weâre 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 Iâve never seen him before.
Or have I?
Thereâs something familiar about him.
âLook at that poor boy,â Mom says. âImagine his parents sending him to school like that in this rain.â
He doesnât have a raincoat, so his sweaterâs soaked, and his dirty blond hair is plastered to his head. All heâs carrying is a tiny plastic bagânot big enough for the school supplies weâre supposed to bring on the first day of school. It doesnât even look big enough for a lunch.
âI think thatâs the boy whoâs living in our old house,â Mom says.
So thatâs where Iâve seen him! He was wearing that old sweater yesterday when I saw him jump into the back of the car.
âMaybe we should give him a lift to school,â Mom says.
âNo!â I shout. âI meanâ¦itâs probably not a very good idea.â
âAnd why not?â Mom says, looking puzzled.
âWellâ¦weâre strangers, and the kidâs probably been told not to take rides from strangers.â
âWeâre not strangers, Oliver. Weâre his neighbors.â
âButâ¦but maybe itâs not safe for us to give him a lift. You know what you always tell me about picking up hitchhikers. Maybe heâs dangerous! Maybe heâs got something hidden underneath his sweater like a hacksaw or a crowbar or something.â
Thereâs no way I want Mom to give this kid a lift. Heâs 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!
âHe certainly doesnât look dangerous, Oliver,â Mom says. âIn fact, if you gave the poor boy a haircut and put some decent clothes on him, Iâd say the two of you would look a bit alike. Heâs about your height, andâ¦â
âForget it, Mom. He doesnât look anything like me. Just let him walk the rest of the way to school. Maybe he likes getting wet,â I say. âHeâs probably one of those weird kids that acts strange just to be different.â
âOh, Oliver, donât be soâ¦soâ¦â Mom canât find the word, so I try to find it for her.
âNegative? Prejudiced? Mean?â
âYes,â Mom replies. âAll three.â
âIâm not being negative, prejudiced or mean, Mom. Itâs just that some kids are plain weird. I bet heâs one of them. He sure looks like it.â
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 canât really tell. He walks with his head down, scuffing along in old sneakers that are way too big for his feet.
âThe least his mother could do is sew up that hole in the knee of his pants,â Mom says.
âMaybe he thinks having a hole in his jeans is cool,â I say.
âOh, Oliver. Donât 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
âAre you kidding, Mom? It wasnât my choice to have this kid move into our house. Forget it.â
âNow, Oliver. Youâre being insensitive.â
âWell, thatâs the way I feel,â I say, staring at the kid as we drive by.
My teacher this year is Mrs. Franzen. Sheâs one of the most bizarre teachers in the schoolâmaybe in the world. Sheâs famous for her crazy assignments, like making a sculpture of our favorite character from literature out of recycled pop cans.
But whatâs even more bizarre is that the new kid is in my class. Of all the classes in our school he could end up in, heâs in mine! Not even Reggie, Grayson or Karl are in my class, but this kid is. Whatâs