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Chapter 1: The Suspension

   For the first time since he knew his real last name, Wesley wished he could change it from Mackey to anything else. It was his misfortune that alphabetically, Mackey came right before MacLean, and that meant his assigned locker was next to Dylan MacLean, which was why he was presently crouched behind the science lab door, waiting for an opportunity to safely collect his history book. Trying to get his history book out of his locker now was actually a moot point, because he was already six assignments behind and probably wouldn't be around to explain to his parents why he got an F on his report card.
   Wesley snuck out from behind the door right when he saw the beautiful owner of his left-flanked locker arrive. Katie MacKenzie-one of the most popular girls in the eighth grade-opened her locker, and Wesley decided to make a break for it. Maybe the Beast would leave him alone while the Beauty-Katie MacKenzie-was there to distract him.
   "Hi Wesley." Katie flipped a handful of silky brown hair over her shoulder.
   "Oh, hi, Katie," Wesley said, trying to sound nonchalant.
   "Can I ask you a favor?"
   "Sure." Wesley forgot he was in a really big hurry.
   "Could you give me this week's assignment for Geometry?"
   "Yeah, but I didn't know you were in Geometry." He didn't add that only about five geeky eighth graders were smart enough to be in that class.
   "I'm not." She smiled. "I'm getting Michael's work for him. He's sick this week."
   "That's nice of you." Wesley found another reason to admire Katie, besides the fact that she was really pretty. Michael didn't have many friends. He was a tiny kid who had been born with cerebral palsy. He walked with crutches and had only partial control of his movements. Michael's locker was on the other side of Katie's, and she was always going out of her way to talk to him and be nice to him. Wesley stuck up for Michael and tried to protect him from the beast Dylan, and that was part of the reason he was living in fear for his life right now.
   Wesley was in the process of digging his math book out of his locker when an overgrown eighth grader who had been shaving for two years stormed up behind him. Shoot! How could he have allowed Katie to distract him long enough to let his guard down? He braced himself for a confrontation with the ogre.
   With reflexes he had developed from seven months of abuse, Wesley dodged the fist aimed at his shoulder.
   Dylan MacLean cursed as his fist made contact with the cover of Advanced Geometry. "You're lucky I like you, Mackey," he said as he shook out his wounded hand, "or else I'd have to kill you."
   Words escaped Wesley, so Katie spoke for him. "You're lucky they don't put you in juvenile hall, Dylan."
   "Wouldn't bother me." Dylan sneered. "Anything's better than hanging around the weirdos in this joint. At least my mom and dad aren't brother and sister. Did you know that Wesley's mom is his aunt, and his dad is his uncle? Really freaks me out," he said as he shuddered. "And while we're on the subject of freaks-where's the gimp today?"
   Wesley straightened up and started to say something, but Katie beat him to the defense. "I'd choose a physical disability like Michael's over a mental disability like yours any day!" She huffed and stormed off, leaving Wesley alone with the executioner, who was temporarily silenced by the stinging rebuke. Wesley guessed he was probably trying to figure out whether a mental disability was an insult or a compliment.
   Dylan twisted the dial on his locker, forcing it, like he forced everyone around him, into submission. "Hey Mackey, your dad out of prison yet?"
   "He was never in prison," Wesley defended coolly, picking up the scattered papers Dylan had left in his wake.
   "Oh yeah, that's right-he beat the murder rap. I forgot."
   Wesley sighed. This conversation was getting old, and his folders had picked a bad time to start falling out of his locker.
   Dylan wasn't going to let it go. "I guess when you're rich and famous you don't go to jail."
   "When you're innocent you don't either," Wesley retorted as his American History book tumbled out and hit him in the chest.
   "Need some help there, Stalker Boy?" The nickname Wesley detested had evolved from "Son of the Snake Stalker," to "Snake Stalker Boy," and then to just "Stalker Boy."
   "No," Wesley answered evenly.
   "No . . . what?" Dylan demanded as he slapped Wesley in the back of the head.
   Wesley blew out his breath. He focused on a piece of peeling gray paint at the edge of his locker. He knew exactly what Dylan wanted. Dylan wanted him to say, "No, thank you, sir," like he'd always done. Normally he would have complied, but for some reason, he just couldn't do it today. He was tired of Dylan MacLean keeping him away from his locker like some rabid pit bull, smacking him whenever he felt like it, and controlling his every action. He was tired of Dylan bullying Michael, tired of him insulting his dad and mom, and especially tired of being called "Stalker Boy." He slowly pulled his locker door so that it made a partition between himself and Dylan. He would ignore the beast until it went away.
   "I can't hear you . . ." Dylan said in a lilting tone.
   "Leave me alone." Wesley couldn't believe what he just said.
   "What did you just say?" Dylan asked.
   It was too late to take it back. Wesley had to move forward. He gave no outward indication that the mechanism inside his brain that held onto rational thought had suddenly become disconnected. That's why Dylan was completely unprepared for what happened next. Everyone at school, including some of the teachers, cowered to Dylan MacLean. They would never have conceived that studious and mild-mannered Wesley would do something so rash.
   That's why it worked.
   In a split second, Wesley jammed the side of his fist against the inside of his locker door and slammed it directly into Dylan's unsuspecting face. Wesley heard what sounded like a piece of celery snapping in half. The crunching noise seemed to awaken him to the dreadful realization of what he'd just done. The only thing he could think of was to run. Like a thief with stolen goods, he abandoned his books and binder. Copious amounts of adrenaline flowed into his body, and he felt strong, almost exhilarated. He had avenged Michael, Maggie, his father, and himself. He'd been pushed to the limit, and he'd fought back. For the rest of his life, he would remember this day as Dylan D-Day.
   Or perhaps as something else.