Author's Note: Yup, here I am again. I thought I'd go ahead and post the next part just because it's really slow anyway.

I totally forgot to introduce you to Joey! This is Joey, my best doodle friend and my official editor. So if you have a flame for my editing, go to him. He's used to it (: FLAMETHROWER!)

Also, I'd like to thank LadyEsca and SpongeFan SquareFiction. You both rock and thanks for reviewing! So...here goes...

Wumbo: I don't own SpongeBob or Dennis.

Part Dos

He had failed again.

Could he…could he find an excuse? No, he didn't think so. Everything had been his fault.

It was sheer chance that he woke up in time to see them walking out the door. He didn't like to admit it, but he would probably have never found them otherwise. He felt, acutely, a heavy weight upon him, but it was just a sorrowful reminder of the first failure. He'd rid himself of it forever when he caught up with them.

They headed out to see. Merrily, thinking they were home free. Not quite. They didn't know they still had him to reckon with. He followed them, swimming faster and faster. They had humiliated him, made a mockery of his entire profession. He wasn't just doing this for the money anymore. The last strangled cry would be reward enough.

It had been almost perfect. He concentrated on the square one. The other dumb one was hiding, a smart move, actually. The victim ran fruitlessly to the stern. He laughed, plunging the knife into the deck, right where the target had been standing. Then closer, closer. He was almost cornered. But he'd underestimated his prey, who was a little more gutsy than he would have thought. No matter. His valiant escape attempt was futile.

For good measure, he let out a maniacal laugh, then advanced, grinning maliciously. The deed was as good as done. And then…all whisked away…

flashBACK

"Momma." The whispered word was hardly more than a breath in the stillness of the house.

All was quiet. A clock chimed somewhere, breaking the silence and making his tiny heart jump. He stood quietly in the kitchen, waiting, watching…

And then, when all was dark out, the roar of a motor. He heard someone scrambling for keys. The door opened and the light came on.

"Momma," he said again. His voice croaked.

"Hey," she said, setting her bags down, rushing to the stove, the fridge, the table, back again.

"Are…" he swallowed. "Aren't you gonna ask me how was school?"

She blinked. "Oh…" she said slowly. She reached for her head, a sign she was thinking. "Oh…oh! How-how was school?"

"I got in a fight," he said bluntly. His mother looked at him straight for the first time and noticed scratch marks encrusted with dirt on his face and a bruise welling up on his shoulder.

"Oh…" she moaned, sinking to the floor, stopping at eye-level to her son. He ran to her, but she stopped him, held him at arm's length, and smiled. A smile that never reached her eyes.

"It's all right, baby," she said mechanically. His stomach wrenched inside him. Dazedly he pushed her away.

"Baby, what's wrong?" she asked, perplexed. He shook his head slowly, still backing away. Then he turned and fled, crashing into a kitchen chair…

The next day, he padded down the stairs. His mother sat at the table, a mug of coffee in her hands. She sipped it solely, staring vacantly ahead. Her glossy brown hair was curled, not a hair out of place. Dennis watched quietly from the stairs, resting his cheek on the pillar, his hands cupped around the knob.

She set the coffee down, drummed her fingers on the table, then laced and unlaced them together. She hung her head then, biting her lip. She put her head in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. Dennis stared in openmouthed wonder.

At last she looked up, motivated by a creak in the stairs, and through tear-streamed eyes she saw her one little boy, quivering in the hallway.

He rushed to her, and this time she swept him up in her arms, both of them crying into the other's shoulder.

"I'm sorry!" she choked, squeezing him tighter. "It's been-you know-since Daddy left…"

She sobbed for what seemed like forever, taking comfort in his innocence, his ever-attentive ear, and he took comfort in his mother's love, which he thought he had finally found.

He was an hour late to school.

In a flash, his mother had remembered everything and grabbed his backpack and coat, packed a lunch, flung him in the car and took off.

"Have a good day, sweetie!" she called, rolling away. "Don't get into any fights! And Dennis…there's gonna be changes, you can be sure of that."

He was scared stiff as he walked through the doors and into the classroom. Only this time there would be no blending in, no feeling of invisibility. The whole class fell silent in a wave, until thirty pairs of eyes glared at him. He stared each of them in the eye, trying to prove to himself he didn't need to fear these people. But inside he was dying. At the end, Mindy was staring at him with wide, round eyes, made wider by her thick glasses. They were blank, unreadable.

"Dennis. A word," Miss Hampton said deeply, breaking the tableau. He followed her out into the hall, ignoring the sea of accusing eyes cast his way.

Miss Hampton closed the door. He waited for a torrent of angry words but none came. The only sound was the low din of voices resuming inside, and Mrs. Jones' unearthly cackle.

"Dennis…" Miss Hampton finally uttered. He looked up. She was looking at him with, yet again, unreadable eyes. Her head was tilted over her left shoulder, her fist on her chin, her finger outlining her jaw. "Do you know what your name is spelled backwards?"

He barely knew how to spell it forwards.

"Sinned," said Miss Hampton, her expression solemn. "Sinned. That's what you did, Dennis. You sinned."

At first his brain was too numb to even take in what she was saying. Then he remembered. Years ago, or maybe longer, him, just turned 3, swinging his legs and sitting in a straight, hard backed chair. A teacher at the front, talking, droning. "It's a sin to lie." That had been at the chapel. And a week later, a room filled with candles, dark. An angel on a stage and a manger. Momma beside him, tears in her eyes, her lips moving to the angel's. And Dad, staring at the flickering flame he held in his hand, fidgeting. Dennis had been absolutely happy then, perfectly content. But then, when Dad left, they'd never gone back to that chapel.

Was Miss Hampton saying he'd told a lie?

"…Since you sinned, Dennis, against Mark, I've decided you can atone for your own repentance. So you will have to think of a way to make it up to him. You have to apologize to him…when and if he returns." She sniffed.

He realized he hadn't seen Mark among the hating eyes.

"Now…let's go to class."

At playtime, he sat quietly at his desk.

"You left this." He looked up. Mindy was floating there, eyes downcast, her voice a mutter. In her hands she held a folded blue cloth. He took it and unfolded it. It was his blankie, in one piece, not a rip to be seen. He looked at her questioningly.

"I got my grandmother to sew it back. I took it home after…after school. I thought you might want it," she said flatly. Her hand fluttered to her charm bracelet, nervously twisting and pulling each little charm.

"Thanks…" he said. She was about to leave again.

"M-Mindy?" She turned, her ponytail bouncing over her shoulder. "You-Thanks for what you did yesterday."

Her eyes got cold then. "Yea."

"And…I…"

"I thought you were different, Dennis. I thought you weren't like Mark and them. I guess I was wrong."

During art, Miss Hampton asked them to draw what they wished for the most. They all had little easels set up with tiny palettes of water colors. He dunked and redunked his brush, sometimes mixing colors until he got the perfect blend of shade.

Looking around, he saw most people were painting pictures of things, like toys or bikes. Mindy's easel was filled with a misshapen seahorse.

"What is that?" she asked when he finally set his brush down with a sigh, unable to mask her curiosity. He had drawn a picture of his mother, standing outside that church, with himself by her side, and Dad next to him. He'd plastered wide toothy smiles on them all.

"It's…family," he said, choking off the last word.

"Oh."

The bell rang for recess.

"Way to go, kid," Mrs. Jones croaked as he passed the door. "Didn't think ya had it in ya. Most kids wouldn't stand up to a bully…you're alright…"