“You’ve got two months of work to catch up on,” said Mr. Rourke in a low voice to Devon, “and the first thing you do is skip class? Perhaps we need to see what your parents have to say about this.” Visible Undershirt poured himself a slug of root beer and downed it.
“It’s cool,” said Devon. “I was in Algebra Two at my old school. Give me the other chapter tests to take home and I’ll prove I’m caught up.” He set his overstuffed backpack on Rourke’s desk, scattering the aligned red pens.
“Problem Four,” said Kelvin, clearing his throat.
Devon looked down at us. “Why, Flower Girl,” he said. “Were you waiting for me?”
I smiled sweetly. “Not for you, you devilish thing.”
“I was a little tied up earlier,” he said. “Lots of new chicks to meet.”
The words were obnoxious but I could feel the demon’s magnetism from across the classroom. I stared over the desks into his glinting green eyes, wondering if Devon could see me. If he was in there, clawing to get out.
Desperate.
“We’re doing multiplication of algebraic expressions,” said Kelvin. “Your input is not required.”
“Really?” said Devon. He sauntered up to Kelvin and gestured an invisible line around the seated boy. “Math with this mustardy kid?”
“How did you…?” I said.
“I am completely unlike mustard,” said Kelvin, “unless you mean Colonel Mustard, in which case yes, I am proud to say I am.”
“Here are the two study guides, young man,” said Rourke. “You may take the chapter one test in class tomorrow and chapter two after school.” He checked his cell phone. “I’d have you take chapter one right now, but I don’t have time to sit here and proctor. Lucky for you. I suggest you leave my classroom now and cease being a disturbance to my tutor.”
“Anytime,” said Devon. He started to open his overfull backpack to put the handouts in, then stopped. He slung the backpack over one shoulder instead. It was an odd shape, big and bulgy, and the bottom of the pack looked splotched with wet. Devon tipped a hand at me, said, “Tomorrow, Flower Girl,” and slouched from the room.
“Why does he call you that?” said Kelvin.
“A camellia is a flower,” I said absently, still studying the retreating boy and his stuffed backpack.
“Must be one that smells nice,” said Kelvin.
Mr. Rourke crumpled his root beer cup and scooped his pens into his bag. He started for the door. Past his thin button-down and out in the dim hallway I saw Devon turn the corner. Then I saw a faint light blink on and off at the top of his pack and I suddenly knew what was inside.
“Oh hells,” I said. I grabbed my backpack and ran for the door, ducking past Visible Undershirt.
“Where are you—?” said Kelvin.
“I’m sorry, we’ll have to work on it later, I’m sorry…” I called back as I dashed from the room.
“Camellia?” said Mr. Rourke. “Camellia!”
8
A Hundred Pixies
Devon vanished around the T in the hallway as I bolted from Rourke’s room. Where was he going with those pixies, and why?
I was going so fast I didn’t see Sparkle standing stock-still in the hallway until I turned the corner and slammed into her bony side. She stumbled backward, and something flew out of her hand and shattered into a million pieces on the floor.
“Oh hells,” I said. “What’d I break? Is that a mirror? I’m sorry.” I scooped up the biggest pieces, looking down the hall for Devon.
“Leave it,” Sparkle said. I looked up and saw she was turned away from me, her hand covering her face.
“I bet there’s a broom in the janitor’s closet,” I said. “Did you get cut?”
“Go away,” she said. “Just go away.”
I looked closer at her face, wondering if she was crying. Sparkle wasn’t much of a crier even when we were kids. She got mad instead, a cold-blooded mad in which she figured out what to do to the guilty party and then did it. Like once we were getting Popsicles from the ice cream man and this third grader pushed me down and took my Bomb Pop. Next day at school, Sparkle told everyone that he had worms in his butt like a dog gets, and that no one should use the same bathroom because they would get worms, too. The teachers were cranky when the boys kept trying to use the bathroom in the other wing. But he never picked on either of us again.
The memory made me remember some of the good times we’d had, and I stayed rooted, wanting to help. Sparkle wasn’t really crying, but her fingers moved just long enough to wipe one half tear, and then I saw it, though I didn’t understand what I was seeing at first.
“Did you bump your nose?” I said. “It’s swelling.”
Sparkle’s fingers left her face. She clutched the cameo necklace she always wore and glared at me. “Go ahead and laugh,” she said. “Everything worked out fine for you, didn’t it? Nobody cares that you don’t have a dad, that you don’t invite people over, that you never throw parties.”