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  I deliver mine along with the others even though it remains dark and silent. So weird. Who would send that picture of me to Clancy? No offence to her or anything, but she’s not exactly popular. I glance at a few of the others as they are tossed to the desk top and realize she isn’t the only one who received that image.

  Wait a minute. Is that what they are laughing at?

  A tiny stab of hurt jabs me in the heart even as I smother it with a smack of happy. Huh. Well, it is kind of funny, right?

  “If they wanted to be more accurate,” I say out loud with a grin as I go back to my desk, “they would have used a cat body.”

  The class laughs. With me this time, I’m sure of it. Mrs. Malcolm isn’t amused.

  “Kit MacLean,” she snaps. “Stay after class.”

  After… class? She must want to talk to me about school. That’s it. Extra work or something. Because there is no way I’m in trouble. I’ve never been in trouble in my life.

  By the time the bell rings, Mrs. Malcolm seems less upset. I wait for everyone to file out, a few of them staring at me as they retrieve their phones. I wait, a smile plastered to my face, though that little dagger of hurt seems to have made a home inside me.

  I finally rise when the last student leaves, going to Mrs. Malcolm and taking my own phone, slipping it into my bag while she perches on the edge of her desk and meets my eyes. She’s so tall, skinny and lanky in her black skirt and cardigan, she reminds me of a stork.

  “You’re the last person I expected to be talking to on the first day of school.” Her lips elongate into a beak, the tips snapping together when she talks. Looks funny with all the tiny feathers sprouting around the base of it, covering her cheeks. She frowns, pinching her forehead in a sharp line. It makes me think of the line between my own when I make that face and I remind myself never, ever, to frown again. “Or any other day. What was that all about?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Malcolm.” I really don’t. Just someone goofing around, I guess.

  She shakes her head, a few wisps of hair escaping her bun, a feather floating to the floor from the stork plumage over her. She really should wear her hair down sometimes. She’d be so much prettier. “If you’re being bullied, please come to one of the teachers.”

  Bullied? I snort a laugh at the absurdity while the image of her as a skinny bird snaps loose and she’s just Mrs. Malcolm again. “It was just a stupid picture. Someone’s joking around.”

  She seems to want to say something, thin lips pinching together, beak threatening to return. I feel a stir of anxiety, glance at the big clock over her head. I’m going to be late for my last class of the day.

  Mrs. Malcolm finally waves me off. “No phones in class.” She says it like she doesn’t mean it or believe it. That’s too bad. It’s the rules.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll remember next time.” I bounce on my toes. “Can I go now?”

  She lets me leave, new set of students filing in. I hurry past them, shaking my head. People can be so funny sometimes! I honestly don’t get it. And I was right about the cat body.

  I was.

  By the time I enter my final class of the day—law, I can’t wait to debate with my teacher over the finer points of the legal system—I’m the last one to take a seat. Everyone is looking at their phones, our teacher not present yet. They’ve been talking, I can hear the echo of their chatter in the sudden silence of the room as I sweep inside and sit. A glance around shows them all looking at their phones again.

  Huh. I wonder what’s so funny this time? They can’t still be giggling over that dumb picture, can they?

  This time it’s Nina Porter who shows me her phone, only she doesn’t seem happy about it. She’s not laughing like everyone else. I glance at the same image, my face on a pig’s body, only this time the word “DUMB FREAK” is written over top. I sit back, a frown forming despite my best attempts to stop it.

  Anger bursts into a star in my stomach, smothered by a wash of hurt I then cut off with a forced smile. But that word—dumb—resonates for some reason.

  I’m far from it. Yeah, I do my best to make sure no one knows I’m above their sadly average intelligence, just so they won’t single me out. I’m happy fitting in, pretending to be ordinary. So why would the word "dumb" bother me so much? I can’t even say it in my head and I’m reeling from whatever it means to me. Something stirs deep inside, a memory. Blue eyes and laughter.

  Whatever is that? I refuse to look. It’s obviously something irrelevant. I cover it up and mush it down, slathering it with good humor and optimism. Whatever this is, it doesn’t matter, right? I’ll just laugh it off with everyone else, because it’s silly and childish and clearly someone is just playing a fun prank they don’t realize might be the teensy tiniest bit hurtful.

  Honestly. I don’t get it. Where is this coming from? My phone dings at last as our teacher, Mr. Gladwell, enters the room. I don’t even think as I reach for it and check the text message. Finally, someone is sending me something—time to let me in on the joke already.

  Next time, stay out of the KingPin’s business.

  This makes absolutely no sense. I look up, realize I’m the only one holding a phone and that Mr. Gladwell is glaring at me.

  I open my mouth to tell him there’s been a huge mistake when he points at me then at my phone.

  “UP HERE! NOW!”

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  I stand up on reflex, head for the front of the class while everyone laughs. Mr. Gladwell doesn’t seem to notice, purple veins jumping out across his wide cheeks and the surface of his slightly squished nose. He reminds me of a cranky old dragon who’s had one too many run-ins with a knight in shining armor. That thought conjures an image superimposed over his face that might be the end of me if I let it make me giggle.

  Steam erupts from his scaled snout as his bulging eyes follow my progress. He holds out his hand and I deposit my precious smartphone into his taloned grasp, fearful his scales might scratch the surface. Or pull off some of the sparkles I glued on last Friday when I got it home from the store. Please, let him be gentle with my new phone.

