Such presumption, he sputtered, such impertinence—
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parker coming up the ramp next to the staircase on his crutches, trying to keep up with his friends. I shoved through the door, flinging rain and mud everywhere, including on the ground the janitor was trying to mop up.
“Hey!” he barked after me, slamming his HALLWAY CLOSED sign down. “Freaking kid!”
I glanced back, just as Parker and his goons tried to approach the janitor.
“Go around—I don’t care if you’re late, the floor is too wet to be safe—”
I all but slid into first period, shoes still squealing as I hit the carpet and ran to my seat next to Nell. The tardy bell rang just as I collapsed into it. She looked at me, alarmed. Mrs. Anderson gave me a raised-brow look from where she was writing out the day’s earth science lesson on the whiteboard.
It wasn’t until after the announcements had finished that Parker finally limped his way in, looking rain-soaked and irritated.
“You’re late, Parker,” Mrs. Anderson said, pointing to a stool at the front of the class. “You know the drill.”
“But I had to go around the long way,” Parker said, leaning against his crutches. “And it’s hard to get around in these things—”
The science teacher put her hands on her hips as the rest of the class squirmed uncomfortably, trying not to laugh at the faint squeak in his voice. I cringed on his behalf.
He does not deserve your pity, Maggot.
“Unfortunately for you,” Mrs. Anderson said, “I saw you chatting with your friends in the yard this morning. You had plenty of time to get here before the warning bell, never mind the tardy bell.”
Man, Mrs. Anderson was stone cold.
“What’s happening?” I whispered to Nell as Parker assumed his seat on the stool, balancing against his crutches.
“Pop quiz,” she said. “If he gets the question wrong, he gets detention.”
“Now,” Mrs. Anderson said, facing him. “Your question is: How many interior layers does Earth have?”
Parker flinched, his face falling, and I knew he didn’t have the answer. I made four fingers and started to lift them just above the edge of the raised table that served as our desk, but Alastor seized the arm and drew it back down.
“Um…five?” Parker guessed. I sighed.
Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “Four. Looks like we’ll be eating lunch together, then, Parker.”
His crutches clicked against the tile floor as he sat down heavily in his seat, burying his head in his hands.
Do not pity him, Alastor said as Mrs. Anderson instructed us to open our textbooks. He received what he deserved, and a soft heart only makes it easier for a knife to slip in.
During humanities, Mr. Gupta pulled me aside and told me that he had spoken to the art teacher—weirdly enough, another Ms. Drummer—and that I was welcome to join her last period to see if I wanted to sit in going forward.
There wasn’t a big enough word to describe my excitement, so I ended up accidentally screaming a Yes! directly into Mr. Gupta’s face. I hadn’t felt like I could take any of the art classes as Redhood Academy, not without people judging me or mocking whatever I was working on. But here I was Ethan—and, awesomely, no one cared.
I’d made it two steps inside the classroom when I was met at the door by another purple-red-haired woman with curly hair exploding from the fabric she’d wrapped it in. All I needed was one look at her familiar face to know why there were two Drummers in this school.
They were twins, like me and Prue.
I blew out a sigh from my nose, trying to push the thought away.
Ahhh, Alastor cooed. More sadness, more loneliness, Maggot, please. Delicious.
“You must be Ethan,” Ms. Drummer said, smoothing her hands down her paint-splattered apron. “It’s nice to meet you. I loved the sketches Mr. Gupta showed me—you have a real talent for playing with light and shadow. Have you taken an art class before?”
I shook my head.
“That’s not a bad thing, but even innate talent needs some guidance to reach its full potential. Hopefully we’ll be able to share some useful skills and ideas that will help you push yourself to grow and develop your vision and style.”
I couldn’t form a word. A high, happy noise escaped my throat like a squealing balloon.
“These are my eighth graders, but that doesn’t really matter,” she said, guiding me out of the doorway so the kids waiting behind me could come in out of the rain. “The only real difference is the techniques I teach, but you clearly have a handle on the ones I’d teach to my seventh graders.”
She walked me around the cavernous space. It looked almost industrial: wide-open, with metal shelves of paint and supplies. At the center of the room were big tables with wood tops, tattooed with carvings and stains and drawings. The class was small, only two dozen kids or so. While they were retrieving their canvases from where they’d been stored in large, flat lockers, Ms. Drummer introduced me.
“There’s an open seat here,” a girl said, raising her hand. She moved her bag as I sat down. “Hi, I’m Lizzy. That’s Cody and Brayton on the other side of the table.”
“Pros—um, Ethan,” I said. “Thanks for letting me sit with you.”
She gave me a strange look. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Because in Redhood, kids I didn’t even know would get up and move to a different table or desk if I tried to sit down next to them.
The huge windows behind Ms. Drummer let in a ton of light, even with the rain sheeting down on the school.
“All right, a few announcements before you dive into your projects,” she said, making her way over to a freestanding bulletin board. “I’ll give you the bad news first: the school is officially out of walls they’re willing to allow us to cover with a mural. We’ll have to think of a different graduation gift.”
The class booed in disappointment.
“So it’s back to the drawing board!” she said with a wink. “Good thing that we’re all creative types and we’re good at reworking ideas. Take the weekend to think about it. Remember, it has to be something we can work on together, and it has to be of use. Now, on to good—and I mean great—news.” Ms. Drummer brandished a sheet of paper. “Our very own Lizzy has won second place in the statewide art contest for junior high for her piece At Home in the Harbor!”
Next to me, Lizzy froze, turning bright red as the class cheered.
“Well done, you,” Ms. Drummer said. “They’re sending me your plaque and the information about the award ceremony.”
“Wow, thank you,” Lizzy managed to get out, looking overwhelmed. She stared down at her oil painting of a nighttime sky until the attention of the room shifted onto their own projects.