Bottled Up by Jaye Murray Page A

to bug somebody else. He didn’t laugh at my answer and he didn’t throw me out of class.
    This was the first time since Ann Hutch Elementary that I had a teacher who didn’t believe my rep—who didn’t even know it.
    This was wild. I was in class. I was awake. And Jenna was sitting next to me.
    Not bad.
    Kirkland passed out the books he wanted us to start. He said something about a quiz coming up, but I wasn’t really listening. I was staring at the cover picture of two men—one all professor-looking and the other a monster. I’d seen a lot of cartoon spoofs of this story.
    â€œâ€˜All human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil,’” Kirkland quoted. “As you read the words in the book, read between them as well. See if you see yourself. See if you can determine the truth in those words as they apply to you or to those you know.”
    Jenna smiled at me. I didn’t know why and I didn’t care. I just soaked it up.
    Maybe I’d read the book. It didn’t sound too bad.
    I shoved Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde into my back pocket.
    It was a perfect fit.
    I remember swinging on the swings at the park.
    I used to go so high that sometimes my butt would bounce off the leather strap.
    It was as if I was flying.
    When I showed up at Mikey’s school, he was throwing rocks into that construction hole in front. His backpack was on the ground next to him.
    â€œYou got your mitt?” I asked him, hoping like hell I wasn’t going to have to walk home to get it, then backtrack to the field for his stupid T-ball practice.
    â€œYeah, I got it in my pack.” He tossed a rock down into the hole. “Listen,” he said right before it clanked on something. His eyebrows went up as if it was the coolest thing in the world.
    â€œCome on,” I said, taking a gulp from the Coke can I had with me.
    He picked up another rock and threw it up as high as he could in the air, letting it clunk to the bottom of the hole.
    I picked up his backpack and started walking away, figuring he’d follow. When he caught up with me I shoved the backpack onto his shoulders.
    â€œPip?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIf you put M&M’s in a bowl and put milk on it like cereal, what will happen?”
    â€œThe color will come off the shells and they’ll get slimy.”
    â€œI want to try it.”
    We kept walking. Halfway to the field he said, “Pip? Guess what.”
    â€œWhat?” I took a drink from my Coke can.
    â€œDaddy’s coming on my class trip.”
    â€œDon’t count on it.”
    â€œWe’re going to the zoo.”
    â€œYou told me already.”
    â€œDaddy said he’d go.”
    â€œHe was hungover when you were bugging him about it. He’s not even going to remember he signed the permission slip.”
    â€œHe promised.”
    â€œEven if he did, that doesn’t mean he’s going.”
    â€œYou don’t know everything.”
    â€œSo stop asking me everything all the time.”
    He dropped his backpack when we got to the field, and started running off to his team.
    â€œMikey,” I yelled, pulling his mitt out of the pack.
    He turned around but kept running. I tossed the mitt up in the air to him. The little bugger caught it on the run and spiked it, shouting “Touchdown!”
    Wrong sport.
    I remember playing baseball with my father. He was trying to teach me how to pitch. Every boy in Little League wants to be the pitcher. But I wanted to be the catcher. I liked feeling the ball slam into the mitt.
    My father kept having me practice my curveball. I hooked my wrist. I let it fly. I thought about what it would be like to say right out loud I don’t want to pitch.
    I wondered what it would be like to wear the catcher’s mask.
    I sat under a tree, away from all the parents watching their kids playing T-ball. I took a few slurps from my Coke can. The stupid paperback in