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he enjoyed seeing
pain inflicted on us by his future stars, Vic and his posse. C, I always got
creamed. And D, I was always the first player to get out. Oh, that was four
reasons I hated dodge ball. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Vic's
cackling voice and saw him and his boys standing just over the centerline.
    "Come
on, Max, get up so we can knock you down again."
    Do
I look stupid? (Don't answer that.)
    Fortunately,
I was wearing my rec specs so I could find my way to the sideline. I crawled
on my belly like a soldier in a live-fire drill at boot camp—balls whistling
past overhead like bullets, pained screams rising above the squeaking of
sneakers on the wood floor, kids getting nailed and falling to the floor—but I
was safe down here—it was against the rules to hit a downed player. Coach
Slimes was sitting on his big butt and grinning like a goober when I crawled to
the sideline. I wanted to tell him that stretch knit coach's shorts on a
chubby guy wasn't a good look, but I decided against it. He might send me back
into the game.
    "
'Medic'—that's funny, Max. Not as funny as my boys nailing you with four balls
at once—see, now that's teamwork—but funny."
    "Oh,
glad you enjoyed it, Coach."
    See?
I told you he was a big fat jerk. Dee soon crawled over and joined me along
the wall, followed by Eddie.
    "Whazzup, amigos? " Eddie said.
    We
high-fived each other. We had survived another day of dodge ball. On the way
out of the gym after PE, Vic gave me a wicked grin and said, "After
school, Max, you're dead."
    Only
if they caught me.
    It
was three-thirty and I was running again. The same route, the same chase, the
same game. All four were chasing me on their scooters. Any hope that Vic and
his gang would get bored with bullying me and find another victim had ended
when I puked on their Legends. Now they wanted their six hundred dollars,
which I didn't have and would never have. Which meant I would soon be dead.
But maybe not today. I had a good lead on them when I rounded Mrs. Baker's
hedgerow—only two more blocks to go—and I was feeling pretty confident that I
could beat them around my hedgerow so I wasn't too worried when—
    My
left leg tightened up.
    Aw,
man, I'm gonna pull a hammy.
    Then
my right foot almost slipped out of my sneaker.
    Dang,
the laces had come untied.
    I
couldn't stop and tie the laces, so it was like trying to run in flip-flops. I
crossed Third Street and prayed they'd stop to admire Mrs. Cushing's garden—she
was bent over in her short-shorts—"Hi, Max!" she yelled between her
legs. But they didn't. They zipped right past her house. Then—
    "Whoa!"
    I
hit the downhill slope. My speed increased, but my feet didn't— the dang
shoe kept slipping! My body was now tipping forward too much and the heavy
backpack pressed against my back and the buzzing noise was almost on top of me
but I was almost to the hedgerow when—
    I
ran out of my shoe.
    Not
good .
    The
backpack bounced then hit me hard which tipped my upper body forward even more
but my one-shoed feet stayed back which caused me to lean forward even farther
… too far … and I—
    Uh-oh.
    â€” tripped and hit the concrete and tumbled down the
sidewalk. When I stopped rolling and looked up, I realized that I had ended up
at exactly the same spot as the day before, right in front of the neighbors'
house. And Vic and his crew again surrounded me like a pack of hyenas about to
pounce on a fat juicy baby antelope like on that PBS show. Except I was the
prey today.
    "You're
dead, Max," Vic said.
    They
jumped off their scooters and crowded around me. Vic snatched my backpack.
    "Unless
you got six hundred bucks in here."
    I
didn't. I had snack money. Which Vic found.
    "Two
dollars?" Vic said. "That's all your mother gives you? Oh, yeah,
you're poor now 'cause your dad got himself—"
    "Shut
up, Vic!"
    I
jumped up and swung at Vic, but he dodged my fist then punched me hard in