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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Breaking Bodies"  "Good morning, Willa," you chirp at the girl sitting and reading her cell phone (as she does every morning) outside your classroom door. Her head shoots up, and she scrambles to her feet. "My goodness, what time does your bus get here?" you ask as you unlock your classroom door. "You always get here before me!" "I don't ride the bus," she says. "My mom drops me off every morning on her way to work." "She must have very early hours." "Her job's in McGuffey. So she has to leave early. And school is on her way out of town." Willa shrugs beneath the weight of her backpack. Interesting, you think, and make a note. Willa McBride is one of the top candidates on your list of girls. She's a gymnast with a bird-like figure ... but if you were being honest, you'd also have to admit that her beaky nose also gives her a bird-like face. Still, with the freshmen you have to think long-term, and long-term Willa stands a good chance of turning into a cheerleader. You watch her out of the corner of your eye as you start sorting out the material for today's class, but you're soon distracted by the entrance of other students you've been watching. Foremost of these has to be Addison Ricci, who really should be in the Advanced Placement class. Or maybe it's only on account of her style that you peg her as an AP student. She is tall and slender, with long, honey-colored hair, and you don't need Hannah's eye to tell you that her sweaters and skirts and shoes set her parents back a fair amount of money. She would make a comfortable home for Sydney. Neither she nor the other girls seem to notice as you watch her coyly flirting with Andrew Hudson, who is far and away the "cutest" boy in class. He has doe-like eyes and a shy smile, and he blushes easily under the girls' compliments. * * * * * "Austin. Steven. I'm not telling you guys again," you snap at the two worst troublemakers in second period. Steven giggles as he knocks away the paper football he and his friend had been flicking between them, but Austin gives you a tired glower as he turns back around in his desk. You had some grading you needed to catch up on before next period, so you were having the class read quietly to itself. Naturally, Austin Ritter and Steven Groom, who are on the freshman football team, had found an activity more to their liking. A row over, Grady Wisner, another freshman player, flashes you a brief glance of sympathy before lowering his head to resume his reading. Why can't they be more like Grady? you wonder, who is polite and studious and never makes trouble, even though he shows up every other day wearing his football jersey to class. You're particularly peeved at Austin, who when he applies himself is actually a better student than Grady. You wouldn't expect any better from Steven, who with his squint, his smirk, and his pug nose, reminds you of a mischievous piglet, and has the spelling ability of one as well. (I mean, really. It's almost like he's trolling you when he spells malice with three s's at the end instead of a c and an e.) But it's Austin who seems to be the one always starting things, and he never protests his innocence when you call him on it. He just gives you that look—the look that says, I can't believe I have to put up with your bullshit. "Maya, why are you daydreaming?" you ask the girl who's leaning back and staring at the ceiling. She gives you a dirty look before returning to her reading. "Shelly," you warn the giggling girl next to her. She turns pale and quickly lowers her face. * * * * * Third period is the "fun" period, as far as you're concerned. The students are pretty good and they never give you any trouble. (Although you do get a little attitude sometimes from Chase Weir, who is tall and awkward on his feet and likes to hunch up inside his gray hoodie with the brim of his ball cap pulled down low.) But they're the class you can play games with without worrying that the fun will get out of control or cease to be educational. Today, for instance, you're set the class to playing a version of Password using their vocabulary list. At the front of the room, Tristan Moore is currently trying to get Hailey Branson to guess "accomplish." His first try (do) only elicited a terrified grin from Hailey, and the guess "Dominate?" Her reply to his second stab (fulfill) went even farther astray: "Mail?" which of course isn't even a word on their list. Hailey blushed a deep red and tried hiding behind her long blonde hair as the class busted out laughing. After you rule Tristan's third try—get done—out of bounds, he shuffles back to his seat, to be replaced by Emily