Chapter
One
GUARANTEED PUBLIC
HUMILIATION, #4
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But what really happened was this: For a long time, on the school playground, in the lunchroom, standing in line, whenever and wherever he could, Rayshaun, who was chubby back then, not solid like he is now, kept following behind me, saying “You going to hell, Taneesha. You better get saved.”
I never told our teacher. I was afraid if the other kids found out what Rayshaun said, they’d agree with him.
And I didn’t say anything more to Mama about it either. Even when she asked. I just acted like it was all over.
Why’d I do that? For one thing, her chanting idea had obviously been a big, fat dud. For another, I didn’t want her coming up to Hunter to talk to Rayshaun because then my whole class would have definitely found out about the whole situation.
So I’d just whisper back at that boy, “No I’m not going to hell, Rayshaun Parker. Hell’s not a place, it’s inside.”
After a while, he stopped bugging me. But we never went back to being friends like before. Far from it. Whenever Rayshaun got the chance, he’d laugh at something dumb I did.
Guaranteed public humiliation: one more reason why what was coming next in Room 509 was totally out of the question.
I glanced at the clock. I wondered how long we had ’til lunch. I imagined chowing down on a cool slice of cheese laid out on a piece Mr. Alvarez’s crunchy shirt.
“Now, let’s get started on the task at hand,” he said, looking mighty cheesy.
“Are there any nominations for class president?”
CARLI FLANAGAN, YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!
©Copyright M. LaVora Perry. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration by Floyd
Cooper.
A terrifying sight ripped me from my cheddary daydream—Carli’s hand. I wanted to scream at that girl flat out, instead of only in my suddenly splitting-headachey head.
I would have screamed, too, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d have looked crazy.
I had a sick feeling about that puny, pale hand, all dotted with brown freckles. My best friend Carli’s hand, a hand that was eleven years-old—just like mine. That hand flapped wildly over Carli’s wavy, red hair. With each flap, she wriggled in her seat so much that the metal brace on her left leg clunked against the metal of her desk’s leg. But she didn’t even notice the clunking. She was too busy flapping.
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