The Weekday One Hundred

I pedal hard. But that little twerp is fast. Short, skinny with a much better ride.

I tighten my grip on my rusty, secondhand bike. Every part of me is soaked since the runt doused me with his oversized water pistol in front of the entire seventh grade.

Real funny stuff.

I’m losing ground. I shift gears and follow him down the winding path into the thick woods.

I never see his buddies hiding behind trees, plastic guns at the ready.

Suddenly, a barrage of paintballs. They sting, leave welts.

I hold back tears.  

And they call me the bully.