Free Hero–Type by Barry Lyga

and over, looking for something new every time.
    What if someone else has done the same thing to me? What if someone out there taped my appearance on
Justice!
and is watching it over and over and over again, until the truth about that comes out? I don't know
how
that could happen, but that's what I worry about. Someone mean and smart, like Reporter Guy, watching me fidget and
lie
on TV until he figures it all out.
    I'm sweating all of a sudden. The air conditioning is blasting cold air all over me, but I'm still sweating.
    School sucks as much today as it did yesterday. I'm an outcast. I bump into a senior in the hall and mumble, "Excuse me," and he just shoves me against the lockers. Hard.
    His friends laugh. Two weeks ago, I might have said something, but now? Now I know that there's absolutely no one in this hallway who would take my side, and way too many people who would be happy to jump in and help pummel me into paste.
    In homeroom, I keep my head down. There's a buzz of conversation and I know it's about me.
    "My dad's in the Reserve," someone says, just loud enough that I can hear it. I look up—it's John Riordon, the only sophomore on the varsity football team. He's big and tough the way lions are big and tough.
    "He better hope I don't catch him dissing the troops," Riordon goes on, talking to Samantha Riggs but watching me the whole time. "Because if I do, there's gonna be hell to pay."
    OK, got it. Don't diss troops in front of John Riordon, else hell to pay. That is now filed away in my brain under the category THINGS TO REMEMBER—URGENT!!!!
    The morning announcements start and we all rise for the Pledge. My stomach isn't just in knots—it's in one of those special U.S. Navy knots that gets tighter and tighter the more you try to untangle it.
    I don't want to open my mouth to say the Pledge because I'm honestly terrified that my breakfast will come out. And that makes me think of Reporter Guy and his whole deal last night about people who want to ban the Pledge, and
that
makes me a syllable behind everyone else as we launch into...
    I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
    Whew! Got through it. I even managed to catch up so that I finished with everyone else. Score one for me.
    But John Riordon gives me a nasty look as we all sit down for the announcements, and I know that my one point means nothing. Because the opposing team has a million of them, and on
that
score, I'll never catch up.
     
    School's a blur for me. I just can't seem to focus. I'm still sweating a little bit, still nauseated enough that I skip lunch. I don't want to be around anyone, not even the Council, so I go to the media center and find a computer tucked away in a corner and just stay there.
    The computers in the media center have the school paper's website as the homepage, so the first thing I see is a story about how my ribbon-trashing has now made the
Loco.
A student reporter interviews Reporter Guy and Reporter Guy says that he plans to pursue the story "for a state and national audience. Right now, the American public thinks Kevin Ross is a hero. They deserve to know how their 'hero' thinks."
    I wonder: Did he put "hero" in air-quotes or did the kid interviewing him just add that in there?
    And by the way: What the hell? What's up with a reporter interviewing a reporter? Is that what you do when there's no
real
news?
    I slump down in my seat. Mrs. Grant, the school librarian, comes by and sees what I'm looking at. She pats me on my shoulder.
    "Don't let it get to you, Kevin. Something else will get everyone's attention in a few days and then it'll all be over."
    "I guess."
    "Trust me."
    "Thanks, Mrs. Grant."
    But I know it's not true. I'll always be the Kid Who Hates the Troops. People might stop talking about it, but they won't forget something like that.
    I guess it could be worse. I mean, I guess