Arctic Thunder by Robert Feagan

no one else was going to step in. He tensed his body and slowly raised his hands boxing-style, level with his chin.
    Mike wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw something change in the boy’s expression — something small and almost imperceptible, but something nevertheless. The boy shook his head, then without warning ploughed Mike out of the way and moved past. Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Mike exhaled and sagged as the big kid sailed by. Almost afraid to look, he turned, anyway, and watched the big bruiser saunter down the hall. When the kid reached the far end, he stopped. Pausing, he fired a long, hard look at Mike, who shivered as those dark eyes that seemed so full of hate pierced him. Quickly spinning on his heel, the boy drew back and punched the last locker with all his might. The resounding crash made Mike jump as it echoed through the almost empty hall. Then, turning the corner, the huge kid was gone.
    The few students who had witnessed the whole affair were still gazing at Mike as if anticipating some sort of mental breakdown or freak-out. Certain he was shaking, Mike squatted and began to gather the books and papers scattered across the tiles. “Jeez, why do they have grade twelves in the same school as us?” he muttered to himself. “I hate ’em!”
    â€œHe just turned fourteen and he’s in grade nine,” a harsh female voice said directly above him.
    Snapping his head up, Mike peered directly into a pair of dark eyes not much different from the ones belonging to the guy who had seemed on the verge ripping his head off. These ones, however, belonged to one of the prettiest, angriest girls he’d ever seen. She had shoulder-length brown hair, full lips, honey-brown skin, and almond-shaped eyes that appeared to spit fire. Mike opened his mouth to say something, but all he could do was move his lips up and down like a fish trying to breathe in shallow water.
    The girl shook her head. “You southern kids are so pathetic. You picked the wrong guy to tick off on your first day in Inuvik. Good luck, because he’s going to be in some of your classes, and sooner or later he’s going to make your life miserable.” She didn’t speak the words; she hurled them. Then, with a flip of her hair and without making any attempt to avoid Mike’s books, she stomped on the scattered papers and stalked off.
    Mike slumped to the floor. Leaning against the closest locker, he tipped the back of his head against the cold metal, closed his eyes, and sighed profoundly. What a nightmare! He didn’t know how long he stayed in that position, but part of him wanted to believe that if he shut his eyes long enough, he’d be back in St. Albert when he opened them.
    â€œYou’re not going to cry, are you?”
    Mike heard the voice but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want the next chapter of his nightmare to begin.
    â€œThe last guy Gwen Thrasher talked to cried. Of course, she broke his nose right before she talked to him, but he cried. He bawled, actually. No, it was more like sobbing and snuffling. Really pathetic. He was from the South, too. For some reason she really hates guys from the South. You’re from the South, aren’t you? You look kind of brown to be from the South, but you seem like you’re from the South. You’re too … I don’t know … helpless to be from up north. You’re not Dene or Inuvialuit, anyway. What are you? East Indian? Mexican? Some kind of Caribbean, Rastafarian rap guy? Oh, I know! You’re some type of Mongolian, Sherpa, South American dude! Maybe Bolivian or Colombian. Your dad’s some big drug warlord who had to move to the other end of the world to escape a big drug cartel war and threats on your life.”
    Mike couldn’t take it anymore. The voice just wouldn’t stop. This was a different type of nightmare altogether. He opened his eyes to see who was verbally