“Oh, girls!” said Mrs. Matlaw, coming toward Emily, Allie, and Maggie with a metal wastebasket extended. Mrs. Matlaw taught Language Arts, but there were times she seemed more like a mother than a teacher. “Could you help me? These tennis balls! Someone is going to fall, I just know it!” Maggie reached down to scoop up one of the fuzzy balls as it rolled by. Even though the girls had been fifth graders at Oda M last year, they knew all the sixth-grade teachers. It was a small town, and they were just as likely to bump into Mrs. Matlaw at Weis Market as the halls of Oda M. Maggie had known Mrs. Matlaw since kindergarten, and she was happy that she was going to have her for homeroom this year.
As Maggie deposited a tennis ball in the metal wastebasket, she caught sight of Kayla Gold, who was wearing an outfit that Maggie knew had been purchased in the fashionable stores in Wilkes-Barre, or maybe even as far away as Philadelphia. Kayla was smiling. That smile. Those teeth. Her perfect hair. Even from down the hall, Maggie couldn’t help but notice that Kayla Gold glowed. And it was the puzzle of Maggie’s life that she and Kayla had once been best friends.
FOUR
“LOOK!” SHOUTED ALLIE, POINTING DOWN THE hall to where the bronze Wildcat statue was mounted on its impressive stone pedestal. Something was hanging above the Wildcat’s head that had not been there before.
“How did that happen?” asked Maggie. She was always more interested in the how of something than the what.
The sixth graders converged around the statue and looked up. Stretched across the opening of the rotunda was a square white sheet, pulled tight by invisible strings that attached it to the old stone walls of the building. Dangling below the sheet was a toy mouse in a small harness. The harness was attached by thin strings to the four corners of the white sheet.
“What does it say?” asked Brianna. The mouse was holding a sign, but the letters were small and the mouse hung high above their heads.
Colt DuPrey, who spent so much of his time reading quietly to himself, deciphered the message first. “Pull my tail!”
Everyone laughed, but Max didn’t wait to hear the order a second time. Unable to resist the call to misbehave, he scrambled onto the back of the Wildcat statue.
“Max!” shouted Mrs. Matlaw. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself. Get down immediately!” Then she turned to Mr. Peebles, the elderly social studies teacher, and asked with more fury in her voice than Maggie had ever heard from her, “Where is our new principal! How is it possible to be late on the first day of school?”
Sadly for Max, he couldn’t reach the dangling tip of the mouse’s tail no matter how hard he tried. He withdrew in defeat. Classmates started to chant, “Lyle, Lyle, Lyle,” because Lyle was by far the tallest boy in the class. Lyle, who had been leaning against a wall, contentedly sipping a can of Moxie—no doubt his breakfast—with his eyes half-closed, shrugged and stepped forward.
“Lyle!” called Mrs. Matlaw with concern.
“I’ll be fine, Mrs. M,” said Lyle casually. “Don’t sweat it.” Then he burped really loudly, climbed onto the back of the Wildcat statue, and yanked the mouse’s tail.
The sheet snapped free from the walls of the rotunda, releasing dozens of helium-filled balloons. The students oohed and aahed at the sight. Even Mrs. Matlaw whispered, “How beautiful!” As the balloons took flight, the sheet became the mouse’s parachute, and the mouse, still in its custom-made harness, floated down, landing on the back of the Wildcat statue.
Each balloon had a colorful ribbon attached to it with a small cellophane package tied to its end. As the weight of the packages pulled the balloons down toward the ground, the students’ state of quiet awe turned to frenzy as they jumped to capture them, each eager to figure out what was tied to the end of the balloons. The hallway once again erupted in noise and chaos. Lyle was the first to unwrap the cellophane. “Cheese!” he announced with satisfaction, and popped the piece of cheddar into his mouth.
“Look what it says on the balloons,” said Emily, catching one and showing it to Maggie and Allie. The balloon had the word ROAR! written on it in black ink.
There was bedlam in the hallway as helium balloons flew around the corridor, batted back and forth by the students. Some of the girls attached them to their bracelets (after handing the cheese to Lyle, who ate it all), and Tyler helped Max tie as many as possible to his shorts with the hope that he might achieve liftoff. The din in the hallway rose to Guinness World Records level.
