Gym class.
The arena where friendships are tested, alliances are forged, and children hurl rubber spheres with the ferocity of ancient gods.
I entered Midtown Elementary's gymnasium with all the caution of a man walking into a haunted coliseum. The air smelled of sweat, sneakers, and suppressed trauma. The walls were padded, but not enough to cushion either physical or emotional damage.
Coach Thompson—a man built like a vending machine and powered entirely by protein bars—blew his whistle like it was a battle cry.
"DODGEBALL DAY!" he roared, veins throbbing with joy. "Today, it's war!"
Several kids cheered. One fainted. Mindy whispered, "I've seen this in a dream. It ends with betrayal."
I cracked my knuckles. "Good."
Coach divided us by class groups. My squad? A ragtag bunch of first graders, one kindergartener with unblinking eye contact, and a kid named Larry who was still unsure what sport we were playing.
Across the gym stood our enemies: The Fifth Graders.
The big kids.
Veterans of four years of elementary warfare. With dodgeball arms sculpted by time and cafeteria milk cartons. They were mean, organized, and led by a towering preteen named Travis "The Elbow" McMurphy.
He cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo. "Fresh meat," he growled.
I stared back, unfazed. "Just wait, Elbow."
Coach Thompson tossed the dodgeballs into the center of the court.
"GO!"
Chaos erupted.
Balls flew like cannon fire. Kids dove. Screamed. We lost Larry immediately—tagged in the face while yelling "IS THIS BASEBALL?!"
I floated half an inch off the ground to dodge an incoming shot, then immediately snapped back to the floor. Subtlety. Mustn't forget.
I deflected a ball with my forearm, then gently redirected it using a telekinetic flick—just a nudge, totally legal. The ball smacked into a fifth grader named Troy with the force of karmic justice.
"HEY!" Travis roared. "You got lucky!"
"Oh no," I said calmly. "I got geometry."
He blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Mindy appeared at my side holding two dodgeballs and a laminated diagram of our team's positioning. "I've calculated their weak points."
I took a ball. "Excellent. Deploy Operation: Bouncy Justice."
We struck hard. I jumped, spun midair (but only a little too high), and let loose a dodgeball that curved like a boomerang made of vengeance.
Travis ducked.
The ball kept curving… and hit Coach Thompson square in the glutes.
The gym fell silent.
Coach turned slowly. "Who. Threw. That?"
Everyone pointed at me.
I blinked innocently. "Technically, it was wind-assisted."
Coach narrowed his eyes. "That's it. Fifth graders versus first graders. Sudden Death Mode."
Mindy gasped. "That's not in the handbook."
"Oh, it's real," Coach growled. "And it's about to get realer."
The lights dimmed. Music played—was that Eye of the Tiger?
Travis snarled. "You're going down, Kindergarten Kratos."
That… was actually kind of flattering.
We lined up.
It was just me and Mindy now, against five looming fifth graders with fury in their eyes and terrible aim.
"Any last words?" Travis smirked, bouncing a ball.
I raised a brow. "Yeah. Duck."
He blinked. "Wha—"
WHUMP.
He was nailed in the back by a rogue dodgeball thrown by… Sir Chompers, the class hamster, riding Muffin the squirrel like a war steed.
"Oh no," I whispered, grinning. "They joined the war."
Tiny reinforcements flooded in from the gym vents: squirrels armed with acorns, birds dropping glue sticks, and one extremely aggressive pigeon wearing a headband.
The fifth graders panicked.
Balls flew in all directions. One hit the fire alarm. Sprinklers activated.
Mindy screamed, "IT'S THE HAMSTER RESISTANCE!"
Coach Thompson, dripping wet and covered in glitter glue (thanks to one rogue art cart crashing), threw up his hands. "I'm retiring."
I dodged one last ball Matrix-style and nailed Travis in the chest.
Game. Set. Match.
Victory.
The gym exploded in cheers. My classmates lifted me like a pint-sized war hero. Sir Chompers saluted me with a tiny flag made of tissue.
Outside, Jenkins waited in the car, frowning at the sprinkler-soaked battlefield.
"Let me guess," he said. "You 'accidentally' started a small war again?"
"Diplomatic incident," I corrected. "Also, Travis called me Kratos. I think that's a compliment."
Jenkins sighed. "Do I even want to know what tomorrow is?"
I strapped myself in, still holding a dodgeball like a trophy. "Field trip."
His hands tightened on the wheel. "Dear heavens."
Because in Chapter 7, dear reader…
We visit the Museum of Natural History. And I might accidentally awaken an ancient cursed mummy with anger management issues.
Ready?