FEB. 7, 2013 Want something exciting to read this weekend? This gripping tale is just the thing! Download the Kindle version for free until midnight tonight.
Excerpt:
The
hair on the back of Nick’s neck stood up. Something was not right. Warning
signals were sounding in his head. But what was it? What was there about this
group of students milling around the parking lot that was different from any
other day?
They
were the same kids as always, well, mostly. The pep squad girls and their
football jock boyfriends were under the tree, the druggies giggled in their
cluster between parked cars, the band/chess club nerds with their instrument
cases and boards stood around awkwardly. He looked them over again and it
occurred to him that most were on cell phones. And too many of them seemed to
be casually checking him out.
Nick
turned slowly all the way around. He scanned the area for Julian, but didn’t
see him among the crowd. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.
He
tried to shrug off the feeling, but it persisted as he walked past the old
sugar maple and across the parking lot toward the sidewalk that led home. He
wasn’t imagining it, people were watching him. He turned all the way
around again; most of the students were following him. His heart started pounding.
Nick
broke into a sprint, and groaned as he saw a contingent of football players
also start running. His house was ten blocks down; he’d never make it.
After
the first block the biggest, fastest jock was almost on him. Nick turned long
enough to throw his backpack right at his pursuer’s feet. The giant crashed
face downward but Nick didn’t see it. He was taking advantage of the momentary
confusion to race down the sidewalk.
But
he’d only made it to the third block before a big hairy hand spun him around
and Nick came face to face with fury. He knew this jock with the skinned,
bleeding face. He was the senior who’d been held back in algebra, a dumb
football player named Brent. What’s his problem anyway? More jocks ran
up behind him.
“What
do you want?” Nick asked, ignoring the squeak in his voice and trying to
balance on his feet like Dad taught him. He bunched his hands into fists,
remembering to leave the thumb out. Six against one were serious odds, but he
was determined to go down swinging.
“Well,
queer,” said Brent, “my cousin Julian says all fairies wear red sequin
jockstraps. So we made a bet, and I’m here to collect.” He turned to face the
other jocks behind him and the onlookers who were just catching up. “Give us
your underwear, Tinkerbelle.”
“What?”
asked Nick as he heard laughter from the crowd. “What?” he asked again, trying
to make sense out the jock’s words.
“You
heard me, faggot,” sneered Brent. “Give me your underwear.” Nick froze,
terrorized. Brent laughed, reached out to grab his arm, and the punching began.
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