Strikeout of the Bleacher Weenies by David Lubar Page B

you have any idea how much it costs to feed one shark for a month? Can you even guess how high our electric bill is?” he asked. “All our tanks have to be controlled for temperature.”
    I shrugged. I hadn’t bought any shark food recently. And I’d never even seen an electric bill. I thought about telling him this, but there didn’t seem to be any point. He wasn’t really talking to me. Like most adults, he was talking to himself.
    He kept on talking. “We have to be very clever to survive,” he said. He glanced back down at his watch. “Well, I believe that’s long enough. If you give me your word you won’t tap on the glass ever again, you may go.”
    â€œI promise.” I pushed myself to my feet. It wasn’t easy. The chair was sort of squishy. But it felt a bit firmer than it had when I first sat down. I staggered as I got up, and put a hand on the desk to balance myself. The room seemed to spin.
    Weird.
    I walked out of the office and found the stairs that led to the first floor. I still felt dizzy, like I was about to faint. I put my hand out to steady myself, grabbing the top of a sign that was standing right next to the steps. I glanced down at the sign, but didn’t read it. I was halfway up the steps when I realized what I’d seen. I staggered back down and read the large letters:
    COMINGSOON
    THEBRAZILIANGIANTLEECH
    NEVERBEFORESEENINTHISCOUNTRY
    Below that, in smaller letters, there was a lot more information about this creature. I learned that, like all leeches, it lived on blood. And, like all leeches, it had an anesthetic in its mouth that kept the victim from feeling anything while it feasted.
    Most leeches were small. Some grew a bit larger. This one, the Brazilian Giant Leech that was going to be on exhibit soon, was huge. Based on the picture, it was the size of a beanbag chair.
    The last line of the sign urged people to COME FACE TO FACE WITH THIS AMAZING CREATURE. “No thanks,” I muttered as I stumbled up the stairs. “I’ve already come face to butt with it.” That was more than enough for me.

 
    THE GIRL WHO COVERED HER FACE
    Maybe this time will be different.
    It was her fifth school in two years. She handed her slip to the homeroom teacher.
    He stared for a moment, then performed that sudden half-shift of his eyes, as if trying to pretend he’d never dream of staring.
    But it was obviously hard for him not to stare.
    â€œAnywhere,” he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the desks.
    Helen weighed the disadvantages of the three available seats. One was in the back. Two were near the front.
    If I sit in the back, it will attract more attention, since they will all have to turn to stare at me.
    As if the cloth around her face wouldn’t draw attention all by itself. This time, it was a simple cotton scarf. She’d tried bandages. That had brought far too much interest. And she’d tried a burka. That had brought too much curiosity.
    She took a seat on the left side of the second row. The boy on her right, his own face awash in an angry smear of acne, stared at her. She could feel other eyes probing the covering as the students tried to guess what horror lay behind the light-green cloth.
    â€œWhat happened to your face?” the boy asked.
    Ignore him? She’d hoped to avoid such blunt confrontations.
    The boy repeated the question.
    Helen decided it was best to satisfy his curiosity. “I was in an accident. My face was burned.” She reached for the corner of the scarf, where it was double-knotted at the nape of her neck. “Want to see?” The memory of screams caused her to choke off the last word.
    The boy started to nod, then shook his head. Helen left her hand where it was, waiting.
    â€œBenton, leave the new student alone.”
    Helen nodded at the teacher, thanking him. Maybe it will be okay this time. Maybe I can stay here for a while.
    Acts of rude