Free The Downside of Being Charlie by Jenny Torres Sanchez

no problem,” I tell her, still trying to figure out how I can get out of this.
    â€œGreat. See you tomorrow,” she says. “Sorry about your locker.” She gives Mark one last meaningful look and turns to leave.
    â€œWait up, Char-Char,” Mark says and follows her.
    â€œI’ll give you a ride. Good luck, Chunks!” he says, throwing one last evil grin at me. I watch them go, and fight the urge to run after Mark and tackle him to the ground. He was screwing everything up. What the hell just happened?
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Ahmed asks.
    â€œI’ll explain later. Let’s go,” I say, heading to my fart locker.

    â€œSorry man, but you’re on your own. I’m not going near there again. It’s baaaaad . . . bad, bad. You dig? Meet me in the parking lot, but hurry ’cause I have my mom’s citizenship thing to go to today,” he says, smacking me on the back.
    Ahmed is right. It’s bad. Real bad. I can smell it way before I get to the hall, and it stops me in my tracks. My stomach lurches as a thousand rotten eggs infiltrate my nostrils and I wonder if I can just ditch my backpack for now. But I have a ton of homework, including an essay due in AP English tomorrow that I’d already started working on. I have to go in. I hate Tanya Bate. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit right now. Those bombs were for her, not me. But a flash of Mark’s evil grin makes me wonder if that’s true.
    I race down the empty hall holding my breath. I quickly work the combination, and, of course, it doesn’t work the first time. Or the second. Or the third. By the fourth time, I have to breathe through my mouth, which is just as bad because instead of smelling a thousand rotten eggs, it’s like I’m eating a thousand rotten eggs. I gag and dry heave. My eyes fill with tears and I can feel my ears burning as I try one last time, but the locker won’t open. I give up. It’s no use. I run back down the hall trying to hold my breath, but I keep gagging and tasting the toxic smell. Once I’m far enough away, I take a deep breath, but Ahmed was right, the smell gets stuck in your nose. I call him and let him know what’s taking so long.
    â€œWhat are you gonna do?” he asks after I explain I can’t get my locker opened.

    â€œI dunno, but I need my essay. I guess I’ll go to the office and see if they can get someone to open it, but it’s gonna take awhile,” I tell him, knowing he has to hurry home, “just go. I’ll figure out a way to get home.”
    â€œYou sure? I’d wait, but . . .”
    â€œYeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just walk home,” I say.
    â€œAll right, I’ll talk to you later.”
    I head to the office and tell the front desk attendant that I can’t get my locker open, but I leave out the part about the stink bombs because it’s too embarrassing. The lady is old, and I have to repeat the whole thing three times before she understands. Then she has to repeat the story to someone else, I guess to the all-knowing High School Oz who makes all the decisions and who finally grants her authority to call the custodian.
    After numerous calls to the custodian—and yet another repetition of the situation over the fuzzy static of the all important walkie-talkie used by administration and office personnel—she turns back to me and says, “Go on. Joe will meet you at the locker.”
    I head back and see Joe, aka the custodian, heading toward me with cutters in his hand. Everyone knows who he is because he’s been here forever and is exactly the kind of cantankerous old man who looks like every kid seriously bothers him. But nobody messes with him because even though he’s old, he still looks like he wouldn’t think twice about beating the crap out of anyone who messed with him. He even has a huge