Yates. Maybe Hailey was just tongue-tied by Tristan, who is tall, skinny, and handsome, because the cool and confident Emily only has to say one word—achieve—for Hailey to snap her fingers and exclaim, "Oh! Accomplish! Dur!" * * * * * But sixth period is probably the best of the classes you teach. The kids are a little too intense for it to be a "fun" period, but they are diligent, and frequently Hannah will divide them into study groups so that she can get a head start on her afternoon grading. It's also a class with two Korean-American girls in it. That (you would think) would be a commonality between Hannah and Helen Kim and Mee-Kyong Lee that they could bond with over, but in fact it makes things a little awkward. It doesn't help that both girls—who play in the orchestra—are very intense. Hannah can't help feeling that she has been judged and found wanting by two girls who plainly expect to get a better job than "English teacher" when they graduate. But the other students are more relaxed, and you feel yourself relaxing as you watch them. Kelly Morris and Caden Bradshaw have their heads bent close together as they study the poem you set the class to dissecting, while Jackson Rhyne frowningly compares the pages of his book with something he has found on his cell phone (an online dictionary, you hope). You're glad you paired Caden with Kelly. Aside from the fact that they seem to like each other, it gets Caden away from— "Elijah. Brett. Settle down," you warn the two boys. They're popular, good-looking boys, and are usually studious, but they tend to get loud when put together. "The poem isn't that funny." "It's hilarious!" Elijah protests. Brett almost loses it. "Brady," you admonish another student who is trying to edge his desk toward Elijah's. "Those aren't your study partners." He grins with embarrassment, and scoots back to rejoin Helen and Mee-Kyong. The two girls give you a dark look for saddling them with the dumbest cluck in the class. * * * * * Seventh period is the one period you get a break from teaching freshman English ... but it's an even worse and more challenging class: Grammar for Writing. Hannah Cho grew up bilingual, and with Korean to compare it to, she is very sensitive to just how illogical and challenging English grammar can be. But if she could master it, why can't kids who mastered it at an early age also get it? It makes your head hurt to read the paragraphs that the students in this class struggle to compose. Just write like you talk, you tell them. That wouldn't be "good writing," but it would be leagues ahead of the stuff you have been reading from behind Ms. Cho's eyes. Like, He so wanted the ice cream he mouth were watering. Really? That's a sentence by Julian Martinez. There aren't many freshmen in the class—it's a net to catch juniors and seniors who have fallen off the regular track—and none of them are attractive. Julian sure isn't. He lurks in the back of the class, hunkered up inside his desk, peeping out with a surly expression from behind the dank coils of dark hair that trail over his brow and down his neck to his shoulders. He's got muscles, which he shows off in tank tops. He looks like a thug, and he's got the disposition of a wounded rattlesnake. So why does your eye keep reverting to him every time you glance around the room, looking for a likely recruit for the Brotherhood of Baphomet? * * * * * By last period you are exhausted and only want to go home. A lot of it is the strain of trying to gauge and weigh which of the two hundred or so students who have passed through your classroom would make a good recruit to the Brotherhood. In the morning you were carefully weighing the pros and cons of each one as you ticked your eyes down the rows. Now, though, you just glance over the throng with a mental Meh. You don't even bother to jot down any names as the final bell rings, and the students rush forward to turn in their quick-writing compositions. "Can I get you to read my paper now?" You're startled out of a brief stupor by the question. It's Caitlyn Smart who asked it. She's a red-head with pink skin and a puckish smile, and she wobbles on her feet as she grins at you. You blink at her, then take the proffered essay for a quick read. "It looks fine," you mutter at her after scanning it. "An A?" "Why does it have to be an A?" you ask. When her face falls, you stammer, "Sure, it's good enough for an A." She dimples at the boy standing next to her: Aedan Finnegan, another redhead. "Toldja," she says, and prances out. He follows closely behind. Sydney wants us to be boyfriend and girlfriend, you think. I wonder of those two ... Next: "Five Little Maids from School" |
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