The Sphere Chronicles: A Holding Kate Series Book (2 page)

MY FIRST DAY
at Cherry Street Middle School was just like all the other first days at the other twelve schools I’ve had the privilege of enduring.

You might wonder how does a sixth grader manage to have
twelve
different schools under his dunce cap? I’d probably answer none of your beeswax.

But since that would make a really short story and be a total waste of ink, I’ll tell ya.

It boils down to two words I’ve come to despise: foster care.

Yeah, I’m a stupid ward of the stupid State of Texas. So what!

Honestly, I can’t blame it all on the Lone Star State. Trouble just seems to find me. I don’t go looking for it. It just sniffs me down and before I know it—BAM! Detention, right between the eyes. Too many of those and “hit the road Jack,” expelled. Well, on this fine November morning, trouble’s nose just happened to be on the face of the kid two rows over and three seats up in homeroom. He singled me out from the moment Ms. Plummer stammered, “C-class. This is Donald Dungeon…”

“Dudgeon!” I corrected in a crisp tone.

“Oh, sorry dear.” She adjusted her dirty glasses and peered down her nose at the yellow slip I’d just handed her. “Donnie Dudgeon,” she continued, “is transferring from…” Again she checked her cue card, squinting and moving her arm back and forth as though playing a trombone. “Oh, dear.” She flicked her bespectacled eyes at me.

I wrinkled my face in a scowl. I knew she’d just read that my prior school was the Juvenile Justice Charter School of Harris County. I willed her not to say it out loud.

It worked.

“Anyway,” she continued, “take the empty desk behind Miss Marcus.” She shooed me away with the yellow paper, apparently glad to see the back of me.

I heard a snort and glanced to the right. There he was, “trouble,” sneering in my direction. I knew I’d better watch out for that freckle-faced, perfectly pressed, designer-labeled dolt. I could see his puny brain straining with all the plans he had for me.

After twelve schools, I’ve developed a kind of sixth sense for bullies. I could pick them out of any group. They all had that same cocky, overly confident smirk plastered across their pasty faces. With a quick scan, I picked out his three cronies scattered throughout the classroom. I lumbered along the aisle toward the only empty desk and made eye contact with “Miss Marcus.”

She shifted nervously in her seat and cut her eyes swiftly down to her hands, then flicked them back at me a few times before I passed her. I squeezed my long legs between the seats and slumped into the chair, trying to become invisible to Ms. Plummer as she stuttered her way through morning announcements.

Before class ended, Miss Marcus flipped her bouncy blonde ringlets, turned around in her desk, and studied me in silence.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I murmured, immediately regretting my temper.

“
Whatever
.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t turn around. She just kept staring at me with eyes the color of a spring sky. So bright, they almost seemed backlit. I felt like I was being X-rayed or something. She didn’t rake her eyes over my hand-me-down clothes like most girls. Didn’t wrinkle her nose at my government-inflicted military-style coif. Instead, she looked at me, right into my face. I didn’t have any experience with that.

I’d learned how to deal with snooty, little, spoiled brats who preened their egos by casting critical eyes on the faults and afflictions of others. But I detected no critique from Miss Marcus, so I looked back at her, determined to outlast her radiological examination.

“My name is Mel,” she finally said. “What’s your next class?”

“Uh, I dunno.” I shrugged.

“Well, pull out your schedule.” She pointed to the paper sticking out of the welcome packet I’d been given.

I opened the folder and she lifted the schedule, examining it while gnawing on the inside of her cheek. “History, English…hey, we both have ‘B’ lunch, then social studies this afternoon.”

“What are you talking about?” I took the schedule from her. I knew I had P.E. and math in there somewhere.

“Those are the classes we have together.”

The bell rang.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to history.”

I glanced around as the students began filing out of the room, lugging books and binders, casting furtive looks in my direction.

“I can show you the empty desk so you don’t have to go through the whole introduction thing again.”

“Yeah, okay.” I pushed myself up, unfolded my legs, and followed her out of the class and through the locker-lined halls.

“Hey, Mel,” a mousy-looking nerd boy scuttled alongside us.

“Hi Jeremy, this is Donnie
Dudgeon
.” She emphasized the last name and grinned up at me.

I shrugged and grunted.

Jeremy coughed a nervous little laugh in greeting and pushed large, square-framed glasses back onto his nose. Fingerprints dotted the lenses from previous nervous taps to keep the dark-rimmed hipster specks in place.

“We have to finish that science project this weekend,” he squeaked.

“No worries, Jeremy. We have all of our data. We can write up the paper tonight.” She wrapped her arm around his tiny shoulders and squeezed.

He seemed to deflate at her touch. All of the nervous, mouse-like energy just leaked out of him. I glanced back at our footsteps to see if he left a trail.

Nope.

“You headed to history, Mel?” he asked as we squeezed through a crowded stairwell.

“Yep, you know it,” she chirped.

