Taylor Hebert:

I'd been waiting for the last two hours, but it wasn't until near the end of Mr. Gladly's class that they made their move.

I'm sorry. I meant to say, until the end of Mr. G's class, on World Studies.

To be honest, Mr. G—that's what he insists we call him—isn't my favorite teacher. He's too focused on trying to get his students to like him. So he doesn't do much in the way of teaching, and just tries to do all these group projects, so that everybody gets to hang out with their friends. Which is great, I suppose...unless you're like me, and you don't have any friends.

Then you get to hang out with the ones nobody wants. Greg, and Sparks. Which isn't too bad for Greg and Sparks, but I can't stand either one. For one thing, they're dumber than rat poop, and they don't have any background to speak of. Sparks probably wouldn't be so bad, if he ever paid attention to the world around him, and maybe had the IQ of your average houseplant, but as it is, he's one of those people who you really wish would get drunk or stoned more often, since it would probably make him noticeably smarter. And Greg? Greg is one of those kids who'll do anything any pretty girl asks of him, and never think twice about it. Even if he wasn't the world's biggest geek, he'd still be on my shit-list, seeing as he's so willing and eager to do help out the Trio whenever they've come up with a new prank to pull on me. Oh, he always says he's sorry, and swears that he'll do better the next time. As far as I can tell, he always means it, too. And then the very next day, somebody will ask him to do something for him, and he'll do it without thinking, and there goes another prank.

And he wonders why I don't like him.

Just now is a prime example. Julia just asked, so he up and handed my backpack to her. Didn't evens top to ask if it was okay. And even as I'm turning to glare at him, Julia's handing it off to Brook, who's handing it to Sierra, who's handing it to Madison. Who's reaching inside, to grab the homework that I did yesterday for this class, smirking at me the whole time. Just like she always does.

What she gets...well.

Okay, just to give a little backstory, I suppose I'd better rewind a few months. Maybe a bit more. Maybe not. You'll see what I mean.

My mom has been dead for about two years now. Died in a car crash. A drunk driver got to talking on his cell phone, ran a red light, slammed into my mom's car, and drove her into a tree. He was driving a big, heavy pickup. Mom was driving a VW bug. He walked away. She died instantly. Not exactly the greatest birthday present I've ever had, if you get my meaning.

What was worse, was that Mom was the life of the family. Dad was her rock, her anchor, the person she could turn to when life got to be too much, and the person who was always there for us—him or me—whenever we needed somebody to be there. He was also the one who kept her grounded, who kept her steady, who kept her from taking one of her weirder ideas, and running with it...at least until she'd gotten all the kinks worked out, and could make it work. Thing is? A ship can run without an anchor. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and there's a lot of chance of a misstep, a lot of risk that you'll run aground on the rocks. But you don't need an anchor for the ship to survive, so long as you can keep to safe waters. But the anchor? Without a ship, the anchor just sits there, and doesn't do anything.

And that's Dad. That's what he's been like these past two years. He's there, and he tries to take care of me, but...he's an anchor. A rock. Somebody to lean against, and somebody who will always love you, no matter what you do. But he can't...he can't do what Mom did. He can't bring light and life and joy to the family like she could.

I think all families are like that, in some ways. The successful ones, anyway. You have to have both, you see. One to make everybody feel like they have the confidence, and the skills, and the will to take on the world. And one to make sure that the other doesn't get in over their head, and to fish them out when they do anyway. And without Mom, Dad's just sort of...shut down. Right at first, it was just with the drink, but even after that, our family life just sort of...dried up. Dad went through the motions—he'd find summer camps, or church activities, or this or that—but that was all. He couldn't actually...he couldn't be himself, anymore. Not without Mom.

He was an anchor, without a ship. And the thing about an anchor? They're not the most stable things out there. Without a ship to hold them upright, all they can do, is just fall over.

