My Rotten Life Read online

  Great. No pressure there.

  “We need this win,” he said. “We have to get this win. And when we do, I’m treating the whole fifth grade to a pizza party.”

  Most of the kids cheered. But the cheers faded as reality sank in. Nobody expected us to win.

  “Better tie those,” I told Mookie when we were leaving the field. His laces flopped from his sneakers like baby snakes chasing after two white rats. He’d pulled them loose as soon as gym was finished.

  “It’s cooler this way,” he said.

  “You’re going to trip.”

  “I trip anyhow. So I might as well be cool.”

  “Just don’t fall on me.” We headed back to home base for reading with Mrs. Otranto. Mookie only fell on me twice, which was pretty good for him.

  Mrs. Otranto let us read for the whole period, so the only danger I faced was a paper cut. I got to spend forty-five minutes reading about someone whose life was far worse than mine. That was sort of nice. Finally, it was time for my last class of the day.

  “I’ll see you after specials,” I told Mookie.

  “You’re lucky you got art this marking period,” he said as he dug his drumsticks out of his desk. “I thought music would be fun.”

  “It’s nowhere near as good as it is in the video games,” Adam said as he dragged his tuba case from the coat closet.

  “Few things are.” I headed for the art room, along with Denali. I had to hustle to keep up with her. She was always eager to get to art, but not for the normal reason. Her enthusiasm had nothing to do with drawing or painting.

  “Maybe this will be the day,” I said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I’m feeling lucky.”

  As usual, Mr. Dorian was the last person to get to the room. He was big-time hooked on coffee, and always ducked out to the teachers’ lounge between classes to refill his mug.

  When he came in, he said, “Take out your sketch pads. We’re going to continue to work on perspective today.” He slipped his gray smock over his head. He always wore it, even though I’d never seen him paint or draw. He just sat in his chair and drank coffee.

  We’d been drawing for about five minutes when Mr. Dorian said, “Don’t forget what I showed you about foreshortening.”

  He lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. That’s when Denali sprang. “Hey, since this is fifth grade, shouldn’t we use fiveshortening?”

  I didn’t think it was all that great a joke, but Denali’s timing was perfect. Mr. Dorian laughed before he had a chance to swallow. Coffee sprayed from his nose. He dropped the cup, spilling the rest in his lap. I guess it wasn’t very hot, because he didn’t scream. But he leaped from his chair and stared down at his soaked legs.

  I gave Denali a thumbs-up. “Score.”

  “My life is complete,” she said.

  Mr. Dorian headed for the hallway. “I’ll be right back. Keep working. No fooling around.”

  The instant the door closed behind him, nearly every kid in the room whipped out a PSP, DS, or other portable game. Nearly everyone except for Abigail, who was staring at the table, and me. I didn’t have one. Mom thought games were too violent. Dad thought they were a bad investment.

  I looked over to my left and watched Caleb Harris play a game. It was pretty cool. He was running around, shooting zombies. Okay, I’ll admit it was violent. But it wasn’t like he was shooting real people or anything.

  I laughed as Caleb’s guy got sliced in half with a chain saw. “I didn’t know zombies could use power tools,” I said.

  He glared at me. “Be quiet. This is hard.”

  “Sorry.” It didn’t look that hard.

  “Phooey,” he said a moment later, stomping his foot. “I lost again.”

  “Can I try?” I was dying to play something good. I got to play games at Mookie’s house, but all he had was this extremely ancient Nintendo.

  “It’s really hard,” Caleb said.

  “That’s okay. I’m pretty good,” I lied.

  “Here, I’ll set it on easy.” He went to the menu screen. “You start with ten guys.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can handle it.”

  Caleb just smirked and passed me the game.

  I hit START. Three seconds later, I was dead. Zombies swarmed my corpse and fought over my brain. I lost my next guy four seconds after that. As I tried to avoid the waves of zombies with my third man, I heard Caleb say, “Hey, Nathan’s setting a record on Zombie Invasion. Check it out!”