“I heard Mrs. Perkins had her baby. There is a sub starting today,” he informed.

“Really?” Mel looked pleased. “Boy or girl?” she asked.

Jeremy frowned. “Uh…boy…they call him Mr. Wilson.”

I looked up at Mel as she paused on the step ahead of us. She was clearly on the same page as me in the Book of Confusion.
Weird thing to call a baby
, I thought.

Mel threw back her head, and a wonderful ringing laugh bubbled out of her. It was the most pleasant sound I had ever heard. It brought to mind the
glup
-
glup
-
glup
of a bottle being poured over ice, or the burbling of a fountain. I was tempted to smile with her at the sound of pure joy. I vowed to hear that tinkling laughter every day.

“Not the teacher, Jeremy! The baby! Is the baby a boy or a girl?” She resumed our climb, giggling and wagging her head back and forth, spirals of blonde bouncing with each step.

I rushed forward to hear the last sparkling notes before they were swallowed up in the chaos of the second floor hall.

“Oh.” Jeremy blushed. “I dunno about the baby. I haven’t seen the substitute teacher yet, either, just heard some kids in first period talking about it. Oh, hey, gotta go. See ya after school,” he called as he backed down the hall in the opposite direction.

“Funny little kid.” Mel grinned and waved at Jeremy. “Smart as a whip, though, and really nice.”

She pointed to a room three doors down. “There is the history class. I need to stop here at my locker. You don’t have to wait for me.” She raised her eyebrows.

Mel was offering me an escape route. Except I had no reason to run. She was okay, and I felt no hurry to step into another room full of strangers.

“I’ll wait.” I shrugged for the hundredth time today. I’d be sore by the time I got home. Mel probably thought I had a tick or something.

Mel beamed at me and began spinning out her combination.

Weird warmth spread from my neck to my cheeks.

Okay! I liked her. I admit it. Not in some weird romantic way, but in a this-chick-is-really-nice sorta way. There was something about her casual manner, friendly, not pushy. Not desperate. She was easy to be around. Easy on the eyes, too, if you like that white blonde, big doe-eyed type. While she piddled in her locker, I leaned on the one beside hers, staring at the toe of my torn-up sneakers. I sneaked a look at her from beneath my forearm. She dawned a radiant smile in return.

Holy Toledo! No one in middle school could possibly be that happy
. I scowled and looked back at my shoe, wondering if Mel was entirely sane.

She cheerily slammed her locker, and we walked into the history class. I immediately put up my “new kid” shield and pretended to be invisible.

“Pastor Wilson?” Mel exclaimed and hurried over to the teacher.

“Hey, Mel!” The teacher held up a fist for her to bump.

“Are you our substitute teacher?” Mel asked in a hopeful voice.

“Looks that way,” the preacher-teacher replied, holding his arms out to his side to display the obvious.

“Cool.” Mel headed down the middle row between the desks and jerked her head for me to follow. She patted the desk next to hers. “Sit here, Donnie,” she whispered.

The kid I had identified as “trouble” perched on top of his desk in the back of the room. Surrounded by his cronies, with their heads huddled, he whispered and gestured in the direction of the sub.

I followed their shadowed glances to study the preacher-teacher. He stood casually in front of the whiteboard with his hands in his pockets, greeting the students as they entered.

I blinked, irritated, then looked away. I couldn’t look at his face for very long. It was too…I dunno…clean or something. He seemed powerful and peaceful at the same time. Those two ideas clashed in opposition. I couldn’t reconcile them in my head. I’d known powerful men in my past, men who would smack around anyone smaller than they were. And I’d known peaceful sorts, mostly nerdy wimps who had no spine and were pushed around by smarter, bigger people.

The preacher-teacher did not seem to fit with either of those descriptions. I had no experience with this kind of person, either. So I ducked my head and stared at the graffiti on the chair in front of me.

A strange symbol had been carved into the ladder-back chair pressed against the front of my desk. It looked like a cherry layered over a set of crossed bones. Curious, I copied it down on my notebook flap.

Mel watched me draw the image. A crease formed between her brows, and her lips pursed disapprovingly.

I raised my eyebrows in question, but she just shook her head and whispered, “I’ll tell ya later.” She glanced behind us, then quickly faced the front of the room.

I turned around to see who frightened her. “Trouble” stared at the image on my notebook. Scowling, he lifted his eyes to meet mine and glared daggers.

Great! One hour into my new school and already I’d made an enemy. I turned back around, and Mel smiled at me. My apprehension lifted. Having an enemy didn’t really bother me much at the moment, because I’d made a pretty cool friend, too.

Excerpt from
Donnie Dudgeon and the Cherry Street Gang
©LaDonna Cole, HwV Productions

MACY TOOK DIRK’S
hand and led him along the corridor, stepping gingerly around dead bodies. Pulsing neon whorls spiraled down the wall, the colors vivid and garish.