Number 8 by Anna Fienberg Read Free Book Online Page B

Ez Marx, come up to the stage now.”
    Mrs. Reilly peers down into the hall. We are sitting near the back with the other kids in our grade, so we have topick our way through the crowd of crossed legs and feet. Mrs. Reilly has put her glasses on to read the program. She frowns.
    â€œLilly and Ez will perform a song by Britney Spears. It is called—”
    â€œOops! … I Farted Again,” Badman calls out. The boys all around him break up, guffawing like hyenas. They make farting noises under their armpits.
    â€œWhat’s going on down there?” Mrs. Reilly’s voice booms into the microphone. “Who’s responsible for this noise?”
    There’s a sudden deathly quiet in the hall.
    No one whispers or even scratches an itchy place.
    Lilly and I are left standing on stage like cakes going stale.
    â€œ
You!
” Mrs. Reilly tears the silence open. She’s pointing at Badman, her finger shaking with rage. I stare, fascinated, watching the way her jaw clenches, imagining her teeth locking into position behind the thin line of her mouth. It’s like watching a snake—you want to run, but you’re mesmerized.
    â€œIt was you, wasn’t it, Bruce?
You
who made that disgusting comment!”
    Badman is staring so hard at the floor, you’d think he’d fall through it.
    â€œStand up, young man.”
    He stands, clutching the neck of his guitar.
    â€œTell me, Bruce, do you think you can be so rude to another performer and still have your turn?” Her voice has frozen into ice, quiet and deadly. And then it cracks. “Well, that’s not how Homeland High School works! Look at you, a seventh grade boy, and still behaving like a infant! Everybody, look at Bruce.”
    Three hundred pairs of eyes look at Bruce. I gaze over his head, out the window.
    â€œI want you to apologize to your school, Bruce, for your rude and inconsiderate behavior.”
    Badman shifts his feet. His face has turned a dull purple.
    â€œDo you understand the word ‘apologize,’ Bruce?” Mrs. Reilly speaks in slow motion, as if she’s training a dog. “Maybe this is too hard for you. Can anybody be so kind as to tell Bruce what this very difficult word means? What about one of our little elementary school visitors?”
    â€œSorry,” blurts Bruce.
    â€œI beg your pardon, Bruce,” sneers Mrs. Reilly. “We didn’t hear you.”
    â€œI’m SORRY!” says Badman. His eyes are glittering, catching the sunlight from the window. He’s holding them wide open so the tears won’t spill. I know that trick.
    Mrs. Reilly stares at him. I can see her hesitating. She really wants to stretch out the agony, see if she can totally break his back as well as his tear banks. But another teacher in the hall coughs restlessly and she pulls herself up straight.
    â€œWell, Bruce, we don’t accept your apology. Now leave the hall and go to the principal’s office at once. Tell Mr. Phillips that Mrs. Reilly sent you. And leave that guitar here.”
    â€œNo!” yells Bruce. “It’s real expensive—it’s my father’s!”
    â€œDo as I say or you will have another suspension! And you will have to apologize again to the school and to Lilly and Ez for disrupting our concert tryouts.”
    â€œOh, Mrs. Reilly—really, it’s okay,” I say. “We don’t mind!”
    Mrs. Reilly whips around like a cobra striking. “You be quiet—
I
mind. Now, get out of my sight, Bruce Bradman.”
    We watch as Badman carefully leans his guitar against the wall, whispering something to the other kids sitting near it. He’s probably telling them he’ll stick toothpicks up their fingernails if they even breathe on it.
    â€œOUT!” screams Mrs. Reilly.
    He pats the guitar one more time and slouches through the door.
    â€œNow, girls, quickly, get on with your song. We’re running