Crash -- Jerry Spinelli

I feel the need to re-read this book periodically. 

It's funny how much I love Crash Coogan--if the book had been written from someone else's perspective, I'd hate him.  But that's the genius of writing a book from the perspective of a bully:

It was a sunny summer day.  I was in the front yard digging a hole with my little red shovel.  I heard something like whistling.  I looked up.  It was whistling.  It was coming from a funny-looking dorky little runt walking up the sidewalk.  Only he wasn't just walking regular.  He was walking like he owned the place, both hands in his pockets,  sort of swaying lah-dee-dah with every step.  Strolllll-ing.  Strolling and gawking at the houses and whistling a happy little dorky tune like some Sneezy or Snoozy or whatever their names are.

Poor Penn Webb.  The kid was made for tormenting.  Weird-named vegetarian Quaker who goes out for cheerleading in seventh grade.  Yet I like him, too.  And I love Crash's insane environmentalist sister and his grandfather.

The last sentence still makes me cry.