Homeroom Headhunters by Clay McLeod Chapman Page A

Mom—”
    â€œDon’t you ever, ever do something like this to me again!”
    â€œI said I was sorry!”
    Mr. Simms stepped up, coughing lightly. “You know how boys get, ma’am. Kids’ll start fooling around, and before you know it, there goes the time.”
    Mom let me go, turning her attention toward him.
    â€œThank you for keeping an eye on him, Mr.…”
    â€œSimms.” He held out his hand and shook Mom’s. “Wasn’t any hassle, really. You got a good kid here, no matter how much of a headache he can be.”
    â€œI’d say he’s a full-on migraine most days.”
    â€œMom…”
    â€œThis was the last place I figured I’d find you. What were you doing at school?”
    Mr. Simms and I exchanged a quick glance as I considered telling her the truth. That I had been kidnapped by a tribe of wild kids living in the school who wanted to recruit me?
    Who was I kidding?
    â€œOh, you know,” I said. “Just hanging out with some new friends.”

Be careful what you wish for, ’cause you just might get it .…
    â€”Eminem

chools look exactly the same no matter where you go. Greenfield Middle was no different.
    Same endless hallways that reach from one end of the building to the other.
    Same flickering florescent lights buzzing like bug zappers, sucking the energy from my skull: Bzzst-bzzst!
    We may as well have been moths fluttering toward electrified deaths: Bzzzzzzzzzzst!
    The only thing that had changed was my locker, which was never where it was supposed to be. Or where I thought it was supposed to be.
    Next to the gymnasium? Nope .
    The cafeteria? Nope .
    Library? Sorry—try again.
    Another thing that remained the same as my last school was my leprous rep. Contrary to popular belief, being a boat-rock-star only racked up temporary celebrity points.
    What’s the old saying?
    The more things change, the more nobody knows my name ?
    For a while, whenever I passed a pack of werekids, their eyes would tighten at the sight of me, as if my mere presence was an insult to their lycanthropic clique.
    A few weeks into November and none of them even looked at me anymore.
    I was a ghost.
    Fine by me.
    I’d survive.
    Somebody had drawn a doodle of my face on the front of my locker, with a spear running through my ears and my brain dangling off the bloodied tip by its cerebral cortex.
    Below it, in bold block letters, it read: EYES ON YOU.
    It was written in permanent marker, so I doubted it’d be coming off anytime soon.
    Sorry, Mr. Simms .…
    Once I got the books I needed, I slammed the metal door shut and came face-to-face with a grizzly bear.
    You heard right: a grizzly bear.
    The overinflated head of our school mascot, Griz the Grizzly, popped out of nowhere, like he’d been hiding behind my locker door, ready to pounce.
    â€œDon’t do that!”
    Griz’s plastic eyes stared blankly back at me—or, more precisely, over me.
    â€œYou take this job way too seriously, Martin.…”
    Martin Mendleson always volunteered to slip into Greenfield’s mascot costume during pep rallies.
    â€œPep rally’s in the gym,” I said. “Better head over before Pritchard wonders where you’ve wandered off to.”
    Heavy breathing seeped through the wire mesh of Griz’s mouth.
    â€œYou okay, Martin? You sound sick.…”
    There was definitely something different about Martin. Usually he was a little more animated when he wore this getup.
    â€œMartin?”
    Nothing.
    â€œHa-ha, Martin.”
    Then from inside Griz’s mouth, I heard, “ Kill the pig. ”
    Even though it was barely above a whisper, I could make out the slightest giggle. Whoever was settled inside this bear’s belly, it definitely wasn’t Martin.
    Griz stood there staring until I made out the eyes inside the mask’s mouth.
    Sporkboy.
    â€œMeet us under the