Be Little

By Chris Karim

Twelve-year-old Mark Heffler out-skates, out-rides, and outwits the bullies who pick on him because of his small size. But when Mark and his family move to Tennessee, one hateful boy peppers Mark with verbal and physical abuse beyond anything Mark has experienced. Does Mark have what it takes to stand up to Calvin? To be a hero?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Karim
• Release date: Mar 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985062101

Chris Karim

Chris Karim began writing for children in 2003 after earning a Master’s Degree in Education from Syracuse University. His strong respect for children can be seen in his popular website, www.letkidslead.com, which encourages kids to create stories, offer solutions to sticky situations, play fun and challenging games, provide feedback, and more. In Chris’s words, “I wanted to build a website that gave kids a voice.” He penned BE LITTLE long before bullying had a place in the national spotlight. He saw a need for a realistic story that showed middle-grade readers how bullying issues may be resolved in the real world, not by the wave of a magic wand but through persistence and the willingness of students to speak up and take a stand. His goal was to create a book that would entertain, challenge, and inspire readers.Now available at www.letkidslead.com!SHOO FLY, PLEASE BOTHER ME, a zany, humorous picture book about a boy's chaotic battle with a fly, with a twist that might just have a happy ending for everyone.LITTLE LEAF, about a leaf who, through a perilous journey, finds a new answer to the question, "What makes a home?"

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Be Little

Chris Karim

Copyright 2012 by Chris Karim

Published by Razorbend at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. For permission, please contact Chris Karim at [e-mail].

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

For Trevor

I would like to thank all those involved in the creation of this book. Special thanks go to my father, Dr. Raja Karim, my mother, Margaret Karim, and my brother, Dr. Kenneth Karim, as well as Cindy Kane Trumbore, Robb Grindstaff, Jeff Paston, and Mary Elizabeth Arnold. Their invaluable feedback and gentle guidance improved my book and my writing skills exponentially.

"It is not the critic who counts. … The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again … who … if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

— Theodore Roosevelt

Chapter 1

Hey, Markie. Basil draped his arm over Mark’s shoulders. Mark stumbled under the sudden weight. Did you study? Basil asked, using his other hand to take off the red baseball cap he always wore.

Enough for both of us, Mark said, running his fingers through his dark hair.

Basil slapped him on the back. You mean the four of us.

Huh!

You studied for Draper and Spud too. Big game this weekend, you know.

Come on, Basil. It’s too risky. I shouldn’t even be helping you.

Relax, Markie. It’s tough on us athletes when teachers give quizzes so early in the year. It’ll work out.

Mark wished he’d gotten inside the classroom before Basil caught him. Other students streamed past them into history class. Draper and Spud hovered behind Basil, looking down at Mark with their arms crossed.

Having Basil help himself to Mark’s quiz answers was bad enough. But what would Mr. Painter think if Draper and Spud, about as high on the evolutionary scale as amoebas, started getting A’s on their quizzes?

Like Basil said, it’ll work out.

Mark nodded up at Basil’s buddies, and they each gave him a thumbs-up.

He mumbled his way over to a desk and parked his butt toward the edge of his chair. Back in fifth grade, his legs had stuck straight out if he sat all the way back. He’d looked like a weird-shaped L. It was Wesley Higgins—Spud—who’d pointed that out one day, and added, "L for loser." Mark didn’t like to think about what his ridiculously disproportioned feet looked like at the end of the L.

His stomach throbbed as he remembered how Basil nailed him. It was the second week of school, and Painter had given them a pop quiz. Basil got an F, and afterward, cornered Mark in the hall. You’ll help me out, won’t you, Markie? Mark wondered if he should have agreed. Then again, Basil’s fist in his face was pretty persuasive. And now Basil’s friends were in on it too. Some Boy Scout I am, Mark thought. But how can I stop now?

Mark arranged his desk, proud of the simple cheating system he’d devised. He lined up a blue pen, a black pen, an eraser, and an extra pencil. With four possible answers to the questions on the history quiz, each item on Mark’s desk stood for a letter. Blue pen equaled A, black pen, B, eraser, C, pencil, D. Mark would read a question and then fiddle with the item that matched the correct answer. It was a no-fail system.

Quiet, everyone, Mr. Painter said as he passed out the quizzes.

Mark twisted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Basil and Draper sat on either side of him, with Spud directly behind him. Flanked by the football players, Mark felt as if he sat under the dark shadow of three gargoyles. For the first time, he wished Mr. Painter had assigned seats.

Ready, class? Mr. Painter glanced at his watch. You may begin.

Papers rustled as twenty-four kids turned their quizzes over. Mark read the first question.

Who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin?

A. Abraham Lincoln

B. Harriet Beecher Stowe

C. Herman Melville

D. Walt Whitman

He knew the answer was B. He tried to look thoughtful. He discreetly picked up the black pen and tapped it on his desk. Basil filled in his answer. So did his friends.

Scratching pencils, shuffling feet, and sighs filled the room.

Mark sailed through the questions, touching or moving the objects accordingly. He twisted in his chair again and looked up. Mr. Painter’s eyes bored into his from across the room. Fear consumed him as it would a gazelle running for its life.

