Homeroom Headhunters by Clay McLeod Chapman Read Free Book Online

knuckles to me. I could barely make out the word scrawled across his skin:
    YARDSTICK
    Whoever he was, he’d dreaded his hair. Not “dread” as in “be afraid of it,” but as in he had knotted his hair into these thick tendrils on top of his head. He’d adorned each lock with items from around school: lost earrings, safety pins, even a key that had probably been plucked from Mr. Simms’s retractable keychain.
    By now, all the other students were in the gym, so it was just me—and them.
    A third tribesman stepped up, seemingly out of nowhere. Same ratty, pinned-together gym clothes. His face was a supernova of acne, and in his hands rested a pair of plastic protractors, each semicircular edge sporting a line of X-ACTO blades. His bandolier held a gleaming row of compasses.
    Glaring wildly, he smashed his fists together. His knuckles read:
    COMPASS
    â€œWho…?” I started, but couldn’t finish.
    Silence.
    â€œWho…?” I tried again, my chest beginning to burn.
    Bad time for an asthma attack.
    I took a step back and bumped into somebody. I spun around.
    Another one?
    He looked older than the rest. His nasal septum was pierced with a paper clip, the thin bit of metal running directly through the cartilage that divided his nostrils. His alabaster body left him looking like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A belt of hollowed-out pens was wrapped around his waist.
    Looking at his hands, I noticed they were letter-free. But a necklace of handwriting ringed his throat:
    PEASHOOTER
    â€œWho…?” I tried one last time.
    â€œWho…” he asked, “are we?” A smirk curled his lip. “We’re your friends.”
    That’s when I blacked out.

here was I? What happened?
    First order of business: Get my head to stop spinning.
    Second: Figure out why long strands of entrails are spilling out from this Grand Canyon–size rift in my stomach. And what are the squiggly bits that smell like the Olive Garden?
    And how come I’m not dead yet?
    Looking up, I saw a series of pipes and pressure valves hanging over my head. An odd metal contraption next to me hissed, spitting slips of steam into the air.
    The boiler room? It had to be.
    Someone was kneeling next to me.
    A girl.
    She was about my age, maybe a little older, but it was hard to tell. Her hair covered most of her face. She was wearing a mismatch of old clothes held together by an exoskeleton of safety pins.
    And she was staring at my stomach, sniffing.
    Literally.
    She dipped her pinkie into my guts, wriggled it around, and brought it up to her mouth, lightly tapping it to her tongue.
    â€œYou’re…Italian?”
    Cannibals.
    There were cannibals running around our school.
    And I was their next meal.
    My esophagus cinched shut.
    This was not how I had planned to spend third period. Mr. Rorshuck was going to think I was skipping his class—when, in reality, I was asphyxiating directly below his feet in the basement of the building.
    I grabbed at my neck, but My Little Friend wasn’t there.
    Riley.
    â€œDo you need an inhaler?” Cannibal Girl asked. All I could do was nod— Yes! Yes! Yes!
    She turned and rushed toward a pile of inhalers stacked in a far corner.
    Wait. Why was there a stockpile of asthma medicine stashed in the basement of Greenfield Middle School?
    Cannibal Girl ran back and held out an inhaler. I grabbed it, brought it up to my mouth, and squeezed.
    Empty.
    Cannibal Girl rushed back to the pile of inhalers and grabbed another one. She shook it, then tossed it over her shoulder and reached for another.
    Please, oh please, tell me they’re not all empty.
    â€œFound one!”
    I couldn’t even grab the inhaler. She had to bring it up to my mouth, prying apart my lips and pushing the button down.
    Air. Sweet medicated air…
    â€œAre you okay?” Cannibal Girl hovered above me and swept the hair out of her face. Her pale skin was