It was another day at middle school, a place where queen bee’s came to gossip, and bullies came to bash out.

I trudged through the ancient gates that groaned with each push, and into the lair of the crusty receptionists.

Today I was greeted by grizzly old face blusher.

She’s called this because she always has some nasty comment to make your face look like a tomato.

Here it comes.




“Pull up those pants, I can see the start of your bum crack, people are gonna start shoving coins down there thinking your a piggy bank!”


My cheeks burn crimson, a colour that looks nice on a jumper, but not on your face.

Ignoring her, I pulled my baseball cap lower over my face and kept on walking into the mildew infested hallways.


A voice whispered from behind me.

I feel a tap on my hunched shoulder.

Not a light tap, like one you use when telling someone a secret, it was the kind of tap that is more like a mammoth wacking you with a frying pan.

Hunter Bold.

The kind of guy who has nothing else to do but shove people into walls.

“Hello little buddy.”

He sneers in his axe murderer voice.

Not again.

All of a sudden, I am back inside an empty locker for the 56th time this week.

I rattle the handle, but it’s locked.

Lucky me.

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