Rescuing Riley, Saving Myself Read Online Free Page A

impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” The conclusion I reached was that the dog did not find his way into the pothole by accident, by wandering, by an act of nature. He was there because someone put him there.
    The thought was appalling, and I picked up my pace.
    Then I’m running.
    I’m running because I’m being chased. I’m thirteen years old, and a kid is following me home from junior high because he wants to hurt me. If I let him, it will be the second time I’ve been attacked today. I’m not even sure why he’s chasing me, because I haven’t done anything to him, but I have been identified as an easy target for bullying. It’s a label I’ve worn, and a burden I’ve carried, since I was five. I’m afraid of everybody, because it’s safer than trying to figure out who might be friendly and who might be a bully. Sometimes it feels like I give off some kind of signal that brings out the bully in kids who are never bullies to anybody else, though I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. I’m isolated and alone, because it’s not safe for kids who aren’t bullies to be seen with me or stick up for me, because then they’d run the risk of getting picked on, too. It is not considered “cool” to stick up for someone who’s unpopular. It’s like saying you like a band everybody else hates, except, of course, kids who get bullied are not bands.
    I can’t even remember the first time somebody bullied me. Once, in preschool, somebody called me “stupid head,” and everyone else laughed. Was that the first time? Or did I miss the first time? I didn’t react, didn’t know how to react or realize that I needed to react, and that invited more abuse, because then the goal was to get a reaction from me, the kid who was clueless. Somehow, somewhere, I’d been “chosen” to be the butt of everyone’s joke.
    I reach the back door of the apartment where I live with my mother, let myself in, and lock the door behind me. I ask myself the same question I’ve been asking since the bullying first started: “Why is this happening? Why me?” If I knew what the reason was, I could change whatever it is about me that made me so vulnerable to bullying, whatever it is that made me such an inviting target. I’m a normal boy. I’m not weird. I’m not a nerd. I don’t smell. I like Star Wars, just like everybody else. I like the same TV shows other kids like. Why have I been singled out? What have I done to deserve it? What did the kids who’ve escaped bullying do to avoid it—what’s the trick?
    Somehow, I carry a stigma everywhere I go. When kids choose sides for sports teams at school, I am invariably chosen last, not because I’m a bad athlete, but simply because I’m unpopular. Moving to a different school and starting over is not an option because Cudahy, Wisconsin, does not have school choice, nor could my mother, Sandra, an X-ray technician, make anywhere near enough money to send me to a private school. And even if I went to a new school, I would again be singled out as “the new kid.” I understand that some kids are more popular than others, but I am well below merely “unpopular.” I am ignored by most people and scorned and abused by others, and I never did anything to hurt anybody.
    At home, behind my locked door, I’m safe, but I know I can’t go back to school. When my mother gets home from work, I will pretend to be sick, and tomorrow morning, I’ll say I have a stomachache. I will not tell her what’s happening at school, because I can’t talk to her. To be honest, I don’t even know if she cares about my troubles. And if I did tell her, she would probably blame me for doing something wrong. I’m safe, temporarily, but I’m still terrified, because I know that the abuse I’ve been suffering is not going to end. It’s not going to get better, and, very likely, it’s going to get worse.
    I ran for my pack, thinking about a dog that was