And then, just to make things worse, that summer? That summer, I went away to summer camp, and spent the whole summer out of town. And when I got back, my best friend, Emma...she'd changed. She was hanging out with some new girls, and she said she didn't want to be my friend anymore. That she'd found somebody faster, stronger, and better than me. And when I didn't understand, she...well.

There is nothing in this world, or any other, more cruel than a best friend turned into a hated enemy.

I still couldn't figure out why she'd done it. By now, I guess it really didn't matter. She, and her two new friends, Madison and Sophia were bound and determined to make my life a living hell. And they were the popular girls. Pretty, outgoing, energetic. The sorts of girls that everybody likes. Me? I was too tall, too thin, too scrawny. I was a twig, and not even a small twig. I was a huge, gawky, coltish twig, without any sign of femininity to my name. And Emma and I had shared everything. Every secret, every dream, every long lost hope or desire. Everything.

She'd used all of it to go after me. And the worst part was that, even after two years, I still didn't really have any defenses. Not against her. Not against Emma Barnes.

Thankfully, Madison was a different kettle of fish.

She was the prankster of the three—the one who came up with "cute" ideas like glue on my seat, pouring grape juice on my backpack, and all the rest. She was also the one who loved to steal my homework, and present it as her own. Needless to say, she got good grades. My grades? They weren't so good. God only knew what was going to happen to her if she ever stopped being able to steal my work, but I was betting that her parents were going to have some sharp questions for her.

Which she would probably blame on me.

I don't know if she was the one who came up with the idea of locking me in my own locker, after filling it with dozens of mice, rats, and other "vermin," as my grandmother would have put it, and I don't actually know for certain that she was one of the ones who actually took part in the setup, or the actual bit where I got shoved into my own locker, or even locking the locker, but right now, I don't really care. Madison has been picking on me for the better part of two years, and I'm tired of it.

Back in the present, Madison smirked at me, and reached down into my backpack, looking for the folder in which I always brought my homework. Then she frowned, very slightly, and moved her hand around.

I just had time to reach into my desk, and withdraw the folder she was looking for, before her questing fingertips found something altogether different from what she was expecting. Her eyes left mine, and they darted down to stare into my backpack.

"Yeeeeekkkk!" she screamed, pulling her hand out, and flinging my backpack away. "It's a rat! There's a rat in Taylor's backpack!"

The backpack, having left Madison's hands, impacted against the front of the classroom, right in plain view of Mr. G and all the rest of the class, where it slid to the ground. Sure enough, there was a squeaking sound, and then...something small and furry stuck its nose out of the backpack.

Predictably, I screamed, and jumped back. Since I didn't bother leaving my desk in the process, that meant that I got tangled up in the desk, and I, as well as the desk, tilted over, and slammed into the floor, right next to the doorway. Honestly, I shouldn't have bothered—it hurt like hell to hit the ground like that, and I was pretty sure that nobody else had noticed, given that the entire rest of the class was either screaming, in the case of the girls, or sort of edging closer to the backpack, in the case of the boys.

Somehow, I kept from laughing, even despite the look on Madison's face.


An hour later, Dad finally showed up at school, to meet with me and the principle.

They were saying that I'd put the rat in my backpack on purpose. That I'd deliberately planned the whole event as part of an effort to "disrupt the safe learning environment of Winslow", and to "create an opportunity to inflict additional harassment and non-physical damage to students already harmed by my activities".

Said students presumably being led by my former best—and only—friend and her friends.

I had grit my teeth, and said nothing. I'd tried, when this whole thing had begun, to take my problem to the school faculty. At first, they'd promised to look into it, and nothing had happened. Then they'd started to openly dismiss my reports. And, finally, when I'd had the temerity to bring proof, they'd given me lunchtime detention for false reports of bullying, and threatened to bring criminal charges if I persisted.

I'd backed down. But I hadn't stopped gathering proof. There was a lot of it, by now. Six notebooks full of bullying and hate. Everything they'd ever done to me, written down. Every hateful email they'd ever sent, saved and printed out. The only thing I hadn't done was actually record the conversations...but I'd written them down, as best I could remember, when I got home from school, every day. Honestly? I was pretty secure in the knowledge that I could provide an overwhelming amount of evidence.