Suddenly, there was the sound of wood smashing into metal. Maggie spun around. A man she’d never seen before was standing next to a dented-in locker with a baseball bat in his hand. He was stocky and strong, square-jawed with a buzz cut that made his head look like a block of wood. “Homerooms! NOW!” he shouted.
The students scattered. Even the teachers scurried out of the hall.
“New principal!” squeaked Emily as the three girls hurried to follow Mrs. Matlaw.
But when they approached the door, Mrs. Matlaw rested a hand on Maggie’s shoulder and said sympathetically, “You’ve been reassigned, hon. Along with a few others from the other classes. You’re going to be in homeroom . . . B-1.”
“Oh!” said Emily softly, looking like she might begin to cry. She reached out to give Maggie’s hand a squeeze, as if this might be the last time they ever saw each other alive. Allie gave Maggie a quick hug and the kind of smile that tried, but failed, to be encouraging; then both girls ducked into Mrs. Matlaw’s room. Maggie was left speechless, standing in the hall, her friends gone.
Didn’t see that coming, whispered her father in her ear. It was one of his favorite expressions, scrawled throughout his notebooks whenever something unexpected happened, throwing off his calculations.
“You know the way,” Mrs. Matlaw said to the confused group of students she had gathered. She looked genuinely concerned. “Be brave!” she called after them as they straggled away.
B-1, thought Maggie. Oh no.
FIVE
ABOUT A DOZEN STUDENTS MARCHED—as if to their deaths—down the dim, echoey stairs to the basement of Odawahaka Middle School, where the empty and abandoned science rooms remained—their doors closed, their lab tables covered in dust, visited only by the mice that occasionally ventured out of the walls. Physics. Gone. Biology. Gone. Engineering. Gone. Only one science teacher remained at the doomed school: Mrs. Dornbusch. But everyone knew that the oldest and most feared teacher in the history of Odawahaka didn’t supervise homeroom. She had been freed from that burden years ago. So why were they being sent to her room?
Whatever the reason, the Dungeon Dragon was waiting for them, standing at the door to her secluded lair, one clawlike hand gripping the doorknob. At five feet eleven inches tall, she was a towering column of gray: straight, salt-and-pepper hair spilling over her forehead and spouting out around her ears; loose gray sweatpants that collected in a puddle around her ankles; and a gray Susquehanna University sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to her knobby elbows. Layered underneath the sweatshirt was a sky-blue turtleneck that highlighted the startling, watery blueness of her large, bulging eyes. Two small, gold hoop earrings curled around her massive earlobes. The earrings looked like mountain climbers desperately clinging to a dangerous ledge.
One by one, the students in her homeroom passed in front of her—Chris Shuman, Brianna Willits, Riley Hughes, Colt DuPrey, Jenna Mack, Becky Burroughs, Stevie Jencks, Grace McHenry, Shana Delaney, Lyle Whittaker, Max Pruitt, and Tyler Grady—and to each one, the Gray Gargoyle hissed, “You’re late!”
Maggie was the last to approach the door. When she did, Mrs. Dornbusch stuck out a bony arm, barring her way. “You’re that girl,” she said, narrowing her eyes in disapproval.
Maggie tensed slightly. She had a reputation, just as her mother had had when she was growing up in Odawahaka. The Smart Girl. Last year’s teachers always informed next year’s teachers: Expect great work from Maggie Gallagher. Maggie didn’t like the spotlight. She would have preferred to stay hidden. You could get more don
e that way.
“Starts with an M,” continued Mrs. Dornbusch, holding up her hand to silence Maggie. “Not Mary. Not Molly. Not Martha.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Inside.”
“That’s where I was going,” said Maggie.
“Your mother . . . ,” said the Dungeon Dragon, unexpectedly barring the door again. Maggie froze. She stared at the formidable woman, a colossal fountain of gray with eyes that pierced like two needle-sharp icicles. “I remember your mother. She was a suck-up.”
Maggie stiffened but didn’t look away. She stared back into those pools of ice-cold blue.
That’s my girl, whispered her father.
“But she left,” said the teacher, drumming against the door frame. “She got a full scholarship to a big-name school. Are you telling me she came back?”
