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Chapter One IT HAPPENED THE day my brother broke the bottle.
I heard the crash just as I reached the top of the stairs, just as my mom hollered out to me, "Kevin, the carpool's here!"
I forgot I had to grab my backpack and go. That Mrs. Qwan waited outside to drive me and my friends to school. That I was already ten minutes late.
I jerked open my bedroom door. My stomach dropped to my toes when I looked inside my room.
My four-year-old brother, Aaron, stood on tiptoes on my computer desk. My cat, Snowflake, sat on the computer monitor, licking her white paws. And all over the floor, in about a million pieces, were the brilliant blue slivers of a shattered glass bottle.
My most favorite of all the bottles in my collection. The fat bulb of blue glass I'd saved three months' allowance to buy. The one that was more than a hundred years old.
And Aaron had broken it.
I didn't have to ask. I only had to look at Aaron's guilty face as he stood barefoot on my computer desk.
"I'm sorry Kevin," Aaron said. "I didn't mean to."
"Mom!" I yelled.
I heard her footsteps hurrying up the stairs, then she entered my room. "Kevin, Mrs. Qwan is waiting. You don't want to be late for—Oh!"
I turned to her, so mad I could hardly see. "He broke it, Mom."
My brother picked his way through the maze of computer cables. He leaped from desk to bed. "I was just trying to feed Snowflake."
I closed my hands into fists. "You had no right to be in my room!"
"He's right, " Mom agreed.
Fat lot of good that did me now.
Aaron started to clamber down to the floor. Mom snatched him from thebed. "Careful of the glass!"
Tears pooled in the bottom rims of my glasses, making me even madder. I grabbed my glasses, wiped them off on the sleeve of my flannel shirt. I caught a glimpse of my mom's sympathetic look, my brother's sorry one.
I shoved my glasses on. "I have to get to school."
"I'll clean up the mess," my mom said.
I slung my backpack to my shoulder. "Keep him out of my room!"
"I will." She looked down at Aaron, still huddled in her arms. "That's it, Aaron. You're grounded." Then she added, "No computer time, either."
"Mommy!" he whined.
Serves him right. I felt grim satisfaction. Then I plodded down the stairs and out the front door.
* * *
ONE LOOK INSIDE Mrs. Qwan's minivan and I knew my day wasn't going to improve. The best part of riding with Mrs. Qwan was sitting next to her daughter, Naomi, on the way to school. But today, she and Tasha Miller had taken the two back seats, leaving the empty seat beside Michael Ortiz.
I dragged myself into the car, muttering a hello. Naomi sat behind Michael. She wore the light pink sweatshirt I really liked and she smiled at me when I settled into my seat. But then she turned to look out the window as her mother drove through the Sacramento streets toward Carter Avenue Middle School.
I clutched my backpack so hard my arms hurt. What had happened since last year? As sixth-graders, Naomi and I had always had plenty to say to each other. We'd compare answers on our math homework, talk about books we'd read.
Somehow, during the summer, everything changed. Suddenly she went from Naomi, my buddy, to Naomi, a girl. What used to be a dreaded species now fascinated me. It also tied my tongue in a hundred knots. I wanted desperately to talk to Naomi, but I couldn't think of anything to say. And she wouldn't talk to me, either. Not the way she used to.
As Tasha and Michael yakked away, I sneaked glances at Naomi. How could I get her attention when she wouldn't even look my way? I let out a heavy sigh.
Michael punched me in the arm. "What's up?"
I rubbed the sore spot, wishing Michael would pick a different place to punch. "My brother."
Tasha leaned forward, a grin on her dark brown face. "What's the brat done this time?"
"Don't call Aaron a brat," Mrs. Qwan admonished absently.
"Sorry, Mrs. Qwan." Tasha nudged me. "So?"
As I related the sad tale, Naomi turned to listen. When I saw the sympathy in her gaze, the knot in my stomach loosened a little.
"That's too bad," Naomi said. "Weren't you going to use that bottle in your report?"
