 “Nice hat,” Balermo sneers when he walks past my desk.
His comment is like a torpedo that’s made a direct hit. My heart sinks. Homeroom hasn’t even started, and the beanie is already attracting unwanted attention. I thought I’d at least get through a class or two before anyone said anything, but I should have known that mean kids are always on the lookout for things to pick on. And yeah, the orange and red stripes are a little tacky, but it’s ridiculous that I can’t wear a hat that makes seasonal sense without getting hassled. Still, I feel like I got off easy with that sarcastic comment. It’s nothing compared to what I’d get about the patch under the beanie—everything from banter about how I shouldn’t watch horror movies before bed to childish put-downs that are all just ways of branding me a coward: wuss, wimp, big baby.
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