'Hey Freak - still on hunger strike?' The question came from a cluster of kids at the entrance to the lunchroom. Though it wasn't really a question. Nasty laughter followed. Muttering. Tariq kept his head down. He walked up the foyer steps, past the trophy case, and underneath the flags of nation, state and school. He moved through the double doors beside the vice-principal's office. When they closed behind him it was like coming up for air after a long dive.

He got his clarinet case from his locker and went back to the empty band room. He took a seat near the back and assembled his instrument. Pieced the joints and the bell together, carefully fitted the mouthpiece, moistened the reed and clamped it in place. He set up his music stand and played some scales. The routines soothed him, but the ugly nickame rang in his ears. He had recognised the voice. Brad Jorgensen. A muscular kid in faded jeans and a torn sweatshirt who lived on the west side.

He had a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his neck. Gold earring, heavy stubble, a sneer on his full lips. In gym class on the first day back at school, two weeks ago, Mr Thiel had asked Tariq how to pronounce his name. Someone at the rear of the roll call ranks cried out, 'Rhymes with freak .' Since then Brad had whispered the word in passing, shouted it in the street. He seemed to enjoy its sound. Already it had stuck. And other names.

Twice on his way home Tariq had been harassed by Brad's friends, who threw rocks at him from the vacant lot beside the Dairy Queen and called him 'raghead' and 'camel jockey'.