Aaron's destruction of my favorite possession had wiped that black cloud from my thoughts. Now it came crashing back. The report. Ten pages. Due tomorrow.
I shook my head and clutched my backpack tighter. "Changed my mind."
Behind me, Tasha heaved a big sigh. "I thought I'd never finish it." She turned to Naomi. "Who in California history did you write about?"
"The railroad builders," Naomi said. "How about you?"
"The miners," Tasha said. "Since my dad's a geologist, I figured he could help."
Michael pushed his straight black hair from his eyes. "I did the gunfighters." Index fingers pointed, he shot imaginary six-shooters into the air, complete with sound effects.
"It's only October, the second month of school," Naomi protested. "We shouldn't have to do a report so soon."
Michael folded his arms over his chest, imitated Mrs. Henderson's high-pitched. "You're seventh-graders now. Old enough to write reports."
"Good thing you changed your mind about the bottle," Naomi said to me. She leaned back in her seat. "Now you won't have to change anything in your report."
Of course I wouldn't. Because I hadn't written a word.
* * *
IN SECOND PERIOD history class, Mrs. Henderson reminded everyone when the report was due. Then she took us all to the library so the kids who didn't have computers at home could finish their reports. It was supposed to be free time for the rest of us.
I had a dim hope of finding something to write about before tomorrow. I stared glumly at the row of California history books, praying for inspiration. But all the titles melted into a mishmash.
"Pssst!"
I glanced up and realized my day was about to get worse. Jimmy Gates stood beside me wearing an up-to-no-good grin.
"Googly Eyes!" Jimmy's hiss barely carried over the other kids' soft library voices.
I nudged my too-thick glasses up and glared at him. "What?"
Jimmy grinned, throwing back his big, bulldog shoulders. "Finish your report, Googly Eyes?"
I stared hard at him. "It's none of your business." I tried not to let the desperation show in my face.
But Jimmy saw it anyway. His grin widened triumphantly. "I bet you haven't even started."
My face grew hot. I knew I was red from my chin to the tips of my ears. "It's none of your business," I whispered again.
He chortled. "Gonna get it done by tomorrow, Googly Eyes?"
"Stop calling me that!" I said hotly, then regretted it when Mrs. Henderson swiveled her head in our direction.
She marched over, her short, salt-and-pepper hair flopping around her head. She was the smallest teacher in Carter Avenue Middle School, probably in all of Sacramento. The Tiny Terror, my classmates called her. And you didn't have to be a genius to know better than to cross her.
"Library voices, Kevin," she chided. She turned her sharp brown gaze on Jimmy. "Are you pestering Kevin again?"
The smirk wiped from his face, Jimmy looked at her, all innocence. "Of course not, Mrs. Henderson."
Mrs. Henderson gave him a long, fierce stare. "I should hope not." She turned to me and smiled. "Some new science fiction books just came in."
I rubbed my damp palms against my jeans. "I'll check them out."
She turned to go. My shoulders sagged in relief.
But Jimmy wasn't through tormenting me. "Mrs. Henderson?"
Mrs. Henderson turned back. My gaze skittered around the library, searching for an escape. Naomi and Tasha stood together, Tasha shooting daggers at Jimmy. Michael looked about ready to stomp over and start swinging. I shook my head at Michael. He'd already gotten into trouble this year defending me.
"What is it, Jimmy?" Mrs. Henderson asked.
I turned my attention to Jimmy, hoping he would keep his big mouth shut. But he wouldn't pass up a chance to get me into trouble.
"Kevin hasn't finished his report," he announced gleefully.
Mrs. Henderson patted me on my shoulder. "I'm sure he's nearly done."
I didn't say a word, just felt my throat bob as I swallowed. I imagined thought waves bursting from my head and striking Jimmy to keep him from speaking.
If Jimmy's dim brain received any warning, he ignored it. "He hasn't even started."
"Of course he has." Mrs. Henderson turned to me. "What's your report about?"
