see,” he said. “I got a little project for you.”

I try my best to avoid Dalton.

Even though he’s a freshman, he’s a couple of years older than the rest of us because he had to repeat the first and fifth grades.

We were in the same elementary school, but never in the same class. I mostly ran into him on the playground.

Then, when his parents got divorced, and Dalton burned down the garage, he got sent to one of those Thank-You-Sir-May-I-Have-Another schools. When he returned:

Then, when Dalton’s dad married Dalton’s stepmom, Dalton shaved the cat, and he was forced to go to therapy for a year, where:

So anyway, he started telling me about this stunt he and some other guys had pulled at the boarding school he’d attended, and he planned to do it again here, and he wanted me to be a part of it.

It goes something like this: Dalton’s posse would collect about fifty backpacks and hook them together to create an enormous chain. Then they’d strap some guy (me!) in the bottom backpack, and lower him off the roof of the three-story building.

“But why me?” I asked him. “Why not you?”

“Because we need somebody puny who doesn’t weigh a lot. We’d get a girl to do it, but it’s probably against the law or something, so you’re the next best thing.”

Oh great, so I’m the next best thing to being a girl.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds pretty dangerous. What if I fall and break my back or something?”

“What are you, a wuss? Now you’re even starting to sound like a girl. Man up, dude!”

Just then, Dalton’s stepmom drove up and blasted the car horn. “Listen, you think about it,” said Dalton. “I’ll get back to you later.”

He tried to smack me on the back again, but I ducked, lost my balance, and tumbled face-forwards onto the sidewalk.

Why is it, I thought, that the biggest jerks have all the luck? Dalton has it made: all the girls in school want him, and he has a hot stepmother and a totally cool dad.

His stepmom, Darbi, has actually appeared in a store catalog in her underwear, which I keep under my bed—the catalog, not the underwear.

She also gets paid to lean against cars and have her picture taken with old guys at the auto show.

His dad, Jack Cooke, used to coach our soccer team for half a season, and I’m not sure what he does for a living, but he’s rich. He buys Dalton anything he wants: motorbikes, jet skis, and three ATVs.

And that brand-new sports car his stepmom had just driven up in? It’s Dalton’s as soon as he gets his driver’s license.

Compare that to a dad I know, who won’t even lend his kid the money to buy one basic camcorder to help his son get a jumpstart in the career he’s been dreaming of since Day One.

And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

For now, anyway.