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  “Get this stuff out of sight.” Chet crossed to the boys in three quick steps, took the mop from Pete and tossed it in Squint’s direction.

  “Geez!” Squint howled as the wet mop splashed against the front of his pant legs. “You didn’t have to get water all over me.”

  “Quit being a girl.” Chet grinned, exposing a wide gap between his two front teeth.

  Muttering, Squint picked up the mop and carried it across the hall. Beaver, a chubby boy with large front teeth and a blond crew cut, took the bucket.

  “Don’t forget,” Chet whispered. “As soon as the kid comes through the door, Pete and I will grab him while you two throw his wheelchair down the stairs.”

  “Then, pow!” Squint said, punching his fist into his palm with a nasty giggle.

  “Right.” Chet nodded with a wicked grin. “Everybody gets a shot at him. Just make sure I get the first punch.”

  “It’s him,” Pete suddenly hissed.

  Freezing in place, they all strained to hear. From the next room, came the reek, reek, reek, of a wheelchair badly in need of oil.

  “Hide.” Chet pushed Beaver and Squint to the right side of the door and joined Pete on the left.

  Chet listened intently. As the sound of the squeaky wheelchair drew closer, he rubbed his right fist in the palm of his left hand, dark eyes glittering. Every kid who came to Philo T. Justice—or Pit Juice, as most of the boys called it—got beat up by Chet. It was his little way of welcoming the greenies into their new school.

  Usually he got to them in the first few days after they arrived, but the new kid had managed to slip away from him twice already. That a greenie had escaped a beating was bad enough. But the fact that the greenie who escaped was stuck in a wheelchair made Chet furious.

  It was like the kid knew just what they were planning for him. Even when they had him trapped, he somehow disappeared. Just two days earlier, Chet had sworn he’d seen the little freak wheel that clunky chair of his into the music room. But when Chet scanned the halls for teachers and followed him inside only a few seconds later, the room was empty. Chet had looked everywhere—even in the instrument closets, although there was no way a wheelchair would have fit in them—but the kid was gone. The whole thing was a little spooky.

  Today would be different. The dormitory only had two doors. The one at the back led into the bathroom where Chet had seen the freak head a few minutes earlier. The second door was the one Chet and his gang were crowded around. To get downstairs, the freak would have to wheel out this door and take the small, old-fashioned elevator at the end of the hallway. There was no way to go past them without them seeing him.

  The plan was to grab the kid as he came out of the dormitory. They’d push his chair down the stairs, give him a major beating, and tell everyone it had been an accident. They’d been mopping the floor when the wheels of the kid’s chair slipped in the soapy water and he fell out of his chair. Oops.

  See how the baby will get around with his wittle chair broken in a dozen pieces, Chet thought. And if the freak gives us any trouble this time, he might go over the stairs right behind it. Not that anyone would be able to tell. The kid was already a cripple. What difference would a few broken bones make?

  Chet wanted to get in the first punch though. This kid had been way too lucky, and Chet was itching to get his hands on him.

  Reek, reek, reek came the sound of the wheelchair.

  Almost here, Chet thought. He and Pete leaned forward on the balls of their feet. On the opposite side of the doorway, Squint and Beaver did the same, their hands ready to grab the chair at the first sign of movement.

  Reek, reek . . .

  Just inside the door the squeaking stopped. Chet tilted his head. Had the kid somehow sensed what was waiting for him again? It didn’t matter. One way or the other, he was going to get what was coming to him this time. Chet considered reaching into the room and just grabbing the kid. But as he was about to plunge through the doorway, the wheelchair started moving again.

  Reek, reek, re—

  “Now!” Chet shouted as a chipped silver frame and gray rubber wheels appeared through the door. Squint and Beaver grabbed the sides of the wheelchair, and with a great push, sent it sailing across the soapy hallway and into the stairwell.

  For a split second the chair seemed to hang suspended in mid-air. Then gravity took hold, and it went crashing end-over-end down the rickety steps with a clanging of steel and the thunk, thunk, thunk of rubber against wood.

  “Yes!” Squint shouted, swinging his arms and doing a little dance down the middle of the hallway until he slipped in the water, landed on his rear, and laughed like a lunatic.

