Dexter the Tough by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

Sue.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Dexter mumbled, staring at his shoes. “I’m not mad anymore.”
    â€œThat’s great,” Mr. Chandler said, stepping forward to pick up his dustpan. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really need to finish this hallway before the afternoon kindergarteners—”
    Mid-stride, one of his feet shot out from under him. His arms flailed backward, like he was trying to grab for the broom to hold himself up. But the broom flipped over andlanded on the handle of the dustpan. It flipped over, too, sending an arc of dust flying up into the air. The dust landed right on top of Mr. Chandler. Flakes of dirt hung in his eyelashes.
    Dexter didn’t mean to laugh, but it was impossible not to. The giggles came bursting out of him. Robin was laughing, too.
    â€œOh, sorry, Mr. Chandler,” Robin managed to say, between giggles. “We shouldn’t—are you all right?”
    Mr. Chandler stood up and brushed himself off. He took off his bandana and shook the dust from it down into the dustpan.
    â€œThat’s okay. You can’t be a janitor and be afraid of a little dirt. And—I guess I deserved that for polishing the floor so much that even I slip on it. We’re testing new floor cleaners, tomorrow, you hear? And—” He rubbed his elbow, the part that had hit the floor the hardest. “I definitely need your help!”

Chapter 16
    D exter sat at Grandma’s kitchen table. With the graham cracker box and two cans of pears, he built a little fortress around his homework paper. He glanced once toward the living room, where Grandma had the TV turned up loud. If he leaned forward a little, he could see her on the couch, slumped over. This time, he wasn’t scared that she was dead. In fact, he was glad she was sleeping. That meant she wouldn’t see what he was working on.
    The reason Robin was crying was because he was homesick. And kidsteased him about his name and called him a crybaby. And he’d never gone to school before, just had his mom teach him. And he didn’t know how to make friends. And . . .
    What was he supposed to write next? “And so I hit him”?
    Dexter crumpled the paper and hid it behind the graham cracker box. He got out another sheet of paper. He smoothed it down flat and started over.
    Robin had lots of reasons for crying. None of them had anything to do with me. It wasn’t my fault he was crying.
    I had lots of reasons for being mad, too. The secretary . . .
    Dexter stopped again. He’d sound really stupid if he said he was mad at the secretary for getting sick. That’d be as bad as saying he was mad at Dad for getting sick.
    Wait a minute. Had he been mad at Dad for getting sick?
    Dexter crumpled up that piece of paper, too. He tried again.
    A bunch of kids laughed at me . . .
    Except, Dexter had laughed, too, when Mr. Chandler slipped and fell. He’d looked so funny, spinning his arms in the air, pumping his legs like someone in a cartoon. Nobody could have watched that without laughing.
    Maybe Dexter had looked even funnier.
    Another balled-up piece of paper joined the others behind the graham cracker box.
    Dexter pulled out one more sheet of paper and stared at it. It was blank and white and empty. It stayed empty. The longer it stayed empty, the angrier Dexter got. Finally he picked up his pencil and scrawled:
    This is a STUPID asinement. Nobody should have to do this. It’s dumb. Really, really, really dumb!!!!!
    He’d never in a million years hand that in. But it made him feel better to write it down.

Chapter 17
    â€œI am not going to go talk to the principal!” Dexter snapped.
    Robin was bugging him again at recess. He’d found Dexter’s hiding place in the bushes, and crawled in behind him.
    â€œBut, see,” Robin said, pushing leaves out of his face, “my mom says she has a lot of respect for Mr. Wiseman. And she says