The Bully Book (10 page)

Too terrified to argue, Daniel handed the crumbled page of The Book to the mysterious boy. Then the boy grabbed him by his shirt collar.

“You forget about this now,” he said. “If you know what's good for you. You never saw The Book, and you never saw me.”

And just like that, he was gone. Daniel's Bully Bookers never mentioned the incident with The Book or the stolen page again.

But, of course, after that—they made Daniel's life much worse.

“I can't believe you had a page of The Bully Book!” I shouted.

“I didn't know what it was,” Daniel moaned.

“What did it say?”

Daniel sagged to the floor. His voice dropped to a whisper. “That's just it. I can't remember.”

The whole experience had been too terrifying.

“The page just said something about being a manual on how to be cool. That's honestly all I know. It was the first page of the book.”

“And the boy who ambushed you. You've got no idea who he was?” I said.

No wonder Daniel freaked out when I jumped him.

“I don't know. Never wanted to know.”

“He's got to be a Bully Booker. For all we know, he's the kid who wrote it,” I said. “You tear out a page and this old guy shows up. He might be the head of the whole organization.”

“Maybe,” Daniel said.

“You don't care about this? If he's the author, we've got a key to the whole thing!”

“Hey, I came when you mentioned The Book, didn't I?”

“Yeah, but this is something bigger. We've got to get a name on him.”

“Look,” Daniel said, rubbing his eyes. “I don't want to play detective here. I have enough trouble just going to school with these guys. I'm on defense only.”

“Maybe that works for you,” I said, “but this isn't over for me. I've got half of 6th grade left to go, and I don't want it to be miserable.”

“Not like it stops after 6th grade.”

“Then help me,” I said. “If I bring you some yearbooks, can you pick out this guy? If he's the author of The Book, that might get me closer to reading a copy.”

Daniel squinted hard at me; the moon cast weird shadows on his face.

“Yeah … okay,” he said. “But I don't want you to contact me anymore. News travels fast with these guys, and I don't want anything happening to me like it did with Richard Greene.”

“You heard about that?” I said.

“Hard to miss.” Daniel pointed to his eye where Richard got punched. “So here's what you can do. Photocopy your yearbooks and put them in my mailbox. I'll look through the pictures and get a name back to you somehow. That sound good?”

“Yeah, Daniel,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For being polite enough to do this again.”

Daniel held up the blindfold. He led me through another dark walk over muddy ground. 20 minutes later, we stopped and I took it off. I was standing on the street in front of my house, and Daniel was gone.

If this book is going to last, you'll need to take care of it.

Fix holes in the paper so they don't fall out of the binder.

Get new metal rings when they stop snapping into place.

Retype pages that are getting hard to read—do it accurately.

Burn old pages that are being replaced. DO NOT LEAVE THESE AROUND.

Don't get lazy about this.

It was nearly a week ago that I gathered up the photocopies I'd made of 5 years' worth of yearbooks (all the school library had) and stuffed them into Daniel Friedman's mailbox. Tonight a single page wrapped around a rock has come back to me.

On that page are the smiling faces of nearly thirty 6th graders, all in 10th grade now, all of them probably forgetting the torture they made for one of their classmates, the Grunt, who I can't pick out from these photos alone. None of them remembering what they did, except maybe one. The boy with dark hair hanging low in front of his eyes. The one with the big red circle markered around his picture. Daniel Friedman's ambusher. The oldest Bully Booker that I know of. Maybe the Author himself.

Clarence Corbinder.

Clarence's house has a dead look. Even worse 'cause winter's hit hard. Dirty snow's piled up along the street edges.

It's a pretty large house, bigger than mine and very modern, with huge gray aluminum walls. Sort of like living in a large sardine can. The only thing that doesn't look clean and lifeless are the basement windows. They stick up at the ground level and are plastered with newspaper. Like someone doesn't want you knowing what goes on down there.

I pulled Clarence's address out of the school directory, and it took me about half an hour to get up the courage to approach the side of his house. Seemed like nobody was home. Except there was a light on in the basement. You could see it shining through the newspaper.

See, I'm not sure if Clarence knows I exist or not. Say he is the author of The Bully Book, or even just high up in the organization. Would he know about me? Do the Bully Bookers in high school keep up with each year's 6th-grade Grunt?

I don't think he's seen me in person before, but I haven't seen him, either, and there I was at his house. He could use a yearbook and a phone directory just as easily as I could. I spotted a shadow moving against the newspaper. Somebody was down there.

“Excuse me!”

