Free The Bully Book by Eric Kahn Gale

stop snapping into place.
    Retype pages that are getting hard to read—do it accurately.
    Burn old pages that are being replaced. DO NOT LEAVE THESE AROUND.
    Don’t get lazy about this.

Journal #22
    It was nearly a week ago that I gathered up the photocopies I’d made of 5 years’ worth of yearbooks (all the school library had) and stuffed them into Daniel Friedman’s mailbox. Tonight a single page wrapped around a rock has come back to me.
    On that page are the smiling faces of nearly thirty 6th graders, all in 10th grade now, all of them probably forgetting the torture they made for one of their classmates, the Grunt, who I can’t pick out from these photos alone. None of them remembering what they did, except maybe one. The boy with dark hair hanging low in front of his eyes. The one with the big red circle markered around his picture. Daniel Friedman’s ambusher. The oldest Bully Booker that I know of. Maybe the Author himself.
    Clarence Corbinder.

Journal #23
    Clarence’s house has a dead look. Even worse ’cause winter’s hit hard. Dirty snow’s piled up along the street edges.
    It’s a pretty large house, bigger than mine and very modern, with huge gray aluminum walls. Sort of like living in a large sardine can. The only thing that doesn’t look clean and lifeless are the basement windows. They stick up at the ground level and are plastered with newspaper. Like someone doesn’t want you knowing what goes on down there.
    I pulled Clarence’s address out of the school directory, and it took me about half an hour to get up the courage to approach the side of his house. Seemed like nobody was home. Except there was a light on in the basement. You could see it shining through the newspaper.
    See, I’m not sure if Clarence knows I exist or not. Say he is the author of The Bully Book, or even just high up in the organization. Would he know about me? Do the Bully Bookers in high school keep up with each year’s 6th-grade Grunt?
    I don’t think he’s seen me in person before, but I haven’t seen him, either, and there I was at his house. He could use a yearbook and a phone directory just as easily as I could. I spotted a shadow moving against the newspaper. Somebody was down there.
    â€œExcuse me!”
    I spun around and covered my face with my hand. Through my fingers, I saw a woman, 40-ish, with big hair and an expression like she was holding in a fart and enjoying it.
    â€œCan I help you?” the woman asked. I froze, not knowing what to do. Was this Clarence’s mom? Even the author of The Bully Book has a mother.
    â€œUh … Mrs. Corbinder?” I said.
    â€œYes. That’s me.” She smiled. “What are you doing at my house, young man?”
    â€œUm … me?” I tried to catch my breath.
    â€œYes, you. What’s your name, son?”
    â€œMy name, that’s …” I couldn’t give her my real name; what if she mentioned it to Clarence? I couldn’t have him knowing I was there. “It’s Colin Greene, ma’am. My name is Colin Greene.”
    Mrs. Corbinder gave me a smile. “Well, Colin. What are you doing wandering around my backyard?”
    I tried to think of something other than, I’m checking out your house for weak points so I can break into it and steal a book that your evil son has.
    But Mrs. Corbinder chimed in for me, “Oh, you must be looking to shovel the walk! Well, I’ll tell you, I’ll need it. The weatherman says we’ve got about 10 inches of snow coming down next week, and my Clarence is just about as lazy as a sack of potatoes! Spends all his time down in the basement doing his homework or God knows what else!” She laughed, almost manically.
    And that’s how I got a job keeping the driveway and sidewalks clear at the Den of Evil. I’ll be back when the big storm hits. When I’m shoveling, I’ll really be checking the