Read Quaking for Free Online Page B

cries plaintively under his heavy hand. “Name the senators supporting the war effort.”
    He whips back around, looking at his watch. “You have five minutes!”
    “Aw, man.” The Rat rolls his eyes and the grin is gone.
    “Good try, dude,” the guy next to him whispers.
    “Yeah, whatever,” the Rat replies.
    Whatever? Whatever? How can he say that? He is such a Rat! A scavenger! Feeding on the emotions of other people. Like this warped teacher’s, who obviously has some serious problem.
    I make a heading on my page and scribble down the names of Mr.Warhead’s favorite senators while some people scratch their heads and others look earnestly out of the window at the snow. I look at them like they are idiots. How can they not know? Mr.Warhead talks about the Good Pro-War Senators constantly, as if they are all close friends of his. He quotes their brilliant sound bites like my favorite, “You’re either with us or with them.” Apparently, there is no room for debate in our democratic society.
    We pass our papers to the front and it is almost time for the bell, finally.
    Mr.Warhead reminds us of the pages to read in our textbook and how we will need our class notes to be able to answer all of the questions at the end of chapter three and do we all understand, “Matilda?”
    I shudder, dropping my pen.The Rat snickers. I look up at Mr.Warhead and give him a jerky nod. Mr.Warhead insists upon calling me Matilda, which makes the Rat laugh, and I hate him for that. He does it on purpose. It puts a spotlight on me whenever he says my name, reminding the Rat that I am a potential Victim, and Mr. Warhead knows it. Just because the Rat marked me as someone who does not care. I have to scurry off to my next class before the Rat can catch me, hide on the bus so the Rat does not even realize I am there, and avoid my locker because, by some hideous twist of fate, our lockers are practically next to each other.
    I suffer through World Civ four times a week, at different time slots, depending on the day. I imagine it is somewhat like experiencing random terrorist bombings throughout an otherwise frightening but mostly uneventful week.
    In English, on the other hand, I am all-powerful. Mrs. Jimenez must have seen my IQ test results. She treats me as if I am the Mighty Queen of World Literature. She cowers as she walks by my desk, so much so that she has to look up at me even though I am sitting. It is as if she is frightened to speak in front of me, in case she makes a mistake and I am forced to yell, “Off with her head!”
    She gives me As on anything I write. I believe she would give me an A for writing my name. Even if I misspelled it. She does not tell me what she really thinks. She simply writes meaningless words like outstanding, superb, amazing in the margin. She is not grading my writing. She is grading my IQ.
    Lunch is the usual horror. I spend it in the girls’ bathroom, the one place where I am certain the Rat cannot find me. I open the lunch bag from Jessica. An apple, some grapes, a juice box, and a granola bar. I manage to drink the juice because it is apple but I save the food. It is hard to eat when you are hovering on the edge of nausea.
    The bell rings and I groan, remembering where I have to go next.
    PE.
    Putrid Exercise.
    Painful Exhibitionism.
    Please Erase.
    I cannot compete with the Amazon Women Jockettes. Nor do I want to. After a week of being trampled in volley-ball, basketball, and some form of cruel obstacle relay that looks like it came out of Alice in Wonderland, I decide to escape. I already know that Miss Splits—I kid you not, and she was a gymnast—checks the bathroom and the bleachers for runaways, but once in a while I can get away with it. I find the perfect hiding place. A locker. It is like being under a bed, only vertical. Somewhat cramped, but it beats the alternative. I simply get out when I hear the girls’ voices coming and act as if I am the first one to arrive. One girl looks