  “What’s wrong?” Beaver asked Chet, realizing he and Pete were not celebrating.

  “Isn’t something missing?” Chet asked, his face turning red.

  Beaver scratched his head for a moment; then his eyes lit up. “Hey, where’s the kid?”

  Chet shook his head in amazement, wondering why he hung around with these brainless wonders. “Obviously the freak hid in the dormitory and pushed his chair through the door.”

  The kid thought he was being tricky. But that just meant he was going to get it even worse. Chet leaped through the doorway, hands spread wide.

  But the dorm was empty. He dropped to his knees and looked under the saggy-mattressed beds lined along both sides of the room. There was nothing but a lot of dust balls. Chet jumped to his feet and yanked Pete by his skinny arm. “Check the bathroom. He’s gotta be hiding in there.”

  Pete sprinted across the dorm, his greasy black hair flopping against his forehead. A minute later he came running back, puffing and out of breath. “He ain’t there.”

  “That’s impossible,” Chet said, cracking his big red knuckles. He returned to the top of the stairs, careful to keep from slipping in the mop water. At the bottom of the staircase, the wheelchair lay toppled on its side. One wheel slowly spun around and around. A bent spoke poked up from it like a broken antenna. But where was the kid?

  “What the—” he began. Before he could complete his sentence, something hard cracked against the back of his head. He turned in time to see a mop handle rise high in the air and swing toward him again. This time the mop caught him squarely on the nose, creating a flash of purple and yellow light before his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Now You See Him

  Marcus Kanenas, a thirteen-year-old boy with scruffy, reddish-brown hair, sat on the worn hallway floor in patched blue jeans and a school T-shirt that still looked new and stiff. The shirt hung like a sail on his skinny frame and narrow shoulders. His right arm, which held the mop tucked under it, was corded with wiry muscle from years of pushing himself around in his wheelchair.

  By comparison, his left arm, withered and weak, looked like a broken chicken wing with the left three fingers tucked into a permanent fist. His right hand was fitted with a soft leather glove to protect it from the friction of wheeling his chair. His left leg jutted forward as he rested on his right leg, which was nearly as useless as his arm. But he faced the four boys standing in front of him with a fearless grin.

  Marcus shook his hair out of his blue eyes. “En garde!” he shouted, copying a line he’d read in a book about the Three Musketeers. He waved the mop in his leather-gloved right hand like a knight brandishing his sword.

  “How’d the freak get over there?” Pete crowed. He gave a confused glance toward the dormitory door before starting toward Marcus with balled fists.

  Marcus swung the mop handle in a lightning-quick slash that struck Pete on the back of the hand.

  “Ouch!” Pete sucked on his quickly reddening welt. “That kid’s crazy.”

  “Crazy is right,” Marcus said, waving the mop in his direction. Pete rapidly backed away to a safe distance.

  “Let’s get him,” Squint said. He and Beaver advanced on Marcus, but before they could take three steps, Marcus shifted the mop. Balancing the handle between the thumb and index finger of his we
ak left hand like a pool cue, he jabbed it forward with his right.

  “Ugh,” Squint grunted, doubling over as the tip of the handle hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. His face turned the color of overcooked broccoli, and he looked like he might throw up.

  Beaver took a hesitant step toward Marcus, but a jab to the middle of his kneecap made the thunking sound of a bat connecting with a baseball. Beaver howled and hobbled away like an old man trying to catch a city bus.

  “Had enough?” Marcus asked, lowering the end of the mop slightly.

  Chet, who’d been standing at the top of the stairs with a faintly confused expression on his broad, sweaty face, shook his head as though coming out of a daze. Focusing his eyes on Marcus like a bull taking aim at a matador’s cape, he rubbed the purple goose egg on his nose.

  “You are dead,” he grunted. “I was gonna let you off easy before. Now I’m gonna bust you up so bad you won’t ever ride that chair of yours again unless somebody’s pushing you.”

  Bending low, hands held loosely before him, he moved in, splashing soapy water with his big feet.

