Jake Drake, Bully Buster Page 3

  Something inside me snapped. And I said, “No. I’m not going to.”

  Link took a step closer. He said, “What?”

  “I said I’m not going to. I don’t care what you say or what you do. I’m not going to make a wigwam or anything else by myself. And if you don’t help, then I guess we’re just going to get an F on our report.”

  Link looked down at me with his beady little bully eyes. He clenched his fists. For a second I thought I had made a big mistake. I was about to get pounded into the sidewalk.

  Then suddenly, he shrugged. He said, “Fine. Okay. Come over to my house about three-thirty. We’ll make a stupid poster or something.”

  Then he just turned and started walking home.

  Standing there in the November sunshine at the corner of Greenwood and Park, I felt like something had changed. It didn’t feel like I had killed a dragon or anything.

  It was more like back when I was five. Every night I’d thought there was a monster under my bed. And then one night I’d gotten brave enough to look. And it wasn’t there. No monster.

  But in forty-five minutes I was going to have to go knock on Link’s door. Who would open it?

  Would it be my social studies partner?

  Or a monster?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Surprises and Questions

  Finding Link’s house was no problem. He lived in Jimmy Carson’s old house, and I had been there plenty of times. I had all the stuff for the project in my book bag.

  I went up the front steps and rang the doorbell. I heard a sound. From above. Like shhhh.

  I looked up just in time to see a fat red water balloon. And above the balloon, Link’s head, sticking out of a window on the second floor.

  The balloon went SPLAT on the steps next to me. Only my shoes got wet. Link laughed and yelled, “Surprise!” Then he said, “Come on in, Flake. Door’s open.”

  My heart was pounding, and I almost turned around and ran for home.

  But I didn’t. If Link had wanted to put that balloon right on my head, he could have. So that was progress, right? Or was he really trying to soak me, and he just missed?

  Anyway, I went inside.

  Link’s mom was in the front hallway looking through a stack of mail. She must have just gotten home, because her coat was still on. She smiled and said, “Hi. You must be Jake. Link said you were coming over to work on a project. If you get hungry later, you can have a snack.”

  I said, “Thank you.”

  Link yelled from the top of the stairs, “Hey! Up here. And bring all your stuff.”

  Link’s room was a surprise. I guess I’d thought it would be like a cave or jail cell or something. It was just a regular room.

  There were a lot of comic books around, and there were models on all the shelves. Lots of them. Model cars and trucks and motorcycles. Model ships and airplanes. Even a model train.

  I picked up a model of a car.

  “Hey! Hands off, Flake.”

  I put the car down. But I bent over to get a better look.

  It was perfect. It was only a plastic model, like the kind at a hobby shop. It had been glued together and then painted bright blue. Perfectly.

  I looked at Link. He had flopped onto his bed. He was looking at an X-Men comic book.

  I said, “This is cool. Where’d you get it?”

  “My dad gave me the kit. It’s a 1969 Ford Mustang convertible.”

  I said, “You mean you put it together?”

  “Yeah,” said Link. He didn’t take his eyes off the comic book. “I painted it, too.”

  I could imagine Link having a hobby like collecting wrestling cards. Or catching bugs and spiders. Or maybe throwing glass bottles against a brick wall. But model building? Link?

  A girl wearing sweatpants and a green T-shirt came into Link’s room. She was tall, with big shoulders and arms, probably in high school. She had about six earrings in each ear, and her hair was brown with a bright pink streak in the front. And she was mad.

  She didn’t notice me. Real loud, she said, “Hey, Stink.”

  Link looked up from his comic book. “What?”

  “You know what. You took a dollar off my dresser this morning.”

  “Did not!”

  She picked up the Mustang model I had been looking at. She held it out, and started to close her big hand around it.

  Link sat up and yelled, “Hey, leave that alone.”

  She smiled, and her smile looked very familiar to me. Then she said, “Here—catch!” and she tossed the model at Link.

  Link caught it before it hit the bed.

  The girl said, “I know you took that dollar.”

  Link said, “You probably spent all your money on lipstick or something dumb. And you’re so stupid, you probably don’t even remember.”

  She took two steps into the room. “Yeah well, see if you can remember this, Stink. If I ever find you in my room, you are dead.” Then she looked at me. “And that goes for your twerpy little friends, too.”

  Then she left. A few seconds later, a door slammed. Hard.

  Link grinned at me and reached over and put the model on the table by his bed. “That’s my demented sister.”

  I got out the book that had some pictures of a Native American village. I was ready to finish this project and go home. Giant girl SuperBullies are not my idea of fun. I said, “Let’s get this done, okay?”

  Link heaved a bored sigh. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got some stuff we can use.”

  He rolled off the bed and walked to a table near the window. There was a big box. It was the kind of box you get new clothes in at Christmas. He pulled off the lid. “We can make something on the inside of this lid.”

  I said, “Okay.”

  But I was looking at the things in the box. There were some brown paper bags, and some sticks and twigs. There were some plastic bags full of sand, and some pieces of dried moss. There were bunches of long green pine needles. And there was some string and some glue.

