When Mr. Dog Bites Read Online Free Page A

Then the sound came a-blasting, and it was Michelle Malloy doing sexy talk like what the girls do on the Internet. Jeepers creepers, some of the things they say.
    Double jeepers creepers! I scanned the class to see if anyone could tell that I was thinking about mucky stuff. Well, they could have—who knows, it could have been one of their things: thought-reading. Maybe someone in my class could have been the next Derren Brown. It might happen. But anyone who I thought could have been the new Derren Brown was “head down, thumbs up.” That was what Mrs. Seed told us to do when it was time for some “reflection on our schoolwork” or our “mental milieu.” Like tiny tots, we put our heads on the desk with our thumbs sticking up. Wee antennae. Apparently it helps concentration and relaxation. Mrs. Seed had some seriously loopy ideas. Sometimes she treated us like a mad shower of window-lickers. This is a phrase I hate. In fact, we all hated it, because it was what we were collectively known as by the lads who went to the “normal schools” in our area. They said windy-lickers , though, which sounded worse and dead threatening when it came out of their mouths. But I could use it in this case because I wasn’t saying it out loud.
    Michelle Malloy didn’t have her head down, thumbs up. No siree. That’s how ODD works sometimes; she just did the opposite of what everyone else was doing. Most of the teachers kept schtum because they wanted an easy life. She was gazing out the window, flying high somewhere in a dream all of her own making. Looking all smashing and lovely.
    Her legs dangled under the desk. I thought about those legs wrapped around my back like a knot, as if we were doing the bare-arse boxing.
    Then I wondered if she would be able to manage a maneuver like that.
    Then I thought about the people who go to the “normal schools” in our area and whether they thought about us at Drumhill; if we thought about the same things that they thought about, like sex, drugs, rock, Internet porn, and Facebook.
    Probably.
    Then I wondered if Michelle Malloy was gazing out the window thinking of intercoursing it dirty style with me.
    Probably not.
    Then I wondered if my willy was the right size to do the deed.
    Probably not.
    Then I wondered if Michelle Malloy ever thought about me in the same way I thought about her.
    Probably not.
    I was dead to her.
    Number two (in blue) : Fight heaven and earth, tooth and nail, dungeons and dragons, for my mate Amir to stop getting called names about the color of his skin. Stop people slagging him all the time because he smells like a big pot of curry. And help him find a new best bud.
     
    Number two was cheating a bit, because I’d written three things to do instead of one. So I did a head down, thumbs up for a minute before changing it to:
     
    Number two: Make Amir a happy chappy again instead of a miserable c***!
     
    Never, ever, ever would I call him this word to his face, but he was. I scanned the class again. The bold Amir was staring straight at me.
    Serial-killer eyes.
    He was doing that thing where he pretended to have a big willy in his mouth and it was pushing his cheek in and out. I put one eyebrow up as if to say, You are a maddy laddie and need help immediately . Amir’s jokes were weird sometimes. They made him seem like a real bona fide windy-licker. But that was part of his condition; he was on this mad circle called the autism spectrum, which stopped him understanding people’s feelings or personal boundaries. He’d never touched me in my basement place or anything like that, but he would do barmy things like pretend to have a giant willy in his mouth or make out that he was licking the lady place through his fingers.
    After I wrote number three, in red, I did another head down, thumbs up, making a cave for myself by wrapping my arms around my head. My cave was so secure that I could hear myself breathing. In and out. Deep breaths in, long breaths out. The docs