Payback Read Online Free Page A

chance to listen.
    I’m bad.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢â€¢
    I don’t hang about after school because I always have Annie to pick up, so I don’t see too much of what goes on. What I’ve been hearing lately, though, is that thanks to Sammy, Rebar and their friends, Benny Mason is becoming known through the whole school. Even some of the older kids are starting to call him names.
    I saw this happening a bit on Friday as I was on my way to pick up Annie. Benny was leaving the school, tripping lightly down the concrete steps when a couple of seniors walked by.
    One of them yelled, “Hey, Benny! Pacific Ballet wanna know if you’re free to do the dying swan for them this weekend.”
    They all laughed.

5
    I do my usual weekend job at the mall — more about that later — and get to school on Monday.
    In the lunch hour, I go to Mrs. Pickles’ room for my social studies detention and start catching up on my missed homework while I scarf down one of Aunt Maeve’s damp sandwiches.
    The missed homework is so boring that soon I’m drawing pictures of racing bikes and other stuff with my ballpoint that has three different colors — red, blue and black.
    Then, just as a splotch of tomato juice from one of Aunt Maeve’s soggy sandwiches parachutes onto my Socials textbook, Mrs. Pickles stalks over and stands over me.
    â€œDo you realize you’re damaging school property?”
    I look down at the book.
    She’s right. As well as the tomato splotch, which I’m aware of, there’s a whole bunch of doodling all over my textbook, which I’m not so aware of.
    I look up at her. “Sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œThat’s your problem, Charley Callaghan. You don’t think. You have ruined a perfectly good textbook.” She picks up the book and peers at the doodles and the tomato splotch. “You can just take this along to the vice-principal and show him how you waste my time and your own, and how you waste the taxpayers’ money!”
    â€œLook, I said I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the book, okay?” It’s a big expensive-looking book with a hard cover and a million pages. It weighs several tons.
    She hands me the heavy textbook and an envelope with a note inside and sends me to the vice-principal’s office.
    I should’ve taken the day off. I feel terrible bad about the textbook, though. I meant it when I said I would pay, even if it takes three weekend pay checks.
    I’m destroyed for sure. I’m toast, as we Canadians say.
    The vice-principal is an old geezer. Mr. Hundle lost his marbles ages ago, everyone says, and he spends most of the day asleep in his office, which probably isn’t true but you know how kids talk.
    His nickname is Attila the Hundle. That’s what most of the kids call him behind his back. He’s brutal. But vice-principals in Canadian schools are supposed to be brutal. Like army drill sergeants, they’re supposed to scare the crap out of you.
    Come to think of it, my old headmaster in Dublin came second to none at scaring the crap out of us whenever the situation required it. His name was Mr. Hayes. His first name was Daniel. We called him — you guessed it — Danny Boy.
    He dropped in to each and every classroom about once a month to terrorize us with his mental arithmetic questions. The classroom teacher, also terrorized, kept out of the way by hiding behind the blackboard.
    Danny Boy stood up front in his sharp suit and black bow tie and fired numbers at us. We were supposed to add them up. There would be about four or five numbers, double digits, many of them, and when he came to the end of the sequence, hebarked out your name and you stood and gave the answer.
    If you didn’t have the right answer ready it meant going to his office after school and getting a tongue lashing that’d make Superman pee his tights.
    I can’t figure it out. Adults are free