and cracked his knuckles. He cleared his throat.
“Here’s the situation, Rob. Some of the parents — I won’t mention any names — are worried that what you’ve got there might be contagious,
“Tell me the truth, son,” he said. “Have you been using that medicine you told me about? The stuff that doctor in Jacksonville gave you? Have you been putting that on?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rob.
“Well,” said Mr. Phelmer, “let me tell you what I think. Let me be up-front and honest with you. I think it might be a good idea if we had you stay home for a few days. What we’ll do is just give that old medicine more of a chance to kick in, let it start working its magic on you, and then we’ll have you come back to school when your legs have cleared up. What do you think about that plan?”
Rob stared down at his legs. He felt the picture of the tiger burning in his pocket. He concentrated on keeping his heart from singing out loud with joy.
“Yes, sir,” he said slowly, “that would be all right.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Phelmer. “I thought you would think it’s a good plan. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll just write your parents — I mean your father — a note, and tell him what’s what; he can give me a call if he wants. We can talk about it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rob again. He kept his head down. He was afraid to look up.
Mr. Phelmer cleared his throat and scratched his head and adjusted his piece of hair, and then he started to write.
When he was done, he handed the note to Rob; Rob took it, and when he was outside the principal’s office, he folded the piece of paper up carefully and put it in his back pocket with the drawing of the tiger.
And then, finally, he smiled. He smiled because he knew something Mr. Phelmer did not know. He knew that his legs would never clear up.
He was free.
Chapter 6
Rob floated through the rest of the morning. He went to math class and civics and science, his heart light, buoyed by the knowledge that he would never have to come back.
At lunch, he sat out on the benches in the breezeway. He did not go into the lunchroom; Norton and Billy Threemonger were there. And nothing had tasted good to him since his mother died, especially not the food at the school. It was worse than the food his father tried to cook.
He sat on the bench and unfolded his drawing of the tiger, and his fingers itched to start making it in wood. He was sitting like that, swinging his legs, studying the drawing, when he heard shouting and the high-pitched buzz of excitement, like crickets, that the kids made when something was happening.
He stayed where he was. In a minute, the faded red double doors of the lunchroom swung open and Sistine Bailey came marching through them, her head held high. Behind her was a whole group of kids, and just when Sistine noticed Rob sitting there on the bench, one of the kids threw something at her; Rob couldn’t tell what. But it hit her, whatever it was.
“Run!” he wanted to yell at her. “Hurry up and run!”
But he didn’t say anything. He knew better than to say anything. He just sat and stared at Sistine with his mouth open, and she stared back at him. Then she turned and walked back into the group of kids, like somebody walking into deep water.
And suddenly, she began swinging with her fists. She was kicking. She was twirling. Then the group of kids closed in around her and she seemed to disappear. Rob stood up so that he could see her better. He caught sight of her pink dress; it looked all crumpled, like a wadded-up tissue. He saw her arms still going like mad.
“Hey!” he shouted, not meaning to.
“Hey!” he shouted again louder. He moved closer, the drawing of the tiger still in his hand.
“Leave her alone!” he shouted, not believing that the words were coming from him.
They heard him then and turned to him. It was quiet for a minute.
“Who you talking to?” a big girl with black hair asked.
“Yeah,” another girl said. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Go away,” Sistine muttered in her gravelly voice. But she didn’t look at him. Her yellow hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat.
The girl with the black hair pushed up close to him. She shoved him.
“Leave her alone,” Rob said again.
“You going to make me?” the black-haired girl said.
They were all looking at him. Waiting. Sistine was waiting, too; waiting for him to do something. He looked down at the ground and saw what they had thrown at her. It was an apple. He stared at it for what seemed like a long time, and when he looked back up, they were all still waiting to see what he would do.
And so he ran. And after a minute, he could tell that they were running after him; he didn’t need to look back to see if they were there. He knew it. He knew the feeling of being chased. He dropped the picture of the tiger and ran full out, pumping his legs and arms hard. They were still behind him. A sudden thrill went through him when he realized that what he was doing was saving Sistine Bailey.
Why he would try to save Sistine Bailey, why he would want to save somebody who hated him, he couldn’t say. He just ran, and the bell rang before they caught him. He was late for his English class because he had to walk from the gym all the way to the front of the school. And he did not know where his drawing of the tiger was, but he still had Mr. Phelmer’s note in his back pocket and that was all that truly mattered to him, the note that proved that he would never have to come back.
Chapter 7
It turned out to be an extraordinary day in almost every possible way. It started with finding the tiger, and it ended with Sistine Bailey sitting down next to him on the bus on the way home from school. Her dress was torn and muddied. There was a scrape down her right arm, and her hair stuck out in a hundred different directions. She sat down in the empty seat beside him and stared at him with her black eyes.
“There isn’t anyplace else to sit,” she said to him. “This is the last empty seat.”
Rob shrugged.
“It’s not like I want to sit here,” she said.
“Okay,” said Rob. He shrugged his shoulders again. He hoped that she wasn’t going to thank him for saving her.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
“Rob Horton,” he told her.
“Well, let me tell you something, Rob Horton. You shouldn’t run. That’s what they want you to do. Run.”
Rob stared at her with his mouth open. She stared back.
“I hate it here,” she said, looking away from him, her voice even deeper than before. “This is a stupid hick town with stupid hick teachers. Nobody in the whole school even knows what the Sistine Chapel is.”
“I know,” said Rob. “I know what the Sistine Chapel is.” Immediately, he regretted saying it. It was his policy not to say things, but it was a policy he was having a hard time maintaining around Sistine.
“I bet,” Sistine sneered at him. “I bet you know.”
“It’s a picture of God making the world,” he said.
Sistine stared at him hard. She narrowed her small eyes until they almost disappeared.
“It’s in Italy,” said Rob. “The pictures are painted on the ceiling. They’re frescoes.” It was as if a magician
