Chapter 1
Bullies

There was something about seeing a helpless geek getting pushed around that I couldn’t stand. Some indescribable desire to protect him bored its way inside of me and grew until it was ready to explode out of my chest like a little baby alien. The right kind of setting could enhance this desire and the back side of the high school near the dumpster during summer vacation sure was the right setting. If I hadn’t happened by, only the dumpster would have witnessed their atrocities against . . . uh . . . who was this kid again? Honestly, I was probably just as bad as the three bullies looming over their trembling target because I couldn’t even tell you his name.

They had their backs to me so I stepped toward them, careful to not make noise as my shoes touched the pavement. I recognized the poor, picked on boy as a member of the band. I couldn’t remember what instrument he played. He sure was little, even for a sophomore. He reminded me of myself a few years ago. He had brown hair like mine and the same thin and frail-looking body I had had until just before my freshman year. I wasn’t frail anymore.

The redheaded bully grabbed at him, trying to pick him up. They weren’t content to let the dumpster witness their attack. They planned to include the dumpster in their evil ways and the dirty rust bucket seemed more than happy to oblige. It had one side open and seemed to be begging the bullies to feed it the pathetic little music maker for its meager meal.

Two of the bullies had thick bodies and I was pretty sure I knew them well, but the alien desire to protect the kid allowed me to ignore that knowledge for now. One bully was more tall than thick and he stayed back. I watched the other heavyset bully step forward and try to assist the redhead in grabbing the little band kid who thrashed and pulled away, leaving his hair sticking up awkwardly.

I hadn’t been forced into a fight for over a year now. I hated fighting. Mostly, I hated taking punches and there was a good chance I was going to take a few before this was over.

I found myself almost close enough to grab the tall bully that was hanging back when the poor kid’s brown eyes turned toward me and blinked. Sure he was already scared, but when he saw me, his eyes quivered and somehow his fear increased until it dripped down to his trembling frown. He probably expected me to join in on tormenting him.

The tall boy turned to see what the kid was looking at. Unfortunately for him, he was the bully I reached first. He’d turned just in time to see my fist flying mercilessly at his face. He didn’t have time to dodge before my knuckle connected on his cheek just under his right eye. His head whipped back and he made a grunting sound before collapsing to the ground. The skin on my knuckle split open and instantly I felt wet blood dripping into the thin ravine between my middle fingers.

I wondered whether I would have let my fist fly so freely if I had really taken time to see who I had aimed it at. The answer to that was probably yes. Deep down I’d known who I was punching all along despite the fact that this alien growth of an emotion inside me which demanded that I protect this annoying kid tried to keep their names from my conscious mind.

Jason’s eyes widened in surprise to see Mike, the school’s star quarterback, crumple to the pavement in front of the dumpster. Being a left tackle on the football team, it was in his nature to protect his quarterback at all costs. Even if it meant defending him from me, the star running back. Jason dropped his shoulders and lumbered his overweight figure into my chest.

Unfortunately for Jason, he was also a wrestler and must not have grasped the concept that this was not a wrestling match. There were no referees around to blow the whistle and deduct points from me for raising my knee quite rapidly while I simultaneously shoved his head down with my hands. I felt my knee connect and something cracked—Jason’s nose. The left tackle let go of me and twisted away, reaching for his face. I helped him along, shoving him to the blacktop with both hands.

Then I felt the fist crash against my temple. My head jerked to the side and two lightning streaks of pain shot into me: one into my brain and one down my neck. I somehow managed to raise my arm and block the redhead’s second swing. Gunther played center. He was big and my right arm nearly gave out under his. More than once during last year’s football season, Gunther had drawn a yellow flag from the line judge for blocking with his fists. I’d wondered what it would feel like to be on the wrong end of his illegal fist blocks. Now I knew. Good thing he was on my team and normally blocking for me.

I jumped back, anxious to never experience one of Gunther’s fists again.

Gunther stepped toward me but stopped. Mike had stood and put his hand out. His eyes seemed to be spread wide in fear, but the way his upper lip lifted slightly indicated disgust. He glanced at the band kid who now looked at me with rhythmic blinking. Then Mike’s cheeks relaxed and his mouth dropped. I could see the shame reflecting from his eyes. I could almost feel his guilty conscience from where I stood. Did I mention Mike went to church with me? He’d been taught better. He’d probably not even realized until this very moment that he was actually bullying the poor brown-haired, stick figure sophomore.

“Sorry, Jacob.” Mike’s hand reached up and touched his right cheek.

“Maybe you should skip weightlifting today.” My voice came out with a hint of a growl, which was likely caused by my somewhat clenching teeth. “Take the weekend off if you want,” I added. “But you better be here Monday morning.” I swallowed, more for the need to clear the fluid in my mouth than for any real emotion.

Jason stood up, holding his nose. The blood flowed freely between his fingers.

“Help Jason,” I ordered Mike. Then I turned my back on the three of them and walked over to the band kid. The need to protect the kid exited my chest and disappeared. The only difference between my unnatural desire to protect and The Alien was that this emotion didn’t actually rip a hole in my chest on the way out. That and Sigourney Weaver wouldn’t have to track it down and kill it.

“Well, that was pretty stupid, huh?” I shook my head at the kid.

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

“Stupid? You mean them?” he asked. He glanced their way and then back to me.

“No! Not them,” I almost shouted. “Of course, they’re stupid. They’re dumb jocks. I meant you.”

“Me?” The band kid pointed at his chest.

“Yeah, you,” I responded. “They are too stupid to help themselves.” I pointed behind me with my thumb, almost looking like I was hitching a ride. Or maybe it just looked like I was showing off my bicep. Either way, the gesture made me feel stupid, so I lowered my arm quickly. “You on the other hand are smart enough not to be skulking in the back of the school when summer weightlifting is about to start.”

He blinked rhythmically at me again.

“Sorry,” he looked down.

I noticed a pair of glasses on the ground. I picked them up and handed them to the boy.

“Get out of here!” I shouted. “Because of you, I just punched my quarterback.”