  There was also a page that Link must have ripped out of a National Geographic magazine. It showed a painting of a Wampanoag village, complete with wigwams and a longhouse. He had actually done some research.

  Link said, “I got most of this junk from my backyard.”

  “Oh,” I said. “So your idea is to make a model village? And to make it look real?”

  He looked at me. “Duh. Good thinking, Flake.”

  I picked up one of the longer sticks. “This could be one of the wigwam poles.”

  Link shook his head. “Too thick. I got these skinny sticks for that. If they’re not skinny, it won’t look right.”

  For the next hour I watched Link work. I tried to help, but I just got in the way.

  First Link bent seven or eight skinny sticks to make a wigwam frame. He tied the sticks together with part of an old shoelace. Then he cut open a big brown bag with scissors. He ripped the brown paper into ragged pieces. He painted little lines all over them. They looked like tree bark. Then he glued the paper onto the wigwam frame.

  I showed Link one of the books I brought. He rubbed some black marker onto a paper towel. Then he rubbed that onto the brown paper to make the wigwam look old. Then he glued the whole thing in the box lid.

  Then he spread some sand and moss around. He used big stones to look like rocks. He made a little fireplace outside the wigwam with a ring of pebbles. And he used wood and crumpled foil and a red marker to make the fire look real. He made trees and bushes out of the pine needles. And then he made another smaller wigwam. And then he made a longhouse.

  It was amazing. It looked like a little village. It looked so good.

  Link put down the glue bottle and stepped back a few feet.

  I said, “It’s really great.”

  Link shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  I put my things back in my book bag and pulled on my coat. “So you’ll bring it to school tomorrow?”

  Link snorted. “You think I’m going to let you carry it
? And trip and fall all over the place like a doofus? I’ll bring it.”

  I said, “Okay. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Link flopped back onto his bed and picked up another comic book. “Yeah. So long, Flake.” Then he said, “Hey, don’t forget, Flake. You better do a good job giving this report.”

  But by then I was halfway down the hall. I tiptoed past his big sister’s room and went downstairs. I opened the door, stuck my head out, and looked up. No Link, no water balloons. So I scooted across the steps and headed for home.

  I had some stuff I needed to think about.

  I had seen a lot at Link’s house.

  Like his big sister. What would it be like to live in the same house with that your whole life?

  And his mom. She seemed nice.

  And then there was Link.

  Sure, he water-bombed me, and he ignored me a lot, and he called me a doofus. But he didn’t seem like a SuperBully, at least not all the time. Once in a while, he was just—well, he was just like a kid.

  And he was absolutely a great model builder.

  I had looked at Link’s face while he was thinking about the model. And while he was painting and gluing. When he forgot I was there, he had a different face from his bully face. Not mean. Almost nice.

  But when Link remembered I was there, his face would switch back.

  So if there’s no one to bully, a bully isn’t a bully, right?

  I couldn’t make myself disappear.

  But could I make a SuperBully disappear?

  That was the question I still could not answer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Busted Link

  Link wasn’t on the bus the next morning. His dad drove him to school with the project.

  Right after math in the morning, Mrs. Brattle said, “Now we’re going to look at the Thanksgiving projects. First, you should show what you made, and then tell why it’s part of the first Thanksgiving story.”

  Andrea and Laura went first. They had made a poster to show the inside of the Mayflower. It looked like their parents had done most of the drawing. And they both talked too soft and giggled a lot.

  Then Ben and Carlos showed Plymouth Rock. It was where the Pilgrims had landed. The rock was made of papier-mâché. Except they didn’t use enough paint. You could still see the comics and the headlines on the strips of newspaper. But it was an okay report.

  And then Mrs. Brattle said, “Jake, Link? You’re going to tell us something about the Native Americans.”

  I said, “Our project is out in the hall under the coatrack.”

  Link followed me out into the hall. There was a white plastic bag covering the project. The sand and rocks made the box lid heavy. I picked up one end, and Link got the other end. We started toward the door.

  Then Link stopped. His face looked pale, and his lips looked blue. In a small voice he said, “I can’t do this. Reports. You know, talking to the whole class.” He gulped. And then very softly he said, “I can’t.”

  We were face-to-face, about two feet apart. I was looking up at him. No SuperBully in sight. Just a scared kid. And then I knew why Link had kept telling me that I had to give the report.

  Then I felt this rush of power. At last, the great and fearsome Link—completely at my mercy! At last, it was my turn to be the bulliest SuperBully of all!

  I could have said, “Oh, wook! It’s Wittle Winky—afwaid of a weport!”

  I could have said, “So—you make me feel terrible for a whole month, and now you want me to feel sorry for you? Well, too bad, tough guy!”

  Or I could have said, “Hurry—let’s get in the room so the whole class can see mighty Link Baxter throw up all over the floor—ha, ha, ha!”

  But I didn’t.

  I said, “It’ll be okay. Really. All you have to do is stand there and point at stuff when I talk about it. This is a great model. Everyone’s going to think it’s the best.”

  Link swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Okay… but you’re gonna do the report, right?”

  I nodded, and we carried the project into the room and up to the table by the chalkboard.

