Ender's Game (Ender Wiggins Saga)

him. Couldn't think of his name. Peter. No, that was someone else.
      "Quiet, Mr. Stilson," said Miss Pumphrey. Stilson smirked.
      Miss Pumphrey talked about multiplication. Ender doodled on his desk, drawing contour maps of mountainous islands and then telling his desk to display them in three dimensions from every angle. The teacher would know, of course, that he wasn't paying attention, but she wouldn't bother him. He always knew the answer, even when she thought he wasn't paying attention.
      In the corner of his desk a word appeared and began marching around the perimeter of the desk. It was upside down and backward at first, but Ender knew what it said long before it reached the bottom of the desk and turned right side up.
     
    THIRD
     
      Ender smiled. He was the one who had figured out how to send messages and make them march-- even as his secret enemy called him names, the method of delivery praised him. It was not his fault he was a Third.   It was the government's idea, they were the ones who authorized it-- how else could a Third like Ender have got into school? And now the monitor was gone. The experiment entitled Andrew Wiggin hadn't worked out after all. If they could, he was sure they would like to rescind the waivers that had allowed him to be born at all. Didn't work, so erase the experiment.
      The bell rang. Everyone signed off their desks or hurriedly typed in reminders to themselves. Some were dumping lessons or data into their computers at home. A few gathered at the printers while something they wanted to show was printed out. Ender spread his hands over the child-size keyboard near the edge of the desk and wondered what it would feel like to have hands as large as a grown-up's. They must feel so big and awkward, thick stubby fingers and beefy palms. Of course, they had bigger keyboards-- but how could their thick fingers draw a fine line, the way Ender could, a thin line so precise that he could make it spiral seventy-nine times from the center to the edge of the desk without the lines ever touching or overlapping. It gave him something to do while the teacher droned on about arithmetic. Arithmetic! Valentine had taught him arithmetic when he was three.
      "Are you all right, Andrew?”
      "Yes, ma'am.”
      "You'll miss the bus.”
      Ender nodded and got up. The other kids were gone. They would be waiting, though, the bad ones. His monitor wasn't perched on his neck, hearing what heard and seeing what he saw. They could say what they liked.   They might even hit him now-- no one could see anymore, and so no one would come to Ender's rescue. There were advantages to the monitor, and he would miss them.
      It was Stilson, of course. He wasn't bigger than most other kids, but he was bigger than Ender. And he had some others with him. He always did.
      "Hey, Third.”
      Don't answer. Nothing to say.
      "Hey, Third, we're talkin to you, Third, hey bugger-lover, we're talkin to you.”
      Can't think of anything to answer. Anything I say will make it worse. So will saying nothing.
      "Hey, Third, hey, turd, you flunked out, huh? Thought you were better than us, but you lost your little birdie, Thirdie, got a bandaid on your neck.”
      "Are you going to let me through?" Ender asked.
      "Are we going to let him through? Should we let him through?" They all laughed. "Sure we'll let you through. First we'll let your arm through, then your butt through, then maybe a piece of your knee.”
      The others chimed in now. "Lost your birdie, Thirdie.   Lost your birdie, Thirdie.”
      Stilson began pushing him with one hand, someone behind him then pushed him toward Stilson.
      "See-saw, marjorie daw," somebody said.
      "Tennis!”
      "Ping-pong!”
      This would not have a happy ending. So Ender decided that he'd rather not be the unhappiest at the end. The next time Stilson's arm came out to push him, Ender grabbed at it. He missed.
      "Oh, gonna fight me, huh? Gonna fight me, Thirdie?”
      The people behind Ender grabbed at him, to hold him.
      Ender did not feel like laughing, but he laughed. "You mean it takes this many of you to fight one Third?”
      "We're people , not Thirds , turd face. You're about as strong as a fart!”
      But they let go of him. And as soon as they did, Ender kicked out high and hard, catching Stilson square in the breastbone. He dropped. It took Ender by surprise he hadn't thought to put Stilson on the ground with one kick. It didn't occur