“Yes,” said Maggie.
“What a waste,” murmured Mrs. Dornbusch. She pointed to the classroom. “Go!”
Maggie went inside and chose a seat near the back. With so few students in the classroom, it was going to be hard to hide.
The B-1 Bomber approached the ancient blackboard, chose a large piece of chalk from its silver tray, and wrote in giant letters: I.D.C.
“Listen up!” she said, settling onto the edge of her desk, her long legs stretched in front of her, her arms folded across her chest. “I have been teaching at Odawahaka Middle School for thirty-eight years. I’ve taught your brothers, your sisters, your parents, and, in one or two cases, your grandparents. And in recognition for my years of service, our former principal, Mr. Watts, relieved me of the duty of supervising homeroom.” She glared at every last student in the room, one at a time.
“Well! After two thousand, four hundred and forty-six students, I am finally retiring. And make no mistake, I am counting the days.” She pointed without looking to a corner of the blackboard that bore the number 180 outlined severely in chalk. “But our new principal, Mr. Shute, has decided in his infinite wisdom that I should once again supervise homeroom.”
Someone coughed. Maggie wasn’t sure, but she thought it was Riley Hughes, who had a lot of allergies and pretty bad asthma that flared up in stressful situations. Mold, chalk dust, and conflict were a potent combo for Riley’s highly reactive airways.
“And so my motto for this, my final year,” said Mrs. Dornbusch, “can be summed up in three words.” She returned to the blackboard and retraced each letter as she announced, “I. Don’t. Care.
“You have a problem at home? I don’t care. Your dog died? I don’t care. You’re hemorrhaging from an open wound? I don’t care.
“Let me be clear: I am not here to babysit, coddle, foster self-esteem, collect permission slips, deal with your dysfunctional families, build community, or lead everyone in a sing-along. I am a science teacher. So don’t—let me repeat—don’t come to me with your joys or sorrows. Why? Because: I. Don’t. Care.” For emphasis, she pounded the blackboard with each word she uttered, until the chalk splintered and sent shards flying into the front row of students. Lyle picked up a piece, popped it into his mouth, and started to chew on it thoughtfully.
Just then Kayla Gold sailed in.
Perfect timing, Maggie thought. As usual.
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Kayla said, smiling broadly at Mrs. Dornbusch.
We? Had Kayla finally gone to the limit and adopted the royal “we” in describing herself? She was the class president, at least until the next election was held. But even for someone as aspirational and supremely confident as Kayla, it seemed a bit much to call herself “we.”
But then a girl followed Kayla into the room—the same girl Maggie had met on her way to school. Pixie cut. Rainbow stud earrings. Warm smile.
The new girl.
Maggie could see that Kayla was pleased with her trophy. “Principal Shute asked me to be the ambassador for our new student,” she continued, all eyes on her. “Here are our tardy slips.” She smiled again and handed Mrs. Dornbusch two official blue passes, which were hoarded by the school secretary, Mrs. McDermott, as if they were ingots of gold.
Mrs. Dornbusch threw the passes in the trash can. She glared at Kayla, perhaps with the intention of shrinking her down to size with her vinegary stare, like pouring salt on a slug. But Kayla, as Maggie had once realized, was like a self-contained vector force field: , where is the overpowering force exerted on anyone who comes in contact with Kayla . In other words: once you came into her range, it was hard not to get sucked into the vortex.
“Everyone,” Kayla said, addressing the class, “this is Lena Polachev. She just moved to town. Let’s give her a Wildcat Welcome!”
As if on cue, the entire class began the chant, “Huh, huh, huh, huh, ME-OW,” slashing the air with their “Wildcat” claws on the final syllable. Everyone joined in.
Except for Maggie.
It wasn’t that she was against the chant itself, or even the football team it supported. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to make the new girl feel welcome. She just hated anything that required her to follow the herd. Group costumes, group singing, group work, and most of all, group cheering.
And the Odawahaka Wildcats cheer was the groupiest of all group activities. At every football game, the whole school recited the cheer en masse. Maggie had her own football cheers, her favorite being: “Momentum equals mass times velocity! Go, Wildcats!” Not surprisingly, she couldn’t get even Emily and Allie to join her on that one.
