Hurry to my locker, ignoring more insults flung my way. After grabbing the books I needed, get said books knocked from my hands onto the floor. Scramble to pick them up (repeat this a couple of times every day) and get to class.
When in class and insults would be flying (except for Ms. Roney’s and Ms. Carnes’s classes—they didn’t put up with that nonsense), do my best to ignore them and count the hours until I could go home.
On lucky, happy days, hide out in the library during study hour.
Ride the bus home, get tripped on my way up the aisle.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
So there I was, sitting in senior English, looking over the newspaper filled with class gifts. I was trying not to read my gift over again, because I knew if I did, I’d cry. And you can’t let the bullies see you cry. But eventually, my utter, pained disbelief got the best of me, and my eyes swept over the words once again.
“To Heather Truax—we leave a fireproof house.”
My soul ached. It aches even now as I write those words. How could someone think that was funny? How could someone think that was an okay thing to joke about? It’s not. It wasn’t then and it’s not now.
But what is funny is that I’m certain many of their children are reading my books, wishing that they could be weird and different, just like me. What is funny is that I’m certain I’m one of the most successful people in my graduating class and that I’ve based an entire series on what it feels like not to belong.
Bullying is a horrible thing. It sticks with you forever. It poisons you. But only if you let it. See, there’s a secret that no one ever tells you when they’re filling your head that this “will build character” or just completely go away when you’re an adult. You have the power to decide what hurts you and what doesn’t, what sticks with you, and what you use as fuel to pull yourself out of the muck. You can make the needed change in your life and give yourself happiness and joy, despite what the bullies have tried to instill in you. You can succeed at anything, at everything. But you can’t let them see you cry. Instead, when they want to see those tears, when they’re doing everything possible to break you down, I want you to smile and remember that they’re just picking on you because they wish they were just like you, but they don’t have the guts.
Remember that, minion, because everyone deserves a happy ending.
Except, maybe, for Greg.
The Funny Guy
by R.L. Stine
In elementary school, I was a funny guy.
I loved to interrupt the teacher, crack a joke, and make everyone laugh. I spent most of my time trying to make my friends laugh. I watched comedians on TV and memorized what they said. I thought I was a comedian, too.
I loved jokes that were a little insulting:
“Is that your face, or did you forget to take out the garbage?”
“Why don’t you turn your teeth around and bite yourself?”
“Ten? Is that your age or your IQ?”
Some kids laughed at my jokes. Some kids just thought I was weird.
My parents were always telling me to “be serious.” But that didn’t stop me from hanging carrots from my nose at the dinner table and crying, “Look! I’m a walrus!”
There were three guys in my fourth-grade class who didn’t think I was funny at all. They gave me a lot of trouble. It was like a war between us.
Well . . . it wasn’t much of a war. You know the way a cat will torture a mouse before killing it? That’s more the way it was. I was the mouse, of course.
Their names were Pete, Ronnie, and McKay. Pete was the biggest, the meanest, and the leader. He lived a few houses down from mine.
There were always signs in his front yard to elect his father as town sheriff. I thought the first criminal his father should arrest was Pete. Pete was only nine—like me—but he was already a really bad dude.
Ronnie was a skinny weasel of a kid. He wasn’t too bright. He did whatever Pete said.
McKay was the smart one. He was always giving me embarrassed looks. Like he was sorry about what the three of them were doing to me.
The problem I had with these three guys started by accident. I bumped into Pete in the lunch line one day, and I made him spill macaroni on his T-shirt.
If only I’d kept my big mouth shut. But I had to be funny. I said, “Are you going to eat that or wear it?”
He didn’t laugh at my joke. In fact, I think he growled. He took a gob of macaroni and slapped it onto my forehead.
“Needs more cheese,” I said.
Why didn’t I shut up?
After school, Pete, Ronnie, and McKay were waiting for me at the bus stop. I tried to squeeze past them and climb onto the bus. But Pete stuck his foot out and tripped me.
My lunch box hit the sidewalk hard, and I fell on top of it.
The three guys had big grins on their faces as I scrambled onto the bus. Later, I took my thermos out of the lunch box, and it made a jingly sound. The glass inside had broken into chunks.
The war had begun.
Pete and his buddies never did anything to me at school. I was safe there because they didn’t want to get in trouble.
After school was when they made my life miserable. I took the bus home every afternoon. It was about a fifteen-minute ride. And every afternoon when I got off the bus, the three of them were waiting for me.
At first, they just chased me. My house was two blocks from the bus stop. They chased after me, waving their fists and calling me “Chicken” and other names. I never ran so fast in my life.
After a while, they got bored with just chasing me. So they started chasing me and then knocking me down. They’d shove me to the ground and run off laughing.
Getting knocked down every day was no fun. But I didn’t tell my parents. I knew my parents would call their parents. Or call the school. And then Pete, Ronnie, and McKay would become even bigger enemies.
Soon, they began to chase me, punch me a few times, then knock me down. It was getting bad. I had such a terrible feeling of total panic every afternoon.
Of course, at the age of nine, I had no way of knowing how much that dreadful feeling of panic would help me in later life. These days, when I sit down to write a scary book, I can think back . . . remember that feeling of terror . . . and use that feeling in my stories.
I felt helpless. I couldn’t tell my parents. And I couldn’t fight back. I was outnumbered three to one, and they were tougher than me.
It had to end sometime. And it did on a gray, chilly October evening.
I came home late on the bus after band practice. I prayed that Pete and his pals wouldn’t still be waiting. But there they were, leaning against a hedge across from the bus stop.
This time, they didn’t chase me. Ronnie and McKay grabbed me and started to pull me down the block. Pete led the way. They didn’t say a word.
“Where are we going, guys?” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
We crossed the street. Ronnie and McKay gripped me so tightly, my shoulders ached. My heart began to pound.
“Let’s talk this over,” I said. “I’ll use small words so you can understand.”
My jokes weren’t going over. Big surprise.
They dragged me up a gravel driveway. The tall, gray house at the top of the drive was nearly hidden in the shadows of trees. But I recognized it.
Mr. Hartman’s house.
Mr. Hartman was an old man who had died two weeks before. But neighbors said they could still hear him screaming. They said they heard frightening howls and shrieks coming from his house late at night.
Everyone knew the house was haunted. It was even written up in the newspaper. The police warned people to stay away until they figured out where those horrible cries were coming from.
Even the lawn cutters refused to mow his lawn. The grass was halfway up to my knees.
Low clouds covered the sun. It grew dark as night. The front windows of the house were solid black.