Non-classifiable
One of the private-school boys grabs hold of his buddy's arm. "Let's get outta here," he says. "See the fangs on that monster? And the way his ears are sticking up?"
I don't like him calling Smokey a monster. If Smokey's baring his fangs, it's because he's on the alert.
I head for the cash. I feel like Smokey needs me. Like I understand him in a way no one else does.
Ausby drew back his fist. "Back off, pal," he snarled. "I'm armed, but I don't want to use it. Make the little girl give me the bag, and I'll be on my way. If you don't, there's going to be a whole bunch of people hurt here today."
Our school teams always lost. It didn't matter what sport—basketball, soccer, baseball, volleyball or hockey —we sucked at them all. I'd been on all our school teams every year since grade six and we'd never had a winning team. Forget winning team, we'd hardly ever had a win.
