He started jogging to his locker—when something hit his leg just above the ankle. His feet flew out from under him, and he toppled facedown onto the hard tile floor.

“Hey—!” Evan cried angrily.

He stared up at a big, tough-looking kid from his class named Conan Barber. All the kids called him Conan the Barbarian. For good reason.

Conan was twelve, but he looked about twenty years older! He was taller and wider and stronger and meaner than any kid in the school.

He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, Evan grudgingly admitted. He had wavy, blond hair, blue eyes, and a handsome face. He was very athletic-looking, and played all the sports at school.

He looks like an okay guy, Evan thought wistfully. Except that he had one very bad habit. Conan loved to live up to his nickname.

He loved being Conan the Barbarian.

He loved strutting around, beating up kids who weren’t his size—which included everyone!

Evan had not hit it off with Conan.

He met Conan on the playground a few weeks after moving to Atlanta. Eager to make a good impression, Evan told him the whole Monster Blood story.

Conan didn’t like the story. He stared back at Evan with his cold, blue eyes for a long, long time. Then his expression hardened, and he murmured through clenched teeth: “We don’t like wise guys down here in Atlanta.”

He gave Evan a pretty good beating that day.

Evan had tried to stay away from Conan ever since. But it wasn’t easy.

Now he gazed up at Conan from his position on the floor. “Hey—why’d you trip me?” Evan demanded shrilly.

Conan grinned down at him and shrugged. “It was an accident.”

Evan tried to decide whether it was safer to stand up or to stay down on the floor. If I stand up, he’ll punch me, he thought. If I stay down here, he’ll step on me.

Tough choice.

He didn’t get to make it. Conan reached down and, with one hand, pulled Evan to his feet.

“Give me a break, Conan!” Evan pleaded. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Conan shrugged again. It was one of his favorite replies. His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “You’re right, Evan,” he said, his grin fading. “I shouldn’t have tripped you.”

“Yeah,” Evan agreed, straightening his T-shirt.

“So you can pay me back,” Conan offered.

“Huh?” Evan gaped at him.

Conan stuck out his massive chest. “Go ahead. Hit me in the stomach. I’ll let you.”

“Whoa. No way,” Evan replied, trying to back up. He stumbled into a group of kids.

“Go ahead,” Conan urged, following after him. “Hit me in the stomach. As hard as you can. It’s only fair.”

Evan studied his expression. “You really mean it?”

Conan nodded, tight-lipped. He stuck out his chest. “As hard as you can. Go ahead. I won’t hit back. I promise.”

Evan hesitated. Should he go ahead and do it?

I may never get a chance like this again, he thought.

A lot of kids were watching, Evan realized.

If I hit him really hard, if I hurt him, if I make him cry out—then maybe kids around here will have a little respect for me.

I’ll be Evan the Giant Killer. The guy who beat up Conan the Barbarian.

He balled his hand into a tight fist and raised it.

“Is that your fist?” Conan cried, laughing.

Evan nodded.

“Oooh—this is going to hurt!” Conan cried sarcastically. He made his knees tremble.

Everyone laughed.

I may surprise him, Evan thought angrily.

“Go ahead. As hard as you can,” Conan urged. He sucked in a deep breath and held it.

Evan pulled his arm back and swung his fist as hard as he could.

The fist made a solid thud as it hit Conan’s stomach.

It felt like hitting a concrete wall.

Evan’s hand throbbed with pain.

“Hey—!” a man’s voice called angrily.

Startled, Evan spun around—to see Mr. Murphy glaring at him.

“No fighting!” Mr. Murphy yelled at Evan.

The teacher came bouncing up to them and stepped between the two boys. Huffing for breath, he turned to Conan. “Why did Evan hit you?” he demanded.

Conan shrugged. His blue eyes went wide and innocent. “I don’t know, Mr. Murphy,” he replied in a tiny, forlorn voice. “Evan just walked up and hit me as hard as he could.”