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keep it from toppling. I stormed into my room and picked up the monitor. I fought the urge to throw it against the wall. Amazing how she’d suddenly asserted herself when it came to thinking of ways to screw up my life. I carried the computer to the living room and dumped it on the sofa, leaving her to figure out how to hook everything back up.
    â€œI feel sick. I’m going to bed.” It was seven o’clock.
    I walked around campus most days after school. Sometimes, I saw David Blanco, always near the athletic field, always with the dog. We crossed paths once.
    â€œHey,” I said, like you say Hey to strangers you see walking, not sure they’ll respond. After all, I didn’t know him. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
    But David said, “Hey” back, not meeting my eyes. The dog tugged its leash.
    â€œWhat’s his name? The dog, I mean?”
    He grinned. “Trouble.” He reached to fondle its ears, and I flashed back to what Binky had said about Charlie Good. That’s trouble .
    I started to say something else, but nothing came to mind. When I looked up again, David was far away, leading the dog, Trouble, to the tennis courts this time. Through the green mesh fence covering, I caught a glimpse of Charlie himself, practicing, his blaze of white hair visible through the green. Trouble squatted.
    I didn’t stick around to watch, but somehow, I knew Charlie would step around it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The word invaded my head Thursday morning. Trouble . Trouble at school, trouble at home, trouble with Dad. But not just that. Big trouble. In my brains, in my veins. I tried to shake the feeling over breakfast, frozen waffles still hard in the center. Trouble is a dog . But that wasn’t it. Trouble was coming. I knew it.
    The feeling followed me to school, like a kid kicking the seat back. It got out with me. It saw what I saw.
    Though it was still early, a crowd gathered outside, halfway between the parking lot and the main building. All stared at the same point ahead. Some fell away, holding mouths, closing eyes. It was something bad. I started toward them.
    â€œMaybe you shouldn’t…” Mom started to say. But I was going. She couldn’t stop me, so she said, “Let me go first.”
    Which was stupid. I mean, I wasn’t a baby anymore. Still, the trouble trailing us almost convinced me to let her edge ahead. Nice to have Mommy to do things for me. Not this time.
    â€œPaul, don’t—”
    But I was already out, and then I saw it. Trouble. It was Trouble, all right.
    At first, all you noticed was his fur, clean, white like always. Then, your eyes traveled up, searching for the red-ribboned ears, bright eyes. Nothing. Nothing but flies. Someone had cut the dog’s head off.
    In its place, a note, written in blood, or probably just red marker:
    Should have scooped.
    My stomach lurched. My eyes were closed, but still, I saw them. David, the mutant, leaning to whisper to his dog, to pet it. David, walking that stupid dog around campus each day, then leading it to the athletic field, the tennis court, to do its business where it did the most damage.
    Should have scooped.
    When I opened my eyes, I was almost alone. The crowd around me had drifted to the main building. Then I saw why.
    Old Carlos, the janitor—Mr. Blanco—stood feet away. He held a shovel and his janitor’s dustpan, wiped his eyes with two grimy fingers. God, he’d been crying. Over the dog? No. Because his son would be upset. Had Dad ever cried for me?
    Mom took my elbow. “Come on.”
    I didn’t protest, glad for an excuse not to face David’s father.
    All morning, I waited. For something. Some horror, some sadness. Some acknowledgment that something bad had happened. Nothing. Between classes, they huddled, whispering.
    Did you see?
    Cool .
    Gross .
    Who you think did it?
    Who cares?
    Cool .
    Serves him right .
    Loser .
    I almost puked .
    Had it coming