Free Box of Shocks by Chris McMahen

we’re about three blocks from the school, I see a strange kid walking along the sidewalk. He must be headed toward the school, and he must be new, because I’ve never seen him before.
    Or have I?
    There’s something familiar about him.
    â€œLook at that poor boy,” Mom says. “Imagine his parents sending him to school like that in this rain.”
    He doesn’t have a raincoat, so his sweater’s soaked, and his dirty blond hair is plastered to his head. All he’s carrying is a tiny plastic bag—not big enough for the school supplies we’re supposed to bring on the first day of school. It doesn’t even look big enough for a lunch.
    â€œI think that’s the boy who’s living in our old house,” Mom says.
    So that’s where I’ve seen him! He was wearing that old sweater yesterday when I saw him jump into the back of the car.
    â€œMaybe we should give him a lift to school,” Mom says.
    â€œNo!” I shout. “I mean…it’s probably not a very good idea.”
    â€œAnd why not?” Mom says, looking puzzled.
    â€œWell…we’re strangers, and the kid’s probably been told not to take rides from strangers.”
    â€œWe’re not strangers, Oliver. We’re his neighbors.”
    â€œBut…but maybe it’s not safe for us to give him a lift. You know what you always tell me about picking up hitchhikers. Maybe he’s dangerous! Maybe he’s got something hidden underneath his sweater like a hacksaw or a crowbar or something.”
    There’s no way I want Mom to give this kid a lift. He’s an enemy alien living in my very own bedroom! Instead of giving him a lift, Mom should swerve through a puddle and soak the little stinker with muddy rainwater!
    â€œHe certainly doesn’t look dangerous, Oliver,” Mom says. “In fact, if you gave the poor boy a haircut and put some decent clothes on him, I’d say the two of you would look a bit alike. He’s about your height, and…”
    â€œForget it, Mom. He doesn’t look anything like me. Just let him walk the rest of the way to school. Maybe he likes getting wet,” I say. “He’s probably one of those weird kids that acts strange just to be different.”
    â€œOh, Oliver, don’t be so…so…” Mom can’t find the word, so I try to find it for her.
    â€œNegative? Prejudiced? Mean?”
    â€œYes,” Mom replies. “All three.”
    â€œI’m not being negative, prejudiced or mean, Mom. It’s just that some kids are plain weird. I bet he’s one of them. He sure looks like it.”
    I take a good close look at the kid as we pass him, searching for any signs that he might have found my Box of Shocks. I can’t really tell. He walks with his head down, scuffing along in old sneakers that are way too big for his feet.
    â€œThe least his mother could do is sew up that hole in the knee of his pants,” Mom says.
    â€œMaybe he thinks having a hole in his jeans is cool,” I say.
    â€œOh, Oliver. Don’t be silly. You should go out of your way to make the new boy feel welcome at school. You know how hard it was for Karl when he moved here.”
    â€œAre you kidding, Mom? It wasn’t my choice to have this kid move into our house. Forget it.”
    â€œNow, Oliver. You’re being insensitive.”
    â€œWell, that’s the way I feel,” I say, staring at the kid as we drive by.

    My teacher this year is Mrs. Franzen. She’s one of the most bizarre teachers in the school—maybe in the world. She’s famous for her crazy assignments, like making a sculpture of our favorite character from literature out of recycled pop cans.
    But what’s even more bizarre is that the new kid is in my class. Of all the classes in our school he could end up in, he’s in mine! Not even Reggie, Grayson or Karl are in my class, but this kid is. What’s