Chapter 5

This stinks donkey butt.

With a huff, I hike up my backpack and keep walking, trying to ignore the way my belly gets all twisty and gurgly with each new step.

I reach down and click the button on my new MP3 player—a gift from Mr. Gavin and Mrs. Linda—hooked over my belt to restart the song, then turn up the volume as high as it'll go.

Momma hates it when I do this, but how else can I get the music in me, like the guy singing says, if I can still hear my thoughts?

Plus, it's not like she's here—she's still in the car, watching me from down the block, making sure I don't get lost or kidnapped or something.

"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you in?" she'd asked when I climbed out.

To which I told her, "No," and slammed the door.

I'm still mad at her, and she knows it.

This is all her fault.

A car whooshes by, and I feel the change in the air more than I actually hear it, just like the stinky-smelling buses that have been passing me by, shaking the ground.

With the music now blasting in my ears, I can almost pretend they're not even there, like nothing else exists but the sidewalk and the way my steps thump-thump, thump-thump.

Hands squeezed around the straps of my backpack, I tap my fingers. Nod my head. Mouth the words I know, and make up the ones I don't.

It's still my favorite song, even if it makes me think of the rainy day Dad drove away. But it's the one I would always play when I needed to be invisible, like when Momma would put me in my room and slide my headphones over my ears, so I wouldn't hear them fightin' down the hall.

If I can't hear, maybe they can't see me, maybe it'll all go away…

I nod to myself, and walk a little faster, imagining my super-speed kickin' in too.

In and out. Stealth mode. Got it.

The shadows pressing down on me seem to grow thicker, and a glance up shows I've reached the school. My steps slow when I see the crowd of kids standing around outside, past the criss-crosses of the chain link fence boxing in the schoolyard, and something icky rises in my throat.

I don't wanna do this.

I was supposed to start school last week, just like everyone else. But then our basement got flooded two days before school started with smelly poo water, and we had to move in with Mrs. Linda and Mr. Gavin until it could be fixed and cleaned up.

Most of my nicer clothes—my school clothes—were still boxed up where the water came in, 'cause Momma's been so busy workin' her new job waitressin' at the diner. So she held me back a week in order to get what she could cleaned and aired out.

Sucking in my cheeks, I try not to think about how I only have one pair of jeans now. Most of my shirts were saved, but my jeans and khaki shorts were at the bottom where the water soaked into it overnight.

I can't help but feel like I smell.

Momma said I don't—that the water didn't touch these ones. Mr. Gavin promised too. But it's hard to forget the smell that woke me up that morning.

"We'll get you new jeans," Momma whispered to me last night when she was tucking me into bed. "Right after I get paid this week."

I asked her why we had to wait. Mrs. Linda said she'd buy me some. But Momma just shook her head and said we were already inposing enough—whatever that means.

So instead I just asked if she could call Dad and see if he'd send me some. I know he would if we asked. He was always buying me stuff.

But her eyes just got all red like they do every time I bring him up, and she hugged me like she always does, assuring me we'd be okay, and figure it out, and that she loved me.

It's stupid and it's not fair, and I told her that. Then I pulled away from her, rolled over in the bed we were borrowin' at Mrs. Linda's, and dove under the covers, pretending like my eyes weren't leaking stupid tears.

Dad wouldn't let me go to a new school smelling like crap.

A bell rings, and a couple ladies by the door start waving everyone into the building.

On either side of where I stand frozen, there are two tall brick posts. And before me, the sidewalk leading right to the steps of the school that looms black against the blue sky.

On my right, there's a basketball court. On my left, swing sets, a couple picnic tables, and a big tree that reminds me of the one back home that I used to climb sometimes during the summer when Momma and Dad would get in their yelling fights in the kitchen.

I'd take my comic books and my CD player up there, and disappear until either one of them found me or the sun went down and I'd have to go hide in my room instead.

Chewing my lip, I turn my head and look back down the road to where I was dropped off at the corner.

Momma's standing outside the car now, in a yellow sundress and jean jacket, watching me. She sees me and lifts her hand, giving me a wave. Her nails are still red.

My chest gets all achy and I make a face, glaring down at the ground.

Go away, I think, squeezing my hands into fists. I'm in first grade now. I'm six and a half. Be a man. You don't need your mommy coddlin' you or whatever.

The music fades, switching over to the next song, and I scowl, slapping the button to restart it.

Invisible. You're invisible…

You're not you.

Someone brushes past me, and I flinch, hunching my shoulders. Looking up under my lashes, I see that almost everyone has made it to the doors, pushing their way in as teachers stand around, waving them all inside, smiling and patting shoulders as they pass.

It feels like my heart's going to explode outta my ears.

I don't wanna do this.

Still, I take one step forward, then another…another…

I am the music.

Nothing else exists.

I am?—

I stop in my tracks, frozen.

Movement in the corner of my eye has my body turning before I even realize what I'm doing.

Tilting my head, I squint through the glare, and frown.

Three boys only a little bigger than me stand shoulder to shoulder with their backs to me, facing one of the swing sets. One of them—the biggest one—crouches, kicking at something, and a gap forms, revealing a kid kneeling in the mulch at their feet.

I shove my headphones off my ears, so that they're hanging around my neck.

With the music gone, I can hear it loud and clear when one of the boys laughs and the other spits out, "little girl," as if it's something bad.

I don't hear what else he says.

A loud whooshing fills my ears, and I find myself stomping toward them, hands clenched so tight at my sides I feel it up to my elbows.