I spun around and covered my face with my hand. Through my fingers, I saw a woman, 40-ish, with big hair and an expression like she was holding in a fart and enjoying it.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked. I froze, not knowing what to do. Was this Clarence's mom? Even the author of The Bully Book has a mother.

“Uh … Mrs. Corbinder?” I said.

“Yes. That's me.” She smiled. “What are you doing at my house, young man?”

“Um … me?” I tried to catch my breath.

“Yes, you. What's your name, son?”

“My name, that's …” I couldn't give her my real name; what if she mentioned it to Clarence? I couldn't have him knowing I was there. “It's Colin Greene, ma'am. My name is Colin Greene.”

Mrs. Corbinder gave me a smile. “Well, Colin. What are you doing wandering around my backyard?”

I tried to think of something other than, I'm checking out your house for weak points so I can break into it and steal a book that your evil son has.

But Mrs. Corbinder chimed in for me, “Oh, you must be looking to shovel the walk! Well, I'll tell you, I'll need it. The weatherman says we've got about 10 inches of snow coming down next week, and my Clarence is just about as lazy as a sack of potatoes! Spends all his time down in the basement doing his homework or God knows what else!” She laughed, almost manically.

And that's how I got a job keeping the driveway and sidewalks clear at the Den of Evil. I'll be back when the big storm hits. When I'm shoveling, I'll really be checking the house for a way inside. And when I find one, I'll break in and take that awful book.

Principal Clark is a phony. He's a fraud. He called everyone into the auditorium to do a speech about school violence. Trying to scare us so that nobody brings a Swiss Army knife to school “Or it's a 180-day suspension.” Another one of his New Rules. Zero Tolerance is what they call it.

Zero Tolerance is what I have for him right now. He wasted our time, calling the whole school together. And he told us not to bring knives. For our own safety. Who does he think is bringing knives to school?

Nobody. If he had half a brain, he'd be talking about the things that can really hurt you here. Like other freaking kids.

No one in my class was paying attention. They were whispering to each other.

I heard what they were saying: Where are Jason and Melody?

They weren't there.

“I know where they are!” said Ruth McNealy. She giggled with a group of Melody's new friends, girls she's been hanging out with since she started dating Jason.

“They're kissing,” I heard her whisper.

I felt my stomach twisting in a knot. Or like a rock was dropped in there. Or like I was going to throw up.

Everything is moving so fast. Everything's changed so much. There's nothing I can control, nothing I can do. Everyone is growing up and leaving me behind.

I can't stand all this change. I can't stand all this awfulness. Nothing's good anymore. Nothing's freaking good.

I don't want to be stuck like this forever. I don't want to be a Richard or a Daniel. I don't even wanna be Eric anymore, for God's sake. I just want to change. I don't want to be the Grunt.

I gotta get to work, and I gotta get serious.

I have a girlfriend now, even though I don't want one. There really is no point. Girls our age won't kiss you—it's not like on TV. A girlfriend is good for making a ridiculous amount of gossip in the class. That's why I have one.

It's not as if I like the girl I'm dating. She's extremely boring and dumb. But being the first in the school to have a girlfriend is special.

Everybody in sixth grade wants to seem older than the other elementary kids. Nobody can wait to grow up, even though growing up sucks as far as I can tell. So everyone thinks it's a big deal if you start “dating” someone. It makes you seem cool. Makes you seem like you're ahead of the curve. Like you're number one.

And that's the best reason to do it.

I dug the Corbinder manor out of 10 inches of snow on my first visit, and afterward Mrs. Corbinder invited me in for some cocoa. There was no sign of Clarence except for the lights in the basement.

As we walked inside, I noticed the differences between Clarence's house and Colin's. Instead of being a pigsty, this place was like a museum. At Colin's house, I didn't want to touch anything because it was gross. At Clarence's I didn't want to mess anything up. Guess that's the difference between being a Grunt and a Bully Booker.

“Shoes! Shoes!” Mrs. Corbinder shouted at me as I crossed inside. “Colin, this is a no-shoes house!”

“Sorry,” I said, and kicked my boots off. There was hardly any furniture in the place. Just two long couches that stretched all the way across the walls. The house was very bright inside, but I couldn't tell where the light was coming from—there were no light bulbs anywhere.

“Where's Clarence?” I tried to ask causally.

“Oh, I'd imagine he's where he's always at. Down in the basement.” She laughed.

“What does he do down there all the time?” I asked.

“Oh, homework. Writing things,” she said.

“Writing things?”

“Oh, yes. Always writing in notebooks down there. Has stacks of paper everywhere. Never shows anything to me, though.” She did that weird laugh again. “Have you met Clarence? I can call him up if you like, but I don't think he'll come. Never usually leaves the basement till dinnertime.”