This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans Read Free Book Online

when you stand on the street corner and ask for spare change. And, If anyone tries to break into your car while you’re sleeping in it, you can just whack him in the side of the head.
    But I’m not the kind of kid who needs a grown-up or anyone else to fix my problems. Grown-ups are the ones who cause all the problems anyway, so I don’tknow why they think they’re so great at teaching kids how to solve them.
    Cook Patsy is watching me. She’s still holding one side of my tray so I can’t leave. “Well,” she says, “if he bugs you again, you come to me. I can take care of Tuffman pretty quick for you.” She lets go of my tray and flexes her arms down low, like a wrestler on TV before a match.
    I gulp. Cook Patsy is what Mean Jack calls “ripped.” She winks and picks up her spatula.
    â€œI got your back,” she says as I head to the counter.
    The last of the bad feeling starts to go away, but for some reason my eyes sting like I’m going to cry.
    The view from the stool is gray. A seagull the color of rain and cloud flies by and looks in at me, its beak wide open like it thinks I’m gonna toss in my last piece of pepperoni. Dream on, bird.
    I wonder if the new kid ate lunch alone in his room.
    Birds of a feather flock together. That means when you have something in common with someone, it’s easier to make friends. We’ve got one thing in common, at least. We both got pummeled by Tuffman today.
    And another thing—we’ve both got problems.
    My problem is that my mom disappeared one day when I was five. My dad couldn’t take care of me. I think he was too sad. He forgot to take me to school sometimes. Some days he would get me in the car and get me buckledin and then he’d rest his head on the steering wheel. Someone came over to the apartment one day to see how we were getting by, a “social worker,” she was called. She saw that for breakfast he put my bowl of Cheerios on the kitchen floor. She said that was bad and that a kid should eat at a table. She said I needed a haircut and a bath and that my pants were two sizes too small. She gave him the name of this school and said it was the best solution until he started to feel better. She said I would be happy and he would visit me on the weekends.
    So that’s my problem. What about the new kid?
    Only runaways live on the top floor, so that’s one clue.
    But running away is never the problem, is it? The problem is the thing that makes the boy run.

    There are just a few rooms in the north wing of the fourth floor, and it’s easy to tell which is his because the door is half open.
    â€œHelp! Help!” I hear a voice inside the room. It’s kind of a whisper and kind of a scream.
    I open the door, and the new boy is huddled on top of his desk, shaking. A long black line darts into the hall. I turn and see Gollum slip under another door.
    â€œShould we call the dean?” the new kid asks, peeking around his door. “You know, to tell him which room it’s in now?”
    I shake my head. Snakes like to be with their own kind, right? And that’s Mean Jack’s room, so I’m sure they’ll get along just fine.
    â€œMan, it’s stuffy up here,” the new kid says. He walks to the window and yanks at it. He’s still trembling from Gollum’s welcome party.
    The window sticks shut.
    I tap him on the shoulder and tip my chin up so he knows I want to give it a try. He steps back and looks at me funny, and I see myself as he must see me: skinny, with my hair hanging in my eyes.
    How is this kid gonna do it, when I can’t? That’s what he’s thinking.
    The window makes a popping sound and slides up. Freaky strong, that’s what Mean Jack calls me.
    The new kid nods like he just figured something out.
    â€œSo that’s why Tuffman was messing with you,” he says. “You must be the strongest kid here.”
    All my