Page 29 of Wicked Hungry

“All right, whatever. I don’t even want to understand this. The two of you stay away from each other.” Then he turns away and blows his whistle.

“What are you all staring at? Get dressed, the bell’s about to ring!”

He walks out of the locker room.

Enrique puts his hand on my shoulder. “You going to stay cool, Stanley? Make it through the rest of the day?”

I shrug. “I don’t know if I can control it.”

“Just think calm thoughts, man. And maybe think of a good story to tell the assistant principal.”

“Ok, Enrique,” I say, “but come by the house later.”

He nods, and then his voice goes down to a whisper: “I

’ll bring your teeth.”

Chapter 12: TALKING WITH MR. PIPER

I get to my locker and it’s slightly open. The lock is missing, too. Which is bad. Very bad. Because if there’s anything I’m OCD about, it’s locking my locker. Slamming the door shut and snapping in the combination lock. Even turning it a couple of turns for good measure. Always. Every single time. When was the last time I opened it? Closed it? This morning, before class. When I took out two Slim Jims. Which are already in my stomach.

I pull the locker open and just stare for a moment.

The boxes of Slim Jims and beef jerky are gone. And the bag. The bag with the athame. The wooden sword my mother had blessed, told me was sacred.

There is nothing in there but my history and biology books.

And a little note. A yellow post-it.

“MEAT IS MURDER.”

I turn around, looking for who could have done this to me. My stomach doubles over in a cramp. I feel a little dizzy. I need to lie down. It’s hard to believe that just a few minutes ago I was feeling on top of the world. Invincible.

There’s a tap on my shoulder and I turn around, look up to see Mr. Piper.

He’s got black hair cut very short and a goatee. His eyes are dark brown; he has thick, dark lashes and wears thin-rimmed Italian glasses.

“Stanley Hoff?” he says.

I nod, trying to straighten up, but another cramp hits me.

“In my office,” he says. “Right now.”

“But sir—”

“Now,” he says.

“My stuff,” I say. “It’s gone.”

“We’ll discuss that in my office.”

Oh my God, has he found the athame? What must he think of me—that I’m going to sacrifice someone? That I’m some kind of devil-worshipping dagger-wielding freak?

I’ve got nothing to do but follow him, because Mr. Piper is our ninth and eleventh grade principal.

He’s already sitting at his desk when I stumble in. He doesn’t get up. His desk is covered with piles of papers. There’s a note on top of all the others that I can’t help noticing. All it says is: “CHECK STANLEY HOFF’S LOCKER.”

In cut-out letters from some magazine.