Free Bully-Be-Gone by Brian Tacang

backward.
    â€œPretty colors,” Nina said, her nose jutting upward. “And you smell pretty, too.” She circled him like a shark, her face a happy, twisted jumble of features.
    Pollock caught sight of Millicent. “This is all your fault!” he shouted. He tried to bolt, but Nina grabbed his collar. “Get off me!” Pollock yelled. He wriggled free of her grasp and ran out the front door.
    Nina ran after him, calling, “Pollock, Pollock!”
    Oh, boy, thought Millicent. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. More statement than question, she added aloud, “Am I in trouble.”
    M illicent waited until most of the students found seats before she entered the auditorium. She snuck into the very last row, where there were only a handful of vacant chairs. Around her, the creaking of chairs and the hum of voices gradually subsided into silence.
    Huge, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the auditorium walls, and the heavy drapes that were normally drawn weretied open. Millicent looked out a window and wished she were far, far away. She saw Pollock run past with Nina at his heels. Millicent did a double take, then buried her head in her hands.
    Mr. Pennystacker lumbered onto the stage, grunting as if he’d eaten a disagreeable breakfast. He adjusted his glasses and ran his fingers through the five hairs atop his otherwise bald head. Externally, his youthful angles had been rounded over time, leaving a soft, large figure. Internally, he was all sharp edges. “Welcome, students of Winifred T. Langley Middle School and good morning,” he boomed.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Pennystacker,” a few students responded.
    â€œIn celebration of a brand-new school year, I’ve asked some of Langely’s finest students to share their talents. As you probably saw when you entered, our very own Pollock—I mean, Everett—Wong’s artwork is on display. If you haven’t seen it, please take the opportunity on your way out. Personally, my favorite painting is Upside-Down Upside-Down Cake, a.k.a. Right-Side-Up Cake.”
    â€œWhatever,” someone shouted.
    â€œThat will be enough,” said Mr. Pennystacker. “Unless you’d like to meet me in my office, whoever you are.” He scanned the room. Of course, the person in question didn’t volunteer. “All righty, then,” he stated.
    â€œTo open our festivities, Juanita Romero Alonso willperform a selection from Love for Three Oranges …by whom, Juanita?”
    â€œProkofiev,” said Juanita from the wings.
    â€œLike I said. Love for Three Oranges ,” Mr. Pennystacker said. “Please welcome Juanita Romero Alonso.” He gestured for Juanita to enter.
    Someone sitting not far from Millicent gave an exceptionally loud cheer, but she couldn’t see who it was.
    Juanita strode onstage wearing a flouncy yellow dress, which garnered a few snickers from the audience. “Yellow marshmallow,” someone yelled. Juanita ignored the remark and tucked her violin under her chin. She raised her bow, then started to play. Immediately, the most gorgeous sounds exploded from her violin, sending most of the kids into a quiet reverence.
    A few rows from Millicent, some kids sat talking among themselves, unimpressed by Juanita’s performance. Suddenly, one of the talkers was pushed from his seat onto the floor.
    â€œShut up!” his attacker shouted. “My Juanita’s playing.”
    Millicent stood up to see who’d done the pushing. It was a red-faced Pollywog Jones.
    Pollywog leaped over the kid who’d been pushed and ran up to the stage, as if he were at a rock concert and Juanita were a rock star. He propped his arms on the edge of the stage and rested his head on his arms, watching Juanita the whole time. Juanita stared at him and movedover a few feet, not missing a note. Pollywog moved, too, swaying his wide hips to the melody.
    It was then that the laughter started. At first,