Bullyville by Francine Prose

as to whether they were watching the same program we were. I was just about to hang up when I heard a voice—it was Tyro’s voice, he didn’t even try to disguise it—say, “How would you like to die, Fart?”
    â€œNot much,” I said. “Actually, not at all.” Then I hung up the phone and just stood there, staring at the receiver. I didn’t really believe that Tyro was going to kill me. But it was a message, a signal that a new offensive had begun, that the brief truce—or whatever it was—had ended.
    Suddenly it crossed my mind: Maybe he did mean to kill me. Oddly enough, I wasn’t all that scared, though I knew that if Tyro and his friends decided to murder me, they’d probably choose some slow and painful torture. The worst part was imagining how my mom would feel after it happened, on top of what had happened to my dad and everything else she’d been through. It mademe never want to go to school again. And yet I was afraid that if I faked it and stayed home without being sick, it would be bad luck and undo all the good luck (if you could call it good luck) I’d gotten that September morning by staying home when I was really sick.
    I went back into the living room. My mom was glued to the TV watching some skinny Japanese kid ride a snorting dragon into a kung fu–style fight with some kind of demon.
    â€œWho was that?” asked Mom.
    â€œOh, just a friend from school,” I said.
    â€œGlad to hear it,” said Mom. “It makes me happy to know that you’re doing so well.” And once again I felt as if I were having that old dream in which someone was about to hurt me and my parents couldn’t save me. But now it was only Mom, and she certainly couldn’t help. She didn’t seem to have the slightest suspicion that I was in danger.

CHAPTER SIX
    S OMETIMES YOU HEAR people talk about waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that was what I was doing. Waiting for the other shoe to drop—on my head. I could feel the pressure building as we neared the Thanksgiving vacation. It was as if Tyro and his friends wanted to do something major—something to me—that would make them feel they’d earned the right to kick back with their family and friends and gorge themselves on turkey and all the trimmings.
    I was careful, I watched my back, I felt likesome tourist in a foreign country full of muggers and pickpockets. I was sure that they would strike the moment I let down my guard. But you can’t stay watchful all the time. You can’t hold your breath forever. Every so often, you have to let go, empty your lungs, and inhale.
    One morning, I’d just gotten to school. I was putting my coat away and getting some books from my locker when, in a second, out of nowhere, someone grabbed me in a headlock from behind. Whoever it was held my neck so tightly that I couldn’t turn around and see the person’s face. I couldn’t even tell if there was more than one kid, or how many there might be. I figured there were at least two, because while the first one held my neck, the second punched me in the back, as hard as he could. The punch made me crumple, which I guess was what they wanted. As I felt myself getting smaller, shrinking into a neatly collapsed size, they put a paper bag over my head and began stuffing the shrunk-down version of me into my open locker. Even in the midst of it all I thought:At least it’s not a plastic bag. They’re not trying to suffocate me. They just don’t want me to see them.
    I was having what I’d guess you’d call an out-of-body experience, because I wasn’t worrying about my predicament, I wasn’t even fully conscious of what they were doing to me. Instead I was thinking about this jack-in-the-box I used to have when I was a little kid. You turned a handle and a tune played: “All around the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel.” My