Kristin Butcher... has novel ideas

Napoleon Publishing

Sometimes people get mired in predicaments which are not of their making, but from which they find it impossible to extricate themselves. That is what happens to Jas, a grade seven boy who is putting all his energy into completing the artwork for an adventure comic he hopes will be his ticket into an elite summer art program. But when he meets up with Wren, an eccentric, crusading grade seven girl, his efforts become derailed. Initially Jas has no interest in getting involved, but circumstances and Wren's overpowering personality keep drawing him in, until there is no going back.

    As I pushed through the front door of the school, November air crawled inside my shirt. I zipped my jacket and glanced at the sky. It was heavy and low, leaning on rooftops and sagging over lamp posts. It was a snow sky -- not the muzzy white you see when it's actually snowing, but a hard, marbled gray that warns you what's coming.

    Shoving my hands into my pockets, I rounded the corner of the school and started across the parking lot. It was empty except for a few cars and a couple of guys at the far end. Big shot grade eights -- I'd seen them around the school. Talk about an odd couple. One guy was super-sized like he'd overdosed on steroids, but his pal was a real peewee.

    They were straddling their bikes and rifling through a backpack. Instantly I thought of the girl who'd been stuffed in her locker. I stopped walking and watched. As the guys hauled things out, they either ripped them up or stomped on them. Well, most of the stuff. The pack of gum they shoved into their mouths, and the lipstick they used to draw a head with a noose on the school wall.

    It was right after that they spotted me.

    "What are you lookin' at?" the little guy snarled, heaving the backpack in my direction. He didn't have much of an arm. It didn't go far.

    I didn't answer -- just shook my head and plastered a you-are-pathetic smile on my face.

    "I'm talkin' to you, loser!" he growled over the handlebars of his bike.

    "You're the loser," I muttered under my breath and started walking again.

    "What did you say?"

    I knew he couldn't have heard me, so he must have seen my lips move. He jumped onto the pedals of his bike and started riding toward me. His friend was right behind.

    It's emarrassing to admit, but part of me wanted to run. I'm not a chicken or anything, but I'm not an idiot either. There were two of them and only one of me -- and they had bikes.

    I kept walking.

It didn't take them long to catch up. At first all they did was ride circles around me and call me names. But when I didn't answer or even look at them, they stepped things up. The circles got smaller until I was pretty much penned in.

    The little guy made a grab for my backpack.

    "Bug off!" I pushed his arm away.

    That's when he spit on me. I couldn't believe it. He actually spit on me. It was something a girl would do. I watched with disgust as the slimy gob rolled down the front of my jacket. And then without even thinking, I kicked the guy's bike as hard as I could -- lifted it right off the ground. It went crashing to the pavement, taking Peewee with it.

    For a couple of seconds he looked so surprised, I almost laughed. Then his face got all mad again and he sneered, "That was a big mistake, kid. Grab him, Garth."

    I whirled toward the big guy, ready to defend myself, but instead of attacking me, Peewee's pal was getting ready to bolt. He nodded toward the school. "Principal's coming. Let's get outta here."

In a flash, Peewee was back on his bike. "This isn't over, kid," he sneered at me. "You're gonna pay." Then he took off after his friend. As he rode past the principal he waved and shouted, "Hey, Mr. Taylor."

    The principal smiled and waved back. "Hey, Ross. Hey, Garth. Have a good weekend, boys. See you on Monday."

    I shook my head in amazement. Peewee was a suck-up! It figured.

    I glanced down. The gob was still stuck to my jacket, so I dug around in my pocket for something to clean it off with. All I had was a candy wrapper. Holding it by one corner, I scraped away the slime and chucked the whole works onto the ground.

    Then for some reason I looked up. Mr. Taylor had stopped walking and was staring at me. "I'm sure you didn't mean to do that," he frowned at the candy wrapped I'd dropped.

    I'm not dumb enough to argue with the principal. "No, sir," I replied, scooping up the candy wrapper and praying the slime wouldn't ooze onto my hand.

    "I didn't think so," Mr. Taylor said. Then he pointed toward the school. "There's a trash can by every door."

    I nodded and made like I was going to go find one.

    Mr. Taylor started heading for his car again. It was parked right where Peewee and his pal had tossed the backpack. The principal bent down and picked it up. Realizing it was empty, he started looking around, It didn't take long for him to spot the lipstick drawing on the wall and the litter on the ground.

    Like I said before, I'm not an idiot. I didn't wait around for him to start asking questions.