I look up and see Scott towering over me. He leans down. My arm swings up and connects with something solid. Scott bends down, holding his side. I swing again. The lock cracks against his head. Scott stumbles away.
I get up, my hand clenched around the lock. My free hand feels the bear mace in my front pocket. Scott’s entourage stare at me, momentarily stunned.
“Donadio!” one boy shouts. The call echoes up and down the hallway. Two boys grab Scott and drag him away. His eyes meet mine for a second, wounded, angry. Then he’s gone.
James, laughing uncertainly, runs after them. Maybe he thinks they’re friends. He’s wearing a backpack with his initials embroidered on it. JSD.
What does that stand for? I don’t know of any seventh graders whose last names start with D. There weren’t any in l