"So," Dad said, his voice calm, as he took his seat in the principal's office. "You wanted to talk to me, Principal Blackwell?"

Principal Blackwell gave a great, heaving sigh, and did her best to look sad and regretful, a look that was quickly imitated by Madison, who was seated on the other side of the office.

"Yes," she said, sounding mournful. "I'm afraid, Mister Hebert, that your daughter's bad behavior has persisted. Just this morning, she was caught bringing a rat into class, and trying to pin the blame on another classmate. I am sorry to tell you this, but-"

"How was she caught?" Dad interrupted her.

"I fail to see how that's relevant," the principal said. "The fact remains-"

"That my daughter was shoved into a locker full of rats and mice just three months ago," Dad interrupted her again. "Which she was locked inside, and then left in for almost six hours."

He leaned forward, then, glaring at the principal.

"My daughter almost died of fright, Principal Blackwell. Fright from her prolonged contact with rats, and mice, in a tightly enclosed space, with no way to escape. Had I the money, I would almost certainly have called a professional therapist to have her going to treatment for an entirely understandable case of extreme phobia of rats and mice. Not to mention enclosed spaces. So I am going to ask you again, and I expect an answer: how was my daughter caught smuggling a rat into this school?"

There was a long pause, before the principal answered.

"Another student found it," she finally answered, her voice reluctant. She might not have wanted to answer the question, but Dad had been in charge of hiring and negotiations for the Dock Workers Union for the last ten years, and he had been dealing with obstructionist officials and justifiably frustrated workers for all that time.

Dad sighed.

"And I take it that this girl," he paused to gesture at Maddie, "is the one who found it?"

There was another pause.

"She is," the principal admitted. "She is, however, a model student, and has an excellent record at this school. Not only that, but there are dozens of witnesses who are willing to swear that Madison had nothing to do with your daughter having a rat in her backpack."

"I see," Dad said quietly, looking at the floor for just a moment.

"Mr. Hebert, I don't have to remind you that your daughter has a record of making false complaints of bullying as part of an effort to get attention," Principal Blackwell began. "Nor-"

"Are you saying that my daughter locked herself in her own locker?" Dad interrupted her before she could gather steam.

"Uh...well...we think-"

"Because I seem to recall making a very frantic and high-speed trip to Brockton General," Dad interrupted. He was doing that a lot, today.

"I-"

"In fact, I seem to remember several doctors telling me that my daughter would have died if the hospital hadn't called in Panacea," Dad went on, ignoring the principal's efforts to get a word in edgewise. "A visit which was paid for by your school, yes?"

"That was with the understanding that the school admitted to no fault in the matter," the principal said, her voice exasperated.

"So it was," Dad told her, giving her a friendly smile. I lowered my head to conceal a wince—I'd seen that kind of smile on some of the DWU members Dad was especially close to. They called it the Hebert Special, and its appearance was anything but a good sign.

"So it was," he repeated, and I could see Principal Blackwell begin to relax.

"In fact," he went on, "I seem to remember signing a document specifying that very same thing, and promising not to hold the school, or any particular people, at fault for this. In exchange for which, your school promised to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. Yes?"

"Yes, you did!" the principal snapped. "So-"

"And yet," Dad cut her off, again, "I seem to remember being called in to this meeting due to a rat being found in my daughter's backpack. When my daughter has an extreme fear of rats, and mice, and rodents in general. Yes?"

There was a long pause, then.

"It would seem," Dad said quietly into the silence, "that this school has not upheld its side of the bargain."

His voice, as I said, was quiet, but in the silence, it sounded like a shout.

Principal Blackwell, of course, decided to treat it as such.

"Mr. Hebert, I will thank you not to raise your voice at me," she said, trying to look stern. Dad's smile grew, at that.