  I felt people crowding around behind me, leaning over my shoulder. I wanted to give the game back to Caleb, but I couldn’t quit with everyone watching. And I knew I could do better.

  As I lost my next guy, someone said, “What record?”

  “A record for fastest loser,” Caleb said.

  I glanced at him and lost another guy. Everyone was leaning over me. I felt like they were stealing all the air in the room. I couldn’t get past the first mob of zombies. Every time I even blinked, I lost another man.

  “Loser,” someone said.

  “Idiot.”

  “You mean vidiot,” someone else said.

  “Yeah, Nathan’s a vidiot.”

  “Can’t play games.”

  “Can’t even play easy games.”

  “Total vidiot loser.”

  I was down to my last man. The buttons grew slippery under my damp thumbs. I wanted to put down the game and run from the room. I couldn’t even do that. The mob surrounded me, just like the mindless zombies in the game. Except, instead of eating my brain, they were stomping my heart.

  The door slammed. “You call this working?”

  Everyone scrambled back to their seats as Mr. Dorian stormed over to me. “Nathan, I’m surprised at you.” He snatched the game from my hands and said, “You can have this back at the end of the period.”

  “Vidiot,” someone whispered.

  I held out as long as I could, hoping nobody would pay any more attention to me. Then I pulled out my inhaler. The hiss echoed through the room like a grenade blast.

  I waited for the period to end and tried not to think about anything. My mind had other ideas—it forced me to think about everything.

  Not invited.

  Last pick.

  Total vidiot loser.

  I stayed at the table after everyone else left, even though I knew Mookie was waiting for me. The afternoon swirled through my mind. I could pretend to laugh and joke about the smackdowns. But they hurt. They hurt a lot. If someone stabbed my tongue with a mustard-coated screwdriver, it wouldn’t have hurt this much.

  I was so totally crushed that I really didn’t care what else happened to me. I figured there was no way things could get any worse.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  3

  Life Science

  Hey, Nate. Come on, school’s over. What’s wrong? Did you sit on glue?”

  “I wish. At least then, all I’d have to do is slip out of my pants and walk home in my underwear. That, I could handle.”

  Mookie plopped down on the corner of the table. “Whoa. You sound totally bummed. You aren’t still upset about Shawna, are you?”

  “That’s a couple layers down.” I described part three of my perfect day.

  “Who cares what they think?” Mookie said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Mookie followed me as I slumped through the hall and down the front steps.

  “Yaaahhhh!”

  I spun at the sound of his scream and managed to catch him as he tripped.

  “Hey, thanks. You saved my life.”

  “Whatever.” I wasn’t feeling heroic. I was barely feeling human.

  “Cheer up. None of this stuff is important.”

  I didn’t bother to answer him. He hadn’t lived through any of my three-part nightmare, except as a witness.

  “It really doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just school.”

  “That’s not true! It matters.” I smacked a tree with my palm. That was a mistake, but
I was too angry to care about the pain. “Just school? We pretty much spend our whole lives in school. So if school stinks, then life stinks.”

  “I know.” He dropped his backpack to the ground and leaned against the tree. “It was a total lie. I wanted to make you feel better. And lying is usually a pretty good way to cheer people up. My parents always lie to me when I’m sad. Nobody wants to hear the truth.”

  “Thanks for trying.”

  “Did it work?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I feel a whole lot better.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Of course I’m lying. I don’t think anything is going to make me feel better. I just wish I didn’t spend so much time feeling bad. You know what—I wish I didn’t have any feelings at all.”

  I heard a quiet voice from behind me. “I can help.”