  Marcus pivoted on the damp floor, swinging the wet mop left and right. He pulled it out of reach just as Chet swiped at the handle with one beefy paw.

  Chet grinned, the tip of his tongue showing through the gap between his front teeth. “Looks like that mop’s getting heavy. You ain’t gonna be able to hold it up much longer.”

  “Long enough,” Marcus replied. Sweat dripped down his forehead. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I could,” Chet said. He fingered the back of his head where a lump matching the one on his face had risen. “Maybe we can call it even. First you’d have to put down the mop so I know you won’t hit me from the back again like a coward.”

  “You’re the one who needs three friends to take on one kid half his size.” Marcus swallowed, his eyes measuring the distance between Chet and himself. Finally he nodded. “You four move away to the door, and I’ll put down the mop.”

  “Fair enough.” Sending Pete, Beaver, and Squint to the door, Chet held out his hands palms up and moved back a step. Marcus lowered the tip of the mop.

  “See,” Chet said, taking another, slightly smaller, step away. “We can all be friends here.”

  Marcus lowered the mop a little farther. Instantly, Chet raced forward and snatched at the wooden handle. Before Marcus could bring the mop up, Chet ripped it from his grasp.

  “Now you’re gonna get it, freak-a-zoid,” Chet said. He lunged ahead, clearly expecting Marcus to try to escape. Instead, Marcus tucked his head against his chest in a tight ball and rolled directly at Chet.

  Unprepared for the attack, Chet stumbled backward. The mop, still swinging in his grip, caught between his legs, and he lost his balance on the slick floor. He reached for something to hang onto, but his hands found only empty space. For a moment he balanced on the edge of the stairwell, a look of surprised indignation on his face. Then, with a loud cry, he tumbled down the steps and disappeared from view.

  Chapter 4

  Crime and Punishment

  What’s going on here?” Principal Teagarden appeared at the bottom of the stairs as Chet was trying to untangle himself from Marcus’s wheelchair. The principal was a tall, stork-like man with wintry gray eyes and rimless glasses that balanced on the end of his sharp nose. Thinning hair was combed in a complicated pattern on the top of his scalp to disguise the fact that he’d been mostly bald for the last five years.

  Marcus gulped. For some reason, Principal Teagarden hadn’t liked him since the day they met. Marcus didn’t think the current situation was going to change that. Especially since Teagarden was Chet’s uncle.

  “Well?” the principal shouted, tugging on the knot of his tie. “Will someone tell me what is going on here?”

  At the top of the staircase, Marcus, Pete, Squint, and Beaver glanced at one another nervously. As Marcus began to open his mouth, Chet pointed up the stairs and blurted out, “It was his fault. We were just mopping the floor like you asked us to when he came wheeling out of nowhere and knocked me down the stairs.”

  Principal Teagarden eyed the wheelchair—now looking more battered than ever—with disgust, and glared up at Marcus. “Is that true?” he demanded, apparently overlooking the fact that while Marcus’s chair was at the bottom of the stairs, he was still at the top.

  Marcus licked his lips. He glanced at the three scowling boys next to him and down at Chet who was clenching and unclenching his fists. He knew he was going to get in trouble no matter what he said, and it was only a matter of time before Chet and his gang caught up with him again. Maybe taking the blame this time would make things easier next time—although he doubted it.

  He nodded. “I . . . wasn’t looking where I was going. My wheels hit the soapy water. It was an accident.”

  “An accident?” the principal bellowed. “An accident? There are no such things as accidents at Philo T. Justice. There are only rule-keepers and rule-breakers. And you Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

  “Kanenas,” Marcus murmured, keeping his eyes lowered.

  “You are a rule-breaker.” The principal pulled out his handkerchief and blotted his red cheeks. “You race around on this contraption of yours,” he said giving Marcus’s wheelchair a distasteful nudge with the tip of his shoe, “and you endanger the lives of every other boy in this school. I’ve got a good mind to—”

  “Principal Teagarden.” Mr. Allen, the English teacher and track coach, appeared out of nowhere. Quickly taking in the situation, he placed a hand on the principal’s shoulder. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

  “I’ve got this under control,” Principal Teagarden said, glaring at Marcus. He gave his cheeks a final pat with his damp handkerchief and tucked it inside his coat. “This young man has violated school rules, and I am going to see he is punished. Someone could have been seriously hurt here.”