When the whole class “meowed,” Lena laughed and then sat down in the empty chair right in front of Maggie. She turned and looked at her, as if to say, Hey, I remember you.
“Are you finished?” Mrs. Dornbusch asked drily, looking at Kayla, who was still standing at the front of the class. “Or would you like to lead us in another form of synchronized lunacy?”
“No, ma’am,” said Kayla, casting her eye about for an empty seat near Lena. “Jenna,” she said calmly. “Would you mind sitting in a different seat so I can sit next to Lena? I’m her school ambassador.”
Without a blink, Jenna gathered up her things and moved. Force field in action, thought Maggie. Kayla smiled and said, “Just doing my duty!” She settled into the chair as though it had been saved for her and smoothed her long, honey-colored hair so that it fell in perfect waterfalls around her blemish-free face. Maggie had to admit, the girl had swag.
The B-1 Bomber didn’t agree. “Suck-up,” she muttered, turning back to the blackboard and replacing the shattered piece of chalk in the metal tray.
“Mrs. Dornbusch,” Lyle asked, raising his hand. “When you say you don’t care, do you mean we don’t have to show up to homeroom at all?”
Mrs. Dornbusch stared out the window, across the creek to the beautiful hills that rimmed the southern edge of town, and murmured, “If only.” Then she snapped her head around and caught them in her frozen glare. “But, no. You have to show up, and so do I. But while you are here, you will get nothing from me, and I will ask nothing of you. Talk on your phones, copy your classmate’s homework, play endless rounds of paper football, make each other cry—I. Don’t. Care.”
Lyle raised his hand again. “Can we use the Bunsen burners to set fire to things?” he asked. “Not big things. Just little things? Carefully?”
The Dungeon Dragon looked at him through narrowed eyes, and her nostrils flared visibly. Who needs a Bunsen burner? Maggie thought, imagining fire streaming out of Mrs. Dornbusch’s nose, leaving nothing behind but a sad pile of Lyle ashes.
Before the B-1 Bomber could answer, the new principal strode into the room through the open door, still carrying his baseball bat.
“Good morning, students,” he said. “Mrs. Dornbusch.” He nodded once in her direction, making it clear that there was no love lost between them. “I am Principal Shute.” Mrs. Dornbusch glared at him. To Maggie it looked like she was sizing him up: already imagining him stuffed and mounted, determining if he might make a worthy trophy in her game room.
Principal Shute stood with his
two feet planted hip-width apart, both hands resting on the top of the baseball bat. Mrs. Dornbusch, meanwhile, continued to slouch, leaning on the edge of her desk. She was taller than Mr. Shute by several inches. Even reclining, she gave the impression of looking down on him. But Mr. Shute had the mass, thought Maggie, her eyes shifting back and forth between the two. Height may be an advantage in an old-fashioned battle, but increased mass would always win the day when acceleration came into play. Force equals mass times acceleration. Maggie pulled out a piece of paper to do the calculations.
“As you may have heard by now,” continued the principal, “I was in the Marine Corps. In the corps, our motto is Semper fidelis. Mr. Esposito will tell you that’s Latin for ‘Always loyal.’ And I expect loyalty in return.” He paused long enough for that statement to sink in.
“Now,” he continued, his voice growing decidedly less welcoming. “We had an incident this morning, and property was damaged. I want to be clear: I will not have it. It is my mission to make sure this school operates in an orderly fashion. I take that mission very seriously, and so will you. Odawahaka Middle School is our corps, and I am your captain.” He looked piercingly at the class.
Maggie could feel it. Groupiness. She was being corralled, herded, led by the nose. They all were. And she didn’t like it. She raised her hand, and Mr. Shute nodded curtly in her direction, giving her permission to speak.
“What property damage was there?” she asked. “I mean, besides the locker you demolished?”
Principal Shute didn’t move. “What is your name, young lady?”
“Maggie Gallagher.”
An unpleasant smile spread across Mr. Shute’s face. “I’ve heard about you.”
Turning his attention back to the rest of the class, he announced severely, “Following this morning’s incident, I’ve decided to institute a new school-wide policy: All students will eat lunch at assigned tables in the cafeteria. No changing seats. No leaving your table during lunchtime. No exceptions.”