  I spun around. It was Abigail. I don’t think I’d ever heard her talk before. She never raised her hand in class. She sat in the back and seemed to be lost in her own little world. When she’d first moved here, there’d been all sorts of rumors about her family. Denali said they were in the witness protection program, and Adam swore they were traveling gypsies. But nothing weird or exciting ever happened around her, so everyone pretty much lost interest. Now she was telling me she could help.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She reached in her backpack and pulled out a candy bar. “Before I tell you, have some chocolate. It’s not a cure, but it will make you feel a little bit better.”

  “No thanks.” I really didn’t want to take candy from strange girls. “I’m not in the mood for chocolate.”

  “I am!” Mookie snatched the bar from her hand, tore it open, and crammed the whole thing in his mouth. “You’re right. I feel great now. And sorta jumpy.” Wet, brown bubbles formed at his lips as he spoke.

  “I was offering to share.” Abigail stared at him for a moment, then turned back to me. “I saw what happened to you today. You must be hurting. I really do know something that can help, way more than chocolate.”

  “Like what?” I wondered whether she was going to ask me to join some weird club or sing a happy song. I wasn’t even close.

  “My uncle Zardo is a neurobiologist,” she said. “He’s studying emotions. He’s developing some sort of secret formula to get rid of unwanted feelings, and he needs to start testing it.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” Mookie said.

  “He’s totally brilliant,” Abigail said. “If anybody can help you, it would be him. Let’s go to his lab. He works across town at RCC.”

  “Whatever kind of joke this is, play it on someone else,” I said. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “That’s the reason why you should come,” Abigail said. “Because you’ve had such a bad day. Trust me. Do I look like someone who plays tricks on people?”

  She had a point. She definitely looked more like a victim than like a bully. She was short, with frizzy brown hair and freckles. She had big puppy eyes and the smile of a five-year-old. As I tried to decide what to do, Shawna and her two best friends walked past. Shawna didn’t look at me, but Cydnie and Lexi pointed in my direction and giggled.

  I reached in my pocket, wrapped my fingers around my inhaler, and rested my thumb against the top of the canister.

  Not invited.

  Picked last.

  Total vidiot loser.

  The world had already done its best to take my breath away. I really didn’t have much left to lose. “Let’s go.”

  “Bad idea,” Mookie said. “Science is dangerous. I’ve seen too many movies where people turn into insects because of science. You want to end up with six legs and a stinger?”

  I didn’t bother to answer that question. “Are you coming or not?”

  He grabbed his backpack. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything else to do. Besides, I guess it would be cool to see you turn into an insect. You could fly us all over the place. Hey—if you became a mosquito, you could drain Shawna’s blood. Though it might give you brain freeze.”

  We crossed Belgosi Road, then turned down Davis Street toward Romero Community College, which was right past the center of town, near the park.

  “Why are you helping me?” I asked Abigail.

  “Because you smiled at me.”

  “Huh? When?”

  “Last year. My third day in school. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving vacation. You were the first person to smile at me. The only one, actually.”

  Normally, there was no way I’d remember that sort of thing. But that was the morning Mom told me she’d gotten us tickets for the circus. I’d smiled at everyone that day. Even Mr. Lomux. But I wasn’t going to admit it to Abigail, so I changed the subject. “It must be tough moving to a new school.”

  “There are harder things to deal with,” she said.

  “Like cafeteria pizza,” Mookie said.

  “And like . . .” Abigail stopped, as if she didn’t want to say any more.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” She turned away from me and pushed the button at the light across the street from the college.

  It was weird going onto a college campus. Everyone looked a lot more serious than they did in our school, and a lot taller. But nobody seemed to mind that we were there. The students didn’t even glance at us. I guess once you’re in college, you’re almost an adult—which means you pay no attention to kids.

  Abigail led us into the Moreau Science Building, and up two flights of stairs to a door marked RESEARCH LAB.

  The lab looked sort of like the science room in school, except it had more equipment, fewer tables, and no safety posters. I’d bet there wasn’t any gum stuck under the stools, either. A man in a white lab coat stood at a workbench, mixing some powders together and humming “Deck the Halls.” He was off-key and off season. His slicked-back hair made his bushy black eyebrows stand out like fuzzy caterpillars.

