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said. “Mr. Sicko.”
    Gasser burst out laughing. “Mr. Swickle,” he corrected. “Sicko. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”
    “Right,” Orlando mumbled. “Mr. Swickle. That’s what I meant to say.”
    “Cool,” said Slingshot. “That means we’re together. Follow us.”
    We started moving down the hall, and Orlando made like a baseball card. He joined the pack.
    “Clear some space,” Stump bellowed as we rounded a corner. “Wounded soldier coming through. Wounded solider. Make way!”
    A group of younger boys moved aside to let us pass. When they saw Gasser swinging along on his crutches, their eyes widened.
    “Hey, Gasser,” called Joey Bing, a third grader. “I heard you jumped out of a helicopter to the top of Windsock Mountain andlanded in a pine tree….”
    “And there was a bear in the tree,” chimed in Joey’s friend Malcolm Krentz. “And you wrestled him to the ground….”
    “And you ended up going over Darkness Falls with the bear riding on the nose of your board,” Joey continued.
    “Backward!” finished Malcolm.
    “Is it really true?” they asked hopefully.
    Gasser leaned on his crutches. “Well, guys,” he said slowly, “the truth is, it didn’t happen that way. Not exactly.”
    The third graders’ faces fell as if they’d been pushed over a cliff.
    Stump flashed us a sneaky smile, then stepped forward. He slung his arm over Gasser’s shoulders.
    “Not at all,” he said. “You see, the bear didn’t jump on his board.”
    “It didn’t?” Joey and Malcolm asked. They sounded like a couple of soda cans that had been tossed in a trash compactor: crushed.
    “Nope,” continued Stump. “It actually straddled Gasser’s shoulders. Dude piggybacked that bear halfway down the mountain.”
    “Whoa!” said Joey.
    “Awesome!” gushed Malcolm.
    “That’s why Gasser crashed,” Stump went on with a gleam in his eye. “The bear covered his goggles with its paws, and Gasser couldn’t see a thing. Hit a jump doing about seventy miles an hour. By the time he knocked the bear off his shoulders, it was too late: he was airborne and way off balance.”
    The boys were speechless.
    “The rotten part of it, worse than the broken leg,” added Gasser, playing along with Stump’s crazy story, “is that the bear ran off with my goggles. They were brand-new, too.” He swung down the hallway on his crutches. “You guys want,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll let you sign my cast later.”
    We left Joey and Malcolm slapping high fives and continued to Room 12.
    Mr. Swickle was copying a poem on the blackboard as we noisily entered.
    “Ahh,” said our teacher, turning, “I see the baseball contingent has arrived. With our new classmate in tow.” The teacher smiled and nodded toward Orlando. “Why don’t you show Orlando where to hang his coat, please, then take your seats and we’ll get started.”
    I sneaked a quick glance over at Gasser. He looked as though he’d swallowed a gobstopper. His face was purple. I guessed he was thinking the same thing I was—Mr. Sicko!—and trying hard not to laugh. It wasn’t fair, really. Mr. Swickle was a great teacher. Once the cat was out of the bag, though, there was no getting it back in. I knew that from now on Orlando’s flub would always ring in my ears.
    We led Orlando to the cubbies at the back of the room and found the one with his name on it. The tall, open lockers were arranged alphabetically by students’ first names. Orlando’s came just after Nick Boudreau’s and right beforePenny Chen’s. It was painted fire-engine red, like the others, and had hooks for hanging coats and backpacks, with an open space underneath for boots. Compared to all the others, Orlando’s cubbie was clean and uncluttered. It seemed somehow a little sad, like a house with no one living in it.
    At nine o’clock sharp, Mr. Swickle called the class to order.
    “Before we get started with today’s poem,” he said, “I