I hate bullies. One tried to pick on me last year—told me I was a nerd because I like comic books. So I kicked him in the leg and called him a jerk-face.

I got in trouble for it. Had to stay inside during recess for a whole week. Momma was so mad, and took away my CD player for two whole weeks. But Dad just patted me on the back, and told me I did good.

He warned me after all…

Said they'd think I was a nerd.

Doesn't mean I have to take it.

Just as I reach the swings, I get a flash of a silky-looking blond head that shimmers under the sun, bent over the ground. One of the bullies kicks a bright red backpack out from under her, spilling paper and pens all over. I can see her tiny fists clenched white in the red mulch from where they poke out of a jean jacket, but she doesn't look up.

Fight back! I want to scream, but instead I just grit my teeth, and give the first bully I reach a shove before I can think better of it.

"Hey!" I say just as he stumbles back and whirls his mean eyes on me. "Leave her alone," I say through my teeth.

The boys freeze, and then burst out laughing. One of them—not the one I shoved—says down to the girl, "Hear that? Even he thinks you're a girl, so you must be."

"Boys, what's going on over here?" a woman's voice calls over before I can make sense of what he just said.

The bullies instantly back away and turn toward the school. "Nothing, Mrs. Markle," they say at the same time as they leave us.

"Uh huh. Come on before you're late," the teacher says, but it doesn't sound like she's coming over. Maybe she didn't see anything?

I hope not.

I quickly drop down in front of the girl to help her pick up her books so we don't get in trouble. My eyes catch on a drawing pad with a picture of a tree, but it's the bright colorful cover of a comic book peeking out between her notebooks that has me grinning. "I love that one! Captain America is my favorite. I have posters alllll over my room."

The girl tenses and hunches her shoulders, ducking her head even more.

Grabbing the backpack since it's closer to me, I'm just about to shove what I picked up inside, when I see the name stitched across the front in white letters, and I freeze.

My gaze snaps up, darting over to where the girl?—

No,I think, shaking my head.

—the boy looks up at me through long, surprisingly dark lashes compared to his golden blond hair.

Oh.

Distantly, I'm aware of the music still playing, quiet and muffled against my neck, vibrating my skin. But it suddenly feels so much farther away. Because a new song has slipped into place, a familiar one, even if it's only in my head.

My lips rise. "Jeremy," I blurt, and with it, I hear guitar notes and drums and my heart's a racin'.

Just like the song. Just like the song!

The boy's brown eyes widen, and his mouth parts, puffing, like he's gulping at air.

Swallowing, I try to say something else, but nothing wants to come out.

Footsteps sound, and I blink, handing over his backpack just as a stern female voice says, "Boys. Is there a problem here?"

We both climb to a stand, dusting mulch off our jeans. Turning, I stare up at a tall, broad woman dressed in a suit. Her mouth is downturned as she gazes between me and the boy standing just behind me.

For some reason, I find myself shuffling fully in front of him, blocking him.

"We didn't do anything, ma'am," I say.

"That's not what Mrs. Markel said. She saw you push Mikey." She gives her head a little shake, frown deepening. "I don't think I know you…"

I lift my chin. "It's my first day."

She sighs, shaking her head some more. "You must be Mason Wyatt then. This is not how I'd imagine a first day in a new school should go."

I scrunch my forehead and tell her, "I know, but it was for good, not evil."

She glances behind me, and I realize, despite standing in front of Jeremy, she can easily see over me.

"Do you boys want to tell me what happened?"

Before she even gets the words out, I say, "He didn't do anything wrong. They were pickin' on him."

"I'm sorry, Principal Gibson," a soft voice says, and I tense.

Whippin' my head around, I scowl at Jeremy over my shoulder. "Don't say sorry. You did nothing wrong."

His eyes fly up to mine from where they were aimed at the ground, all big and round like he's scared. He kind of looks like one of those dolls I used to see in the commercials—the ones with spiky long lashes and too-big eyes and tiny noses. Except he has way more hair. It's almost down to his shoulders, pin straight until it reaches the ends where it curls a bit.

Bunching my face, I turn back to face the lady, who's apparently my new principal. Standing a little taller, I say, "I shoved the jerk—k-kid. Kid. He threw Jeremy's stuff on the ground and was saying mean things."

Principal Gibson arches a brow down at me.

"He deserved it," I mutter, dropping my gaze, my cheeks growing warm.

"Mr. Montgomery, let's get you to class. Mr. Wyatt, you'll have to come with me. And please put your headphones away. You can listen to your music after school."

Without another word, she turns and starts striding toward the doors, with Jeremy and I shuffling behind her.

I dart him a look through the corner of my eye to find him doing the same. His face reddens, and he looks away.

Does he know the song? I wonder, dying to ask him. Show him.

I have it. I have it right here…

But I don't want to get in even more trouble.

Chewing my lip, I fumble to turn off my MP3 player, hating the silence that follows. It makes me feel like my breathing is too loud—like everyone can hear how fast it's coming.

I'll have to show it to him later.

Principal Gibson holds the door open, gesturing for us to head in.

She pulls something out of her pocket—a note pad—writes something on it, then tears the sheet off and hands it to Jeremy. "Give this to your teacher so you don't get in trouble."

He nods jerkily, and I can't help but notice how pale he is. Shiny too around his forehead, like he's sweating—clammy—like maybe he has a fever.

Before I can ask him if he's okay, he spins around and darts into the first room on the right.

The last thing I see before the door closes behind him is his red backpack and the name stitched across the pocket.

And all I can think is…

I found you.