He read the next question.

The Civil War began … D. 1861.

Mouths slightly open, Basil and Draper awaited his next move. Basil breathed heavily. Subtle, guys, Mark thought, real subtle. For all he knew, Spud was holding up a sign that read, Hurry up with the answer, Mark. No wonder Mr. Painter seemed suspicious.

He circled D, keeping his hands far from the lineup at the top of his desk. Mr. Painter’s chair squeaked as he stood. His shiny black boots clicked on the linoleum floor as they drew closer. Mark kept his head down and his pencil poised over his quiz. The boots stopped.

A short, stubby finger touched the blue pen. "A, Mr. Painter said. He touched the black pen. B. He touched the eraser. C." He picked up the pencil and snapped it in half. It sounded like a gunshot.

"D," he said.

He scooped up Mark’s quiz. He grabbed Basil’s, Draper’s, and Spud’s too, then marched over to the intercom and called the office.

Ms. Swanson, this is Mr. Painter. I have four boys who need to pay a visit to the principal. Could you send someone to monitor my classroom?

The teacher turned back to Mark and the other boys.

Out! He jerked his head toward the door.

Mark waded through the sea of desks, the three football players towering behind him. Mr. Painter held the door open as the four straggled into the hall. Mark anxiously waited for the monitor to arrive. When she showed up, Mr. Painter thanked her and then scowled at the boys.

Follow me.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty hall. When they reached the school office, Mr. Painter pointed to a line of chairs.

Sit. Mr. Painter disappeared into the principal’s office.

How’d he catch us? Basil hissed at Mark. What did you do?

"Me?" Mark said.

Yeah, you, Basil said coolly. You must have been too obvious or something.

But— Mark snapped his mouth shut as the door to the office opened.

Mr. Painter stepped aside so the four boys could file through, and then he left. The boys stood before the principal as if they faced a firing squad.

Ms. Cosgrove sat behind her desk. She peered over her glasses. Basil Jackson, Steven Draper, and Wesley Higgins. Uh-huh. Trying to stay on the team, are we?

The three boys shuffled their big feet.

Her gaze shifted down. Mark Heffler? My goodness, what were you thinking?

Mark stared at the dirty coffee cup on the principal’s desk. I don’t know, he mumbled.

Just a moment, boys. Ms. Cosgrove faced her computer screen. She clicked the mouse a few times. Mark noticed a reflection in her glasses. Solitaire! He couldn’t believe it. This woman held his future in her hands and she was playing solitaire?

He gritted his teeth.

Click, click.

His hands tightened into fists.

Click.

He tapped one foot.

Click.

Having fun? Mark muttered.

Pardon?

Having fun playing solitaire?

Ms. Cosgrove narrowed her eyes. Do you know why they call me Maine’s meanest principal?

You make Judge Judy look like a wimp?

Funny, Mark. Ms. Cosgrove stood up. Slowly. I see that you want to make it harder on yourself and your friends.

She shook her head in mock sorrow.

I thought maybe some detention time was all that was needed, Mark, but if you’re determined to dig your hole deeper and take your friends down with you …

Basil groaned quietly as Ms. Cosgrove continued. Cheating is a serious offense, boys. Let’s just hope we can keep this off your permanent records. I’ll have to call your parents. I’ll ask them to meet with me to discuss how we should proceed.

Mark wiped his palms on his shirt. Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut?

The bell rang. Ms. Cosgrove pointed to the door.

You’ll be hearing from me.

The boys slumped out. Students crowded the hallway, and lockers slammed.

Nice one, loser. Basil elbowed the side of Mark’s head before he and his friends stalked away. You’ll be hearing from us too.

Chapter 2

Mark helped set the dinner table.

No, Mark, Mom scolded. Forks on the left.

Why? he wondered. Everyone here is right-handed, so why not have the forks on the right? But rules were rules, even if they didn’t make sense, and he would have plenty of time to think about rules in detention.

A month of detention.

I can live with that. But Basil and his buddies got suspended for three whole games. I wonder what they have in store for me.

His dad brought out Mark’s favorite dish and placed it on the table.

We’re having fish sticks and homemade French fries? Mark said in disbelief. After the mess I made?

That’s how we learn, Dad said. We don’t learn from our successes, but from our mistakes, right Mark?

Dad had part of a French fry stuck to his beard, but Mark was not about to say anything.

Right, Dad.

After a quiet dinner, Mark cleared his plate and went to his room. Funny how quiet can create more tension than an all-out, spit-flying-across-the-room argument. Mark’s parents had a terrific way of making him feel guilty, usually without saying a word. Sometimes he wished they’d just punish him.

The next morning, he took out the garbage as he did every Thursday, ate breakfast, and got ready for school.

When he arrived there, he walked through the halls like an automaton. He could feel kids staring at him. Had Basil told them not to talk to him? Not that he’d had any real friends to begin with.

Kids just saw him as that really short kid. According to the height and weight chart, Mark was in the normal range for twelve-year-old boys—four feet seven inches, sixty-eight pounds—but just barely. The girls treated him like a cute little doll; the boys mostly