For Your Paws Only Read Free

wrapped packet. He gave Oz a sharp poke.
    â€œUh, sushi,” Oz replied.
    â€œSushi?” Tank stared at it in disbelief. “What kind of a loser brings sushi for lunch? Check it out, Jordan.”
    Jordan sniffed the packet. “Disgusting,” he said, then smiled. “But it figures. I hear whales like raw fish.”
    Oz stared miserably at his toes. It was starting again. He’d known all along that it would. Oz was a realist, and he’d lived too long with sharks—his name for bottom-feeders who lived to torture younger and weaker students such as himself—not to expect the worst. Jordan Scott and Sherman “Tank” Wilson had stayed off his back for a while following the Halloween incident, but recently they’d begun to rebound. Sharks always did. Oz knew this from bitter experience.
    â€œHold his arms, Tank,” Jordan ordered.
    Tank obediently twisted Oz’s arms behind his back and held them as Jordan unwrapped the packet of sushi and held a piece aloft. “Feeding time at Sea World!” he crowed. As a crowd of students gathered to watch, he crammed the sushi into Oz’s mouth. Oz coughed and gagged.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Shamu? Shrimp not fresh enough?” taunted Tank.
    â€œKnock it off, you morons.”
    Jordan and Tank swung around. A slender, dark-skinned girl was standing behind them, a scowl on her sharply intelligent face.
    â€œShould have guessed you’d come to the rescue, Dogbones,” Jordan sneered.
    Dogbones—whose name was actually Delilah Bean, and who was better known as D. B.—folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.
    â€œOoooh, we are so scared!” squealed Tank in mock fear.
    â€œYou will be when Mrs. Busby finds out what you’re up to,” snapped D. B. She pointed wordlessly to where their teacher was standing on the school’s back steps. Mrs. Busby was in charge of homeroom for their combined class of fifth and sixth graders. Now, she’d spotted the commotion and was craning her neck to get a better view.
    The two sixth graders exchanged a glance. “Here, keep your stupid lunch,” growled Jordan, dropping the sushi back into Oz’s lunch bag and thrusting it at him. Tank released his arms, and the two boys swaggered off, pushing the younger students out of their way as they went.
    â€œThanks, D. B.,” said Oz, wiping rice off his face.
    â€œAnytime,” his classmate replied. “But dude, you have got to learn to stick up for yourself.”
    Oz sighed. “I know,” he said. “I’m trying. It’s hard when they gang up on me.”
    Across the playground, a van pulled into the parking lot. “Hey, isn’t that your mom’s film crew?” he said in surprise.
    D. B. blinked, then nodded as Amelia Bean, TV news anchor and one of Washington’s most famous faces, emerged from the Channel Twelve van. Spotting her daughter, she blew her a kiss. D. B. waved back reluctantly.
    â€œWhat’s she doing here?” Oz asked.
    â€œBeats me,” D. B. replied.
    A limousine pulled up behind the van and the news crew sprang into action. Cameras rolled as the rear door of the limo opened and a man emerged. He was dressed in a black pilgrim suit, complete with a tall black hat and square buckles on his belt and shoes.
    â€œCheck out that clown,” said D. B.
    Another man got out of the limousine. A tall, bearlike man with a dark, shaggy beard.
    â€œOh, no,” said Oz weakly.
    The man was followed by an equally large woman swathed in a purple caftan. Her hair was the same pale blond color as Oz’s.
    â€œAren’t those your parents?” asked D. B.
    Oz scrunched down behind her in reply. His father was scanning the crowd of students, looking for him. “Yeah,” he whispered.
    Jordan and Tank materialized. Like sharks scenting blood, thought Oz, huddling lower. Jordan stared across the playground at