I cowboy-straddle the hallway’s gray plastic trash can. Charlie Donaldson, my seventh grade bully, will come push me into it. By making it easier for him, I hope the fun will go out of this sport, and bored with it, he’ll quit.
He doesn’t. Today the trash can has spit on its walls. Funny how enzymes and phlegm cling mercilessly to the cotton pockets in a polo shirt. It’s right before lunch, so thankfully, there’s no chocolate milk or leftover lasagna to make matters worse.
The school shrink says I like the negative attention. At least I am someone—no, something.
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