  “Hello, Twinkle,” he said when we walked in.

  “Twinkle?” I whispered to Mookie.

  Abigail shot me a glare and whispered, “I will kill you if you ever utter that word again.” She turned to her uncle. “I brought someone to meet you. Nathan is tired of getting his feelings hurt. He’s a perfect test subject.”

  I expected Abigail’s uncle to toss me one of those stupid adult sayings like “It will get better,” or “Don’t pay any attention to mean people. They just envy you.”

  Instead, he looked around like he was making sure nobody could hear us. Then he rushed over and closed the door. The whole time, he rubbed his hands together like he was about to dive into a Thanksgiving feast.

  I glanced at Mookie and then at the door, wondering whether we should leave. I decided to get some more information first. “What, exactly, do you do?” I asked.

  “I’m working on isolating the biochemical source of emotions,” he said. “I believe I’ve discovered a safe way to neutralize bad feelings.”

  “How?” I noticed that Abigail had gone over to one of the tables and started playing around with some sort of instrument that was spinning a bunch of test tubes.

  “It’s sort of complicated,” he said.

  “I’m not stupid,” I told him. I’d gotten a B-minus on my last science test, which was pretty good since nobody can understand Ms. Delambre when she gets going at full speed.”

  “Well, I’m using protease-based inhibitors to attempt to invert the action of kinase enhancers, effectively targeting the nucleus of the dendrite. . . .”

  He said another hundred or so words, but I lost track somewhere between protease and dendrite. Or it might have been at Well. I glanced at Mookie again, but he was busy shaking hands with a skeleton that was shoved in one corner of the lab.

  “Definitely the skinniest guy in the room,” Mookie said.

  Abigail, who was still messing around with the equipment, acted like she was listening. I figured she didn’t have a clue, either.

  Her uncle pulled
a key from his lab coat, unlocked a metal cabinet, then opened the cabinet door. There was a safe inside the cabinet. He turned the dial, opened the safe, and dragged out a large glass jar filled with a purple liquid.

  “Kool-Aid!” Mookie said. “Yay! I’ll get some cups.” He started digging around in a cabinet under the sink.

  “Hardly,” Abigail’s uncle said as he unscrewed the lid. “This is Hurt-Be-Gone, the world’s first all-natural, totally safe emotion killer. It takes only one tiny drop to wash away all your sorrows. We can even target specific hurts, or protect people from new ones. I’m going to be so rich. Finally.”

  “Found some!” Mookie waved a stack of plastic cups. “Let me pour. I love to pour.” He dashed toward Abigail’s uncle. Halfway there, he tripped on his own lace.

  “Look out!” I yelled.

  Mookie crashed into Abigail’s uncle, knocking him toward me. The jar went flying. I felt like I’d been smacked with an ocean wave.

  My whole shirt was soaked with Hurt-Be-Gone. The stuff dripped down my face. It streamed down my arms and ran off my fingertips. I spat as I realized there was some in my mouth. I expected it to taste awful, but it didn’t have any flavor at all.

  Abigail’s uncle stared at me like I’d just been sliced in half—the long way. “Uh-oh.”

  Abigail stared at me like I’d just been sliced in quarters. “Oh no.” Her face turned so pale, her freckles looked like measles.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Abigail’s uncle said. “You’ll be fine. Don’t give it another thought.” He grabbed a handful of paper towels and held them out to me like he was afraid to get too close.

  “I ung’s umb,” I said as I took the towels.

  “What?” he asked.

  I tried again, speaking as carefully as I could. “My tongue’s numb.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure that’s not a problem. You’ll be fine.”

  “Pretty sure?” I asked. “You’re supposed to know this stuff.”

  Before he could answer, the door banged open and a stream of blue uniforms flooded the room. It looked like half the cops in East Craven were spilling into the lab.