Homeroom Headhunters by Clay McLeod Chapman Page B

bleachers.”
    That’s when Riley Callahan and his crew waltzed up and slapped the mascot upside his fuzzy head. “What’re you two lovebirds up to? Making plans for the winter formal?”
    Griz just stared blankly.
    â€œHey, Riley,” the voice inside said. “What’s that smell?”
    Before Riley could reply, a fart erupted from deep within the bear’s plush bowels. Noxious fumes seeped through the wire mesh mouth, straight into Riley’s face.
    Perfect opportunity for me to make my exit.
    With Riley and his crew gagging on poisonous grizzly-bear vapors, I slipped off into the gymnasium.
    Thanks for cutting the mustard gas, Griz .…
    â€¢ • •
    Fact: Middle-school pep rallies are never enjoyable.
    What’s fun about being forced to sit through a lame attempt at getting the student body riled up about something as abysmal as middle-school sports?
    First, the Greenfield cheerleading squad would stumble through some half-rehearsed routine, chanting, “BE AGGRESSIVE! B-E AGGRESSIVE!”
    Then the band would blast through some rah-rah-sis-boom-belch .
    And then you have to suffer through some prepackaged spiel by the assistant principal about leading your basketball/football/baseball/numbskull team to victory.
    You love pep rallies?
    To each his own.
    Below the bleachers, the sound of pounding feet was deafening, like a thousand students were marching on my head. I had slipped into the latticework of scaffolding that held up the risers, and had a perfect view of hundreds upon hundreds of shoes, all stomping simultaneously.
    A cattle stampede of herd mentality.
    Spurred on by the chant of cheerleaders: “B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E!”
    Sounds like they’re out for blood.
    And there they were—perched on the metal framework that held up the bleachers. From their own personal ringside seats, they stared through the gaps in the risers.
    Peashooter gave a quick nod. His paper-clip piercing had a shine to it, even in the shadows. I could just make out the tattoos on his arm. They had changed. Now cursive letters wrapped the length of his right arm like ivy: THE ARTFUL DODGER .
    Pretty cool.
    I found a spot on a metal bar covered in scabs of bubble gum, next to Sully. Her hair was hiding most of her face, but I could see her eyes peering out.
    â€œFunny bumping into you down here,” I said. “How did you score such good seats?”
    â€œWhat did you just call me?” she asked, her voice competing with the pounding of feet. I saw her hand graze her slingshot.
    â€œNo.” I leaned into her ear. “I said: It’s good. To see. You.”
    Compass hissed at me, acne flaring up, and pressed his index finger against his lips. His right arm now read GUINEA PIG in bold block letters. Once I was sufficiently shushed, he took his finger and pointed toward the basketball court.
    I turned to look.
    Our assistant principal had stepped up to the microphone at the center line, flanked by a V-formation of pom-pom girls. He cued the band behind him to stop, with a wave of his hand.
    â€œThank you,” he said as the instruments faded. “I have a few general announcements before the fun begins. As a lot of you know, our winter concert is coming up and.…”
    But no one was watching Pritchard.
    All eyes were focused on Griz waddling up behind him. The bear began to moonwalk across the court, causing some in the crowd to giggle.
    â€œThis year’s concert will be held right here in the—”
    Confused, Pritchard stopped and turned around to see what was so funny. The band thought this was their cue to start playing again, and launched into the next song.
    Peashooter nodded at Compass as the music got louder. Compass nodded back.
    What are they up to?
    I suddenly spotted the umpteen thin-wicked, round red pellets taped to nearly every bracket of scaffolding. How I hadn’t noticed them before was beyond me.
    B-E