Next period was physical education. Before even asking my name, the thick-necked, crewcut-headed Coach Krebs wanted to know what sports I played at my old school. I had to admit I wasn’t much of a jock.

"Yeah, I thought I caught a whiff of Chess Club," he grimaced.

In the locker room, I changed into the t-shirt and gym shorts Coach had given me. Looking around, I saw that all the other guys were wearing baggy shorts, like basketball players have. But mine were skin-tight and barely covered my underwear.

"Nice shorts," one guy called on his way out of the locker room. "Did you buy 'em from the roller disco when they went out of business?"

I didn’t know what to do. The logical thing would be to change back into my own pants and go tell Coach I needed different shorts. Then I saw the rule posted on the locker room wall that said no one was allowed on the gym floor without their uniform.

Fearing the threat of yet another detention from yet another teacher, I ended up pulling my t-shirt down as far as it would go, and slinking into the gym wearing the mini-shorts. I was met with jeers and laughter from the other kids. Somebody whistled. But Coach didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong when I approached him.

"Um, Coach, could I have a bigger pair of shorts?" I asked, stretching my shirt hem down to my thighs.

"What’s wrong with those?" he wanted to know.

"They’re a little tight, don’t you think? The tag says they’re a girls’ size small."

"They’re fine. Plus, they’re the only ones I have right now. If you’re so worried about your wardrobe, I’ll get another pair out of the equipment room tomorrow."

That was the end of it. Coach Krebs blew his whistle and we all lined up to choose sides for basketball. Being the only boy who looked like he wasn’t wearing any pants beneath a stretched out t-shirt, I wasn’t surprised to be chosen second-to-last; right before the neck brace kid.

I never was much of an athlete, and the fact that the girl who was our team’s captain kept calling me "Hot Legs" didn’t help my game. After a tortuous forty minutes of constantly trying to keep my shorts from riding up, the class finally ended and I was able to put my civilian clothes back on. Actually having my legs covered felt like the height of luxury.

Of all the things I dreaded on my first day at the new school, lunch topped the list. The uncomfortable decision about where to sit when you don’t know anyone had caused me to wake up in a cold sweat more than once since Dad announced our exile from Philadelphia. And there I finally was, standing just past the lunch line cash register, holding my plastic tray of grilled cheese and chocolate milk, and staring at a sea of strange faces.

I started walking, zombie-like, through the rows of kids who were talking, laughing, and eating. I had a glimmer of hope that somebody at one of those tables would take pity on me and offer the new kid a seat. But that didn’t happen. By the time I reached the back of the lunchroom, my grilled cheese looked soggy and my heart was pounding in my ears.

There had been some empty spots at the tables I had passed, but it was an unforgivable violation of the unspoken Lunch Room Code that anyone would park himself, uninvited, at another person's table. I would balance my lunch tray on my knees in the boys’ bathroom before doing that. And there were no completely empty tables where I could just create my own solitary domain.

I noticed, though, that there were a number of mostly-empty tables at the back of the room where I now stood. Only one or two kids sat at each of these, and they were regarding me warily. All except one kid sitting alone at a table by the window. He stared at me with a blank look on his pale face. The sunlight caught the silver of his many earrings, nose rings, and eyebrow rings, making him look like his head sparkled. He nodded at me almost imperceptibly. In my desperate state, I took it as an invitation. I screwed up my courage and marched over to meet my shiny neighbor.

"Hi," I said.

"Hey."

"Um ... I saw you by my house when we were moving in. Do you know where I could sit?" I hinted. "There aren’t any empty tables." Hopefully this wouldn't be considered a violation of the Lunch Room Code since I hadn't asked directly.

"You can sit here if you want," he replied.

Relief flooded through me as I deposited my tray across from Metal Kid's.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, each of us looking the other over between bites. My original impression of this kid when he was standing across from my house had been about the same as it was when I saw him over a grilled cheese sandwich. He still wore enough jewelry to set off a whole airport’s worth of metal detectors, but his school wardrobe consisted of a pair of camouflage pants and a black t-shirt with an upside-down smiley face on it.

I wanted to introduce myself, but I wasn’t sure if he would take it as a sign of aggression if I started talking. I really didn’t want to get on the bad side of someone who looked like he could use his face as a bottle opener. On the other hand, he might decide that I was unfriendly and deserving of a beating if I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure which option was worse.

Unexpectedly, Metal Kid spoke. "How do you like it here?"

"It’s all right," I shrugged. "It’s kind of strange not knowing anybody, though."

"You think it’s strange now? Try living here your whole life and not knowing anyone," was his reply.

I had no idea how to respond to a comment like that, so the conversation just died there. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence in the otherwise noisy cafeteria, I finally said, "I’m John."

"I’m Zack," he responded. "I live around the corner from you. My house is in the exact same spot as yours, except it's on the next street over."

"So, what do you do around here?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much. There’s a big movie theatre at the mall and I play computer games. There are a few online ones that I spend a lot of time on. Do you like video games?"

"Oh, yeah. I’d never leave the house if my parents would just let me live on my computer all the time. What are you playing?"

We spent the rest of our lunch period talking about video games, comic books, and science fiction movies. Aside from the fact that Zack looked like he was auditioning for a heavy metal video, it was probably the most normal conversation I’d had in a long time.

After lunch, there were a few more classes to suffer through, including world history and Spanish. By the time the final bell rang and my science class surged out of the lab, I felt ready to collapse. I retrieved my backpack, filled it with homework, and headed toward home.

About half a block from school, Zack caught up with me. He was wearing the ripped up jean jacket he’d had on the other day when he stalked my house. I squinted at some of the buttons dangling off of it. They said things like "Got RAM?" and "Still looking for intelligent life on Earth" and "Ask me about my graphics card."

"Interesting jacket," I commented.

"Thanks. It’s kind of me," was his response.

Then, before I could think better of it, I burst out, "So, what’s with all the piercings and buttons and stuff? Aren’t they heavy?"

Zack shrugged, which must have been difficult with so many pounds of metal attached to him. "I like they way they look. It separates me from the crowd, you know?"

"I guess. Isn’t there a less painful way to be different, though?"

"Probably. But this has the added benefit of driving my mom nuts."