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dramatically, Shane wiped off the splooge, then cleaned his hand on the Finn’s red wrestling shirt.
    “Let’s see,” Shane said, gazing around him. “There’s an empty trash can. Now which of these jiggly doughboys will it be today?”
    At every table except Shane’s, Plums cast their eyes downward and held as still as possible, hoping not to call attention to themselves. Me included. It was useless to do anything else. The janitors loved Shane’s shows, so they weren’t going to stop him. And no one was going to run and tattle like some kindergartner. Jasper Finch stupidly tried to rat them out to Principal Culwicki last Wednesday, but Culwicki was a college wrestling buddy of Shane’s dad, so nothing came of it except Jasper getting a lecture on the character-building merits of good-natured pranks. And now Plums call him Jasper
Fink.
    With my eyes locked downward on my white shirt, I couldn’t see Shane’s roving eyes, but they must have landed on someone because suddenly he sounded almost chipper.
    “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Grab that for me, Blayne.”
    The Finn tried to whisper, but I’m sure most of us heard it: “Captain, sir, I’m Wayne.”
    “That’s what I said. Now grab the stupid extinguisher.” Louder, Shane announced, “Dunking doughnuts is so last week. It’s time to move on to
sundaes
!”
    Next to me, the janitors rose to their feet and rubbed their sandpapery palms together.
    “Duck…duck…duck…”
    I peeked up to see Shane thunking random scrub heads. Head by head, he was moving toward my table.
    “Duck…duck…”
    He was now two tables away.
    “Duck…duck…”
    One table.
    “GOOSE!”
    Lunging forward, Shane grabbed Willie Dean’s collar and yanked him backward out of his seat. He pushed him into the waiting arms of Wayne. Or was it Blayne? Whichever, the other Finn snatched the nearest garbage can and whisked off the lid like a waiter revealing fine cuisine.
    Willie dropped to his knees and pleaded for his life.
    I cringed. My mind flashed back to the embarrassing piggy squeals I’d cut loose with last week when I was Shane’s doughnut dunkee…and to the tears I’d cried as he ordered his Finns to drop me into the can. The memory made my stomach lurch.
    “I said no dunking.” Shane sounded annoyed. “Hold still.”
    Shane lifted the extinguisher and aimed.
Szhhhhhh!
Fire retardant exploded out of an extinguisher, decorating the metal trash can lid with a pile of fluffy white that looked like whipped cream on a sundae.
    “Perfect!” Shane shouted. “Test complete. C’mere,
scrub.
”
    The Finn held Willie on his knees while Shane lined up the extinguisher over his head. Willie started to cry. It was awful. Totally completely awful.
    I’m so glad it’s not me being whipped.
    That thought made me cringe even harder. I was a terrible person, absolutely horrible. Last week it
was
me, only I was getting my big butt jammed into a can of half-chewed food, empty milk containers, and goopy ketchup packets. I’d tried so hard not to cry, but my throat went all tight and the stupid tears spilled down my cheeks anyway. I’d been totally powerless to stop it. And as I was dropped into the can, I saw the backs of dozens of kids’ heads as they looked away, trying not to witness my shame—just like I wanted to do now. But I knew they saw it. And the whole time, they were probably thinking,
I’m so glad it’s not me.
    My face got hotter as I relived the humiliation, which made my eyes tear up again, which made me more upset, which made me even happier it wasn’t me being whipped, which made me feel like a total jerk, which made me royally pissed off, which made me want to—
    “STOP!” My outburst surprised me, as did the fact that I’d bolted to my feet.
    Shane’s head whipped my way. “What did you say?”
    My throat went tight. “I said…stop.” The last word came out broken, as if puberty had just kicked in.
    “That’s what I thought you