"I will require a copy of the complaint," he said. "As well as a copy of all the other complaints in my daughter's file."

There was another moment of silence, and then the principal frowned.

"I don't think I can do that," she finally said. "School rules are very strict about internal documents and memoranda being taken off of school grounds. I'm sorry."

"Very well," Dad said, sitting back. "In that case, since you are not willing to hand over the documents that would be required to handle this through official police channels, I am going to pull my daughter from this school for the next two days. Tomorrow morning, or possibly later this afternoon, I will provide to you a list of people, both students, and faculty. By the time my daughter returns to school on Friday, those people will have been made to understand that they are no longer welcome on the premises of this school, and will never be seen again. Am I understood?"

The principal frowned, and then gave him a blank look.

"What?" she finally said.

"I am going to go home," Dad said. "I will be taking my daughter. We will be making a list of everybody involved in the bullying campaign, and every teacher who watched it happen, and did nothing, and we will be delivering that list to you. I expect that it will be quite a long list, all things considered. You will be firing those teachers, and expelling those students. They will not be permitted to return to this school, for any reason, due to extreme misconduct or malice against the students that they are supposed to be teaching. If any of those people are on campus for any reason, I will be forced to take other measures. Am I clear."

"Mr. Hebert, I can assure you-"

"You already did that. And all that meant was that somebody felt completely safe in making an overt threat against my daughter's life," Dad said, his tone very definitely not friendly any longer. "We've tried it your way, Principal Blackwell. We've tried it your way for the past two years, almost. Clearly, your way hasn't worked. Now we're going to do it my way. And if we can't do it the nice way, we'll do it the less nice way."

Ms. Blackwell went silent for a moment, and then she sighed.

"You don't have-" she began, before Dad leaned forward, looked her in the eyes.

"Let me stop you there," he said, gently. Honestly, I didn't think she'd finished a single sentence so far this meeting. "I am the head of hiring and negotiations for the Dock Workers Union in Brockton Bay. That means that I control all access to any shipments or shipping coming into or going out of Brockton Bay. There are three major gangs in this city that sell drugs, guns, and other illegal items. All three would see their logistics, and their profits, greatly increased by ready access to the docks. All three of those gangs have a substantial presence at this school. Do I need to explain this any farther?"

Ms. Blackwell went white, as did Madison.

"You're saying you would..." she began, before she just trailed off, and went silent.

"You're going to sic the gangs on us?" Madison whimpered, staring at my dad.

He turned, and gave her a smile. A friendly smile. Somehow, I didn't think that smile reached his eyes. Madison flinched, and whimpered again.

"I would suggest," Dad said, his voice very quiet, "that you come clean to your parents tonight. At least that way, you'll get some credit for honesty, when this all comes to a head."

She whimpered again, somehow turning even more white than before.

Dad stood, placing his hand on my shoulder. At his subtle urging, I rose, and followed him from the office. Behind us, the principal stayed silent, staring at us as we walked out the door.

We didn't say anything more until we'd left the parking lot, and were on our way home.

****************************************
"Alright," Dad said, as we pulled up to a stop light. "How'd you do it?"

"Eh?" I said, my head turning almost involuntarily to stare at my dad. He turned, and gave me a gentle smile. A really gentle smile, this time, not a Hebert Special.

"Sweetie," he said. "I may be a lot of things. But I'm not stupid. There is no way in hell that small-time school bullies like that are going to be making what amounts to death threats against you this soon after the locker incident. Not unless they've got one hell of a lot more backing than I think they do. That means that either somebody else put it there, probably to get those girls in trouble, or you put it there yourself. Now, you want to tell me which is more likely?"

I had to stop, and gape at Dad. His smile grew a bit more crooked, though no less genuine, and he shook his head.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter" he said, after a few moments of silence. "It's probably for the best-"

"No," I said, as the light turned green again, feeling my heart squeeze against my ribs. "I'll show you. When...when we're alone. Tonight. But-"

"Heh," he said. "Don't worry, sweetie. Like I said, I'm not stupid. And there is no way in hell that girl had a legitimate reason to be looking around in your backpack. Right?"