  “Yes, they could,” Mr. Allen said, his deep brown eyes giving a speculative glance to Chet and the wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs—and Marcus at the top. “But aren’t you forgetting your five-thirty appointment?”

  “What?” Principal Teagarden checked his watch, and his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize it was that late already.” He gave Marcus a last sharp look and leaned toward Mr. Allen. “See that the troublemaker is punished.”

  Mr. Allen moved past the principal to stand beside Chet, who was busy shooting threatening looks at Marcus. “Oh, I will,” he said.

  When the principal was out of sight, Mr. Allen folded his arms across his chest and glanced down at Chet. “You seem to be involved in a lot of accidents, Mr. Hawkins. Only usually you’re the one on the giving end, and the other boys are the ones who end up hurt.”

  Chet scowled and shrugged his shoulders.

  Mr. Allen returned his attention to Marcus. “You understand running—or in your case wheeling through the halls at high speeds—is a violation of school policy. If you still want to stick to your version of what happened, I’ll have no choice but to give you two hours in seclusion.”

  Marcus had no idea what seclusion was, but it couldn’t be any worse than some of the punishments he’d suffered at his other schools, and he imagined it was much better than what Chet had in mind if he caught him alone again.

  Averting his eyes from Chet’s threatening glare, he gave a quick bob of his head. “That’s the way it happened.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Allen said, clearly not believing a word of the story, but unable to prove it. “Chet, you and your friends will take Marcus’s wheelchair to Mr. Finley in the boiler room. You will wait until Mr. Finley has finished repairing it, and you will wash it and return it to the dormitory. You seem to have a way with soapy water.”

  “But we’ll miss dinner,” Chet whined.

  “I’m sure you’ll survive.” Mr. Allen placed a firm hand on Chet’s shoulder. “And if I find a single bolt out of place on that chair, or if Mr. Kanenas turns up with any u
nexplained bruises or cuts in the next week, you will be mopping these floors until you turn twenty.”

  Chet grimaced, his eyes burning with anger. “I’ll tell my uncle.”

  Mr. Allen’s expression hardened, but his voice was just above a whisper. “I imagine Principal Teagarden would be interested in knowing who broke into his office last week and stole his silver dollar collection—the collection I found under your mattress this afternoon.”

  Chet’s face paled, the freckles on his cheeks standing out like ink spots. He shot a final look at Marcus and mouthed later before yanking the wheelchair up off the floor. “Come on,” he muttered.

  As Chet and his friends carried the broken wheelchair out of sight, Mr. Allen turned to Marcus. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me. Can you make it on your own, or shall I see if I can find another wheelchair?”

  “I can make it on my own,” Marcus said. And to demonstrate, he scooted down the stairs and across the hall faster than a boy with two good legs and arms.

  Chapter 5

  Secrets

  Lying is no way to start off at a new school.” Mr. Allen glanced down at Marcus.

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus shrugged. They were in front of a white metal door. Unlike the doors to the school’s classrooms, which had large windows in the upper half, this one had only a tiny glass pane less than two inches square. Mr. Allen was standing. Marcus crouched on the floor, his bad leg tucked under him, his good leg sticking straight out. It was an angle which looked awkward but to which he had grown accustomed over the years.

  “I suppose I understand why you did it. You’re the first boy at this school who’s stood up to Chet and his friends. They’ll leave you alone for a few days. But eventually they’ll come looking for you. I can’t keep an eye on them all the time.”

  Marcus’s face tightened, his deep blue eyes gleaming. He clenched his fist in his lap. “I can take care of myself.”

  Mr. Allen grinned, surprising Marcus. “I don’t doubt that at all.” The teacher nodded toward the door. “This is seclusion. There is a chair inside, but no lights or diversions. You are not allowed to read or speak. The door locks behind you once you enter. It will unlock automatically if there is a fire or other emergency. Otherwise I will come to let you out at . . .” He checked his watch. “Seven-thirty sharp. Do you need to go to the bathroom first?”