Mr. Coolidge’s messy handwriting was almost impossible to read, especially from the back of the room. Jacob sighed in exasperation as he tried to take notes. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to figure out that Mr. Coolidge—a tall, big-nosed man who dressed and looked like a member of the Italian Mafia—was lecturing about the order of operations. Jacob slumped in his seat and tuned everything out. He’d learned this over two years ago.
He couldn’t believe they’d started right off with math assignments. Coolidge hadn’t even introduced the class to his expectations for the year. Jacob stared out the window and contemplated taking a nap. Then he remembered he’d brought the journal with him. He could get in some reading. He lowered his hand to his bag, careful not to catch Mr. Coolidge’s attention.
As slowly as Jacob could, he pulled out the worn leather journal. He propped it up inside his tilted math book, facing it toward him where the teacher couldn’t see.
Finding his spot wasn’t difficult. This book only displayed the next words when the reader had internalized the last. Jacob slouched down, making sure the chalkboard was visible just over the top of the book. Then he scanned over what he’d previously read. Prince Dmitri had just rescued Princess Arien and their baby. Dmitri’s best friend, Kelson, had been killed in the process, along with many, many others in the war caused by the Lorkon.
Only one day has passed since we rescued Princess Arien and the babe. How could I have been so ignorant as to think our problems with the Lorkon would end once we completed that task? They attack on every side. I’ve only been king for a few days, and already more than half of the kingdom has been destroyed. Many are now in hiding. The Lorkon are relentless and will stop at nothing to get what they want. But what do they want? More power? Magic? Gold? Land? I cannot understand their intentions.
It has been decided that we must get Kelson’s wife and take her, and the other refugees, to safety. Hopefully we’ll find that safety in Maivoryl City, where we can shut ourselves in to withstand the onslaughts of the Lorkon.
“Mr. Clark, I asked you a question.”
Jacob jerked up in his seat, slamming the math book shut around the journal. “Yes, sir?” He tried to remember what the teacher had just been lecturing about and grimaced when nothing came to mind.
“Your answer? What is it?” Mr. Coolidge paused, then stormed down the row and held out his hand. “Give me your textbook. Anyone that absorbed in school literature isn’t reading school literature.”
Dang.
Jacob wracked his brain, trying to think of a way to keep the journal from falling into the hands of an algebra teacher. “I’ll—I’ll put it away now.”
“No. You will give it to me.”
Every eye in the room was on Jacob, and he felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t know most of these students. He slumped in his seat and handed the textbook to Mr. Coolidge.
“Thank you.” The teacher’s dark eyes flashed with impatience, and he pulled open the math book. The small leather journal slid into his hand. “A journal?” He looked incredulously at Jacob.
“It’s not mine. And it’s a very special—”
“Doesn’t matter what it is.” Mr. Coolidge walked back to his desk. “You won’t be getting it back until Monday.”
“But that’s not for four days! I can’t wait that long!”
Mr. Coolidge looked up, glaring at Jacob. “You’ll quickly learn, Mr. Clark, that I don’t mess around. There are punishments for bringing outside material to class.”
“But this isn’t constitutional!”
Coolidge laughed, a short, abrupt laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“Cruel and unusual punishment, sir! It’s unconstitutional! And keeping that journal for four whole days is cruel and—”
“Shut up, Clark!” the boy sitting next to Jacob hissed. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Jacob glared at the kid, then crossed his arms in front of him, scowling at the board. Mr. Coolidge watched him for a moment, probably waiting to see if Jacob would say anything more, then resumed the lesson, asking someone else to answer the question.
Jacob sighed in frustration. How on earth was he supposed to read the journal if it was stuck in a teacher’s room for the entire weekend?
The boy sitting next to him leaned over, and Jacob got a better look at him. He was older—maybe a junior—and had red hair and bad acne. “Coolidge’s really not that bad. Just strict. You’ll actually like this class. I’ve taken it twice. This is my third time.”
Jacob was still angry with the boy for interrupting his discussion with Coolidge, but he took a deep breath and pushed the negative emotion aside. “It’s that fun?”
“Uh . . . Well, I’ve failed it twice,” he whispered. “Mr. Coolidge is a great teacher, but really strict. Don’t try messing around in here again—he doesn’t like it and he’ll openly punish you. But he’s always scarier at the beginning of the semester than later. He does it to establish his authority as reigning king of all math classes.”
The boy turned back to the lesson, so Jacob did too. Mr. Coolidge was still talking about the order of operations and Jacob folded his arms, deciding to pay attention. It was difficult, though. A blonde girl on the front row answered every question the teacher asked, regardless of how hard it was. This prevented any form of variety to enter the lecture.
Jacob contented himself with practicing his magical ability. He hadn’t known he’d possessed it until almost two weeks ago while he was in Eklaron—the world where the Makalos lived. Now he searched out warm spots on his desk, representing weakness. Almost the entire top of it heated up fairly quickly, which didn’t surprise him. The school probably couldn’t afford high-quality desks. He started making the top of it stronger, which kept his attention so he didn’t fall asleep.
He paused when he made a discovery, and leaned forward in excitement. With strong concentration, he could heat up the ink and graphite etched into the desk’s surface, separate from each other and the wood. He was then able to remove the ink and graphite completely, leaving behind a clean desktop. His hands and mind hurt from the effort, but it was fun!
He was in the process of pulling the last of the ink and graphite off the wood—the boy next to him watching in fascination—when Mr. Coolidge stopped his lesson abruptly.
“Mr. Clark, what is it this time? Surely you didn’t find another book to read?”
“No, sir. I’m—I’m trying to . . . ” What was he supposed to say? That he was trying to clean off his desk and make it indestructible?
Mr. Coolidge peered at Jacob with narrowed eyes, then looked at Jacob’s hand, a wad of ink still in it. He stormed down the row again. “Jacob Clark!” he spat. “What have you done to your desk?”
“I . . . nothing, sir! I’m fixing it.”
“Fixing it? Fixing it? Stand up this instant. You will not be sitting in the back anymore. Miss Sampson, gather your things and trade places with him. You, Mr. Clark, will be sitting in the front of the class from now on.”
Jacob felt his cheeks redden again. The front of the class? He’d rather die!
One look at the teacher, though, and he knew any argument would be shot down, and fast. He slumped in his new seat, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. So much for enjoying Mr. Coolidge’s class.