My stomach squeezed tight. "I don't know."
Mrs. Henderson's eyes widened, like they did when she was about to yell at the class. "You haven't picked a topic?"
I shook my head miserably. "I couldn't decide."
Mrs. Henderson's mouth tightened. "You've had three weeks."
I squirmed, trying to think of an excuse. "I don't really like reports."
Mrs. Henderson's fierce glare drove straight through me. "So you think you shouldn't have to do them, if you don't like them?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm very disappointed in you, Kevin. You're the brightest boy in my class. You should be setting an example for the other students."
I heard Jimmy's snort of laughter, but I didn't dare look. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Henderson."
Mrs. Henderson ran her fingertip over the row of books on a nearby bookshelf. She grabbed one. "Here."
She plopped the book into my hands, and I juggled it, nearly dropping it. Gold Rush: The Town Dwellers, the title read, the gilt letters glittering and shining in the dull-brown cover.
"That's your topic," Mrs. Henderson snapped. "Ten pages, by tomorrow."
I felt my stomach sink to somewhere around my ankles. "Yes, Mrs. Henderson." I peeked at her as she stalked away. Then I caught sight of Jimmy's big fat grin.
I scowled at him. "Thanks a lot."
"You're welcome." Jimmy slapped my book to the floor.
"Hey!" I protested. I bent to pick up the book. Before I could pull my fingers to safety, Jimmy "accidentally" stepped on them..
"Have fun writing your report," Jimmy whispered as he headed for the door. Then he called out, loud enough for the room to hear, "Googly Eyes!"
Tears stung my eyes. Because my fingers hurt. But as I shoved my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I wished I could fling them across the room. I hated how heavy they were, how thick. How they made my blue eyes bug out from my face.
I could deal with being so skinny you could see right through me. I could accept my ugly straw-colored hair that always looked scruffy no matter how much I combed it. But I hated my glasses. I hated my weak eyes.
And it seemed like lately, the stupidest things made me want to cry. When everybody knew boys weren't supposed to cry.
I felt someone nudge my elbow. Naomi stood beside me. "Is your hand okay?"
I stripped off my glasses and rubbed at my eyes. I pretended they just itched or something. "Sure."
Naomi laid a hand on my arm. "Maybe you should tell Mrs. Henderson."
I put on my glasses. "I'm fine."
I walked with Naomi to where Michael and Tasha waited. Michael still looked ready to slug somebody. "I'd like to flatten him," he said.
"You'd just get into trouble," I said. "Jimmy's not worth it." I groaned. "How am I going to finish this report in one day?"
Naomi gave my arm a squeeze. "We'll help you, Kevin. All of us." She turned to Michael and Tasha. "Deal?"
"Deal." Tasha thrust her right hand out in front of her.
Beside her, Naomi hooked her thumb around Tasha's pinkie. Michael's little finger linked with Tasha's thumb. The three of them looked at me, expectant.
I hesitated. I'd made up that handshake when we were all second-graders. It seemed a little silly now. But these were my friends and, as goofy as it seemed, the old handshake made me feel a little better.
Reaching out, I connected Michael's and Naomi's hands with my own. We bobbed our joined hands three times, sealing our agreement.
As we left the library, Tasha and Michael chattered on. Naomi walked by me, smiling shyly every time I looked at her. Knowing I would spend the afternoon with Naomi should have made me happy.
But the book Mrs. Henderson had given me weighed as heavy in my hands as a one-ton boulder. I tried to fight the familiar panic that crept up from my stomach to my throat. But my brain started shutting down like it always did when I had to write something.
I couldn't do it. I'd sit down at my desk with the blank, empty computer screen stretching out endlessly before me—and I'd choke. All the ideas I wanted to put down on the page would stay stuck in my head, whirling around and around until my mind mooshed into a useless lump.
And Kevin Larson, the brain of Mrs. Henderson's history class, would get a big fat F on his report.
Copyright © 2004 Karen Sandler