I nodded, silently, as he hit the gas, and the car accelerated smoothly away from the intersection.

"Which means that, no matter what Alan might have told me, there is a bullying campaign, and that girl, at least, was part of it. Right?"

I nodded again, forgetting that he couldn't take his eyes off the road to see me. Somehow, he knew anyway, and gave me a quick but gentle smile.

"Then don't worry, sweetie," he said. "We'll deal with this. The way we should have been dealing with it the whole time: together."
**************************************

When I got home, Dad set me to writing down the lists he'd mentioned. Then he made me go back, and add more names. And then more names. And then more names. At some point during all of this, he found my notebooks, with the journals I'd been making of the bullying at school, and started going through them, calling out names to add to my lists. By the time we were done, I had almost sixty names on my lists. Some of them, like Greg Vader, were just...ancillaries, I guess. They hadn't meant to do anything wrong, which I tried to tell Dad. But Dad just said that they'd seen, and participated, in my being bullied, and hadn't done anything about it. Then he told me that if they weren't punished for it, they'd never learn to stop doing it. I wasn't sure I bought that logic, but I knew better than to argue with Dad when he got like this.

At two o'clock, he took the list with him to work, made some copies, and then swung by the school to deliver a copy to the school secretary. The principal, he'd explained when he got home, was out, so he'd made the secretary sign for the delivery, and come back home.

She wasn't going to pass it along to Principal Blackwell, he told me. He'd seen her reaction before. The school secretary was going to stall, or lose the copy he'd given her, or do something along those lines. The school faculty didn't think that Dad was going to be able to do anything to them. He told me that when I got back to school, if not sooner, that he was going to be informed by the police that making threats against the school was unacceptable, and that the police would not tolerate such actions for any reason.

Then he took me to Kinkos.

The police, he told me, like all city officials, had to have a paper trail to act. Something would have to be done to provide convincing evidence that this was a serious and ongoing problem, that they had to intervene in, despite no laws being openly broken. That was apparently the problem with relying on the police to solve problems like bullying, or abuse, or any other kind of chronic problem: they had to have a paper trail. That was why he'd asked for my file from the school...and why the principal had turned him down.

But the journals? Those were a paper trail. Not one the police had been in possession of before—I hadn't shared them with anybody before today—but they were a paper trail. A big paper trail. Bigger, probably, than the file that Winslow had put together.

And Emma hadn't confined herself just to verbal bullying, or spilling my secrets. She'd sent emails, too. She'd written it down. And while I'm sure she thought she could just delete those emails, and be safe, I'd saved the ones I'd gotten. I'd saved them, I'd printed them, and I'd burned copies to CDs. I might not be able to prove that it was her. But I could prove that the school was ignoring an ongoing problem...and Dad told me that he was going to push the same idea that Blackwell had: that school was supposed to be safe. And that I would not feel safe, as long as any of the people on the list he'd had me write, were attending the same school that I was.

I didn't know if that would actually work, but Dad had told me that it was our best chance of having it resolved legally. The other option, the one that he'd mentioned in the principal's office, we didn't talk about, but I, at least, hadn't had any doubts that he was serious when he brought it up. I wasn't sure I liked the idea of having the ABB or the Empire Eighty-Eight going after Emma or the others, but I didn't doubt that Dad was serious when he told the principal that he'd call in favors, if he had to.

That thought was a little scary. Somehow, I couldn't really imagine Dad as a Mob boss...but if he really had control of the docks, like he said, I didn't have any doubts that he could do it.

So once he got back home, we spent the rest of the afternoon making photocopies. According to Dad, we'd need those, come Friday.

Like this work? Check out my page at www. /wlindsay to get Queen of Rats chapters several weeks early, as well as the rewrite/expansion I am working on to fix some of the many, many, MANY issues with the original Worm.