  I looked at a card I had made and said, “We made something to show how the Native Americans lived before the Pilgrims came.”

  And Link pulled the bag off the model. Some kids in the back stood up so they could see it better. And Mrs. Brattle said, “Everyone should come up closer so you can see. This is really special. Careful, don’t bump the table.”

  The kids were blown away. And so was I. Because after I left his house the day before, Link made some more stuff. He made little bows and arrows. He made some spears and some little baskets, and the baskets had little yellow beads in them, yellow like the color of corn.

  So I said, “This is what part of a village looked like. The wigwams and longhouses were made of poles covered with tree bark.”

  I kept talking, and Link pointed at things. He didn’t look like he was going to be sick anymore.

  When I was done telling about everything, I said, “And I have to tell the truth. This whole thing? Link made it, and planned it, and he did all the painting, too. I helped a little, but really, Link made it.”

  And the kids all clapped, and so did Mrs. Brattle. Link’s face got red, but he smiled. And it wasn’t a bully-smile. It was his real smile.

  • • •

  On the bus home that afternoon, Link sat next to me. But it was different. He didn’t poke me or grab my book bag. He just sat there. Like a kid. He joked around with some fourth graders.

  When we got off at our stop, I turned toward my house and he turned toward his. But before I turned the corner, he called out, “Hey!”

  I cringed. I couldn’t help it. It sounded like Link’s bully-voice.

  He trotted over. No bully-face. He said, “What you did at school today? Thanks.” Then he looked all embarrassed. He shrugged and said, “See ya later, Jake.”

  And I said, “Yeah. See ya.”

  Then it hit me. Link didn’t call me Flake, or Fake. He called me Jake.

  • • •

  So now I’m in fourth grade. And Link still lives around the corner from me. He’s even bigger now. I think he might start shaving soon.

  It’s not like we became best friends or anything. He still pretty much thinks I’m a dweeb. And I still pretty much think he’s a moron. We never worked on another project together.

  And it’s not like Link stopped being a bully. But he did stop being a SuperBully. And he never bullied me again. Ever.

  I’m still kind of small for my age, still the perfect size for bullying, and I still look kind of smart, and I haven’t turned into a tattletale. But if a kid starts to bully me now, it never lasts. I know too much. Bullies don’t fool me anymore. Because back behind those mean eyes and that bully-face, there’s another face. A real face.

  And if I keep looking for that real face, I see it. And the bully sees me see it.

  And BAM, just like that, another bully gets busted.

  By me. Jake Drake, Bully Buster.

  What’s next for Jake Drake?

  Here’s a look at what happens when

  Jake’s science project turns him

  into a Know-It-All.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Catch

  I’m Jake, Jake Drake. I’m in fourth grade, and I’m ten years old. And I have to tell the truth about something: I’ve been crazy about computers all my life.

  My first computer was an old Mac Classic with a black-and-white screen. I got to play Reader Rabbit and Magic Math. I got to draw pictures on the screen, and I played Battle Tanks. And that was before I could even read.

  Then our family got a Mac with a big color monitor. And I got to play Tetris and Shanghai and Solitaire and Spectre. Then I got a joystick for Christmas when I was four, and so did my best friend, Willie. Whenever Willie came to my house we played computer games together. It’s not like we played computers all the time, because my mom made a one-hour-a-day rule at my house
. But Willie and I filled up that hour almost every day.

  Then the computers started getting superfast, and I started messing around with Virtual Drummer, and then SimCity, and SimAnt, and PGA Golf, and about ten other games. And then the Internet arrived at my house, and all of a sudden I could make my computer do some pretty amazing stuff. It was like a magic window.

  I’m telling all of this because if I don’t, then the rest of this story makes me look like a real jerk. And I’m not a jerk, not most of the time. I just really like computers.

  When I started kindergarten, there was a computer in our room. When the teacher saw I was good on it, I got to use it. I even got to teach other kids how to use it. Except for Kevin and Marsha. They didn’t want me to tell them about computers or anything else.

  Like I said before, I’m ten now, so I’ve had some time to figure out some stuff. And one thing I know for sure is this: There’s nothing worse than a know-it-all.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty smart, and I like being smart. And almost all the kids I know, they’re pretty smart, too.

  But some kids, they have to prove they’re smart. Like, all the time. And not just smart. They have to be the smartest. And that’s what Marsha and Kevin are like.

  Marsha McCall and Kevin Young were nice enough kids back in kindergarten—as long as I didn’t try to tell them anything about the computer. Because when I tried to show Kevin how to make shapes with the drawing program, he said, “I know that.” But I don’t think he really did. And when I tried to show Marsha how to print out a picture of a kitten, she said, “I can do that myself.”

  But a lot of the time Kevin and Marsha were pretty nice because kindergarten was mostly playtime.

  But when we got to first grade, school changed. All of a sudden there were right answers and wrong answers. And Kevin and Marsha, they went nuts about getting the right answers.

  But it was worse than that. They both wanted to get the right answer first. It was like they thought school was a TV game show. If you get the right answer first, you win the big prize. Anyway, they both turned into know-it-alls.