  “Miss MacLean.” Sparks follow the smoke from his snout, sharp teeth dripping saliva that hisses when it hits the round of his belly poking forward over the top of his belt. Small wings flutter in agitation, his tail thrashing around him while I bite my lower lip and do my best to take this seriously.

  I really need to take this seriously, I think.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gladwell,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”

  A gust of hot air hits me when he spews dragon fire over the classroom. Everyone ducks, screaming, as the room transforms into a dark pit, the floor slippery with gold coins and jewels. I jerk back to normal while he speaks, the sudden reappearance of the classroom, students sitting calmly—if amused—in their seats.

  “Cell phones and other devices,” he slams my sweet new pet down on the top of his desk and I wince as two of the pink rhinestones break free and skitter to the floor, bouncing under his chair. Oh well, I have more at home. Easy to replace. I watch with a twinge of horror as he jerks open his desk drawer and dumps my phone inside before slamming it shut. “Are not permitted.” He grits his teeth, a dragon again for a flash, then a round, fat man with a terrible case of rosacea. “In my classroom.” Good thing he teaches law and not English. His grammar and sentence structure are horrendous.

  He glares at me a long moment as I wait. Is he done? He might be done. It’s hard to tell with the way his nostrils flare with each breath, how his clenched hands seem poised to action. I don’t dare go sit down until he’s finished.

  “Miss MacLean.” The class titters. “Sit. Down.”

  I bob a nod and head for my seat. When did I become so bad at reading people? I’m usually really good at it.

  I spend the rest of the class trying my best to sit up and pay close attention, but I’m so far ahead of his lecture—did you know you can buy second hand colle
ge textbooks online? It’s awesome!—my mind starts to wander again.

  But, every time it does, I jerk it back, resorting to pinching myself hard on the inside of my arm just to stay focused. Mr. Gladwell has my phone. And, if I want it back, I have to be a good student and at least pretend to be interested in what he’s saying.

  By the time the last bell rings, my cheeks ache from the forced smile and my eyes are burning from trying not to blink. Not to mention the small, red mark on the soft part of my arm. I wait for everyone to leave—seems to be a habit with me today—before heading to Mr. Gladwell’s desk and waiting.

  And waiting. My anxiety stirs as I glance at the clock over his head, then at the watch on my wrist. I’m going to miss my bus. But, Mr. Gladwell doesn’t look up, head down over something he’s reading. I clear my throat once, just in case he missed the fact I was there. And again, for good measure, a little louder.

  When he finally looks up, I smile my brightest and hold out my hand.

  “Thanks for the wonderful class,” I say. “May I have my phone, please?”

  He’s not smiling. Funny, my best beam usually elicits at least a grin from most people. A corner twitch, an eye sparkle. But, Mr. Gladwell seems even more dragon like now than he had at the first of class.

  “Give me one good reason why I should return your phone, Miss MacLean.” He’s transforming again, scales jumping out on his face and neck, a thin, red tongue snaking out to swipe over his fangs.

  “Because it belongs to me?” I don’t understand the question.

  He stands up, towering over me as he grows, shoulders pushing upward and outward, huge, green scaled body looming. The heavy scent of sulfur makes me choke, the clink and rattle of gold under his giant feet a soft song counterpoint to the rumble of his voice that shakes me to the bone.

  “No. Phones. In. Class. You know the rule, Miss MacLean?”

  I nod, swallow. But, I wasn’t the only one—

  “You broke the rules. Which means your phone is mine, now.” He turns his back on me and I blink, astonished, as he becomes human again. The classroom feels suddenly claustrophobic, my heart pounding in my chest. “If you want it back, your parents have to come get it for you.”

  My parents? What do they have to do with this? Mr. Gladwell grabs his briefcase and strides past me, out the door.

  I stand there, gaping, hands sweaty as they clench the leather strap of my messenger bag. I look down with longing at the desk drawer, at my poor, imprisoned phone.

  Just take it. That’s Kitalia’s answer. But I back away, shake my head. And leave the room.

  What am I going to tell Mom and Dad? This has been the strangest day of my life.

  Just as I feared, I missed my bus. I watch it pull away, running to catch up, but I guess the driver doesn’t see me waving. It’s a ten block walk home, not a big deal, really. And yet, it feels like forever as I look down at the tips of my black boots while they stride over the cracks on the sidewalk and ponder the last message I read before my phone was confiscated.

  The KingPin? Who is that? And what triggered a warning like that? I kick at a stray stone, watch it bounce forward and tap another, knocking it aside. Ripples of events. So, something I did during the day caught the attention—and ire—of this KingPin. I shake my head, bangs ruffling in the breeze. It’s really too hot out for my fuzzy leggings and I wish I’d caught the bus. I don’t mean to think unkind thoughts about Mr. Gladwell, but by the time I reach my block, I’m hot, sweaty and more than a little miffed at him.

  A car pulls into a driveway three houses up and across from mine. I look up, just for something new to focus on, and am shocked to see Tate get out of the passenger’s seat. Even more so when Mrs. Cradle, my new principal, exits the driver’s side of the same car. I stop and stare, can’t help it, as the pair go inside, talking but too far for me to hear them.

  How cool is that? Tate is so lucky to have a principal as her mom. Must be her mother, right? I change trajectory, impulse carrying me toward their door, but they disappear inside. Well, I’ll just have to pop over after dinner and say hidey ho.

  Good thing I went right home. The phone is blinking, a message waiting for me.

  Mom. Huh, I wonder what’s up? She never calls from work. I call her back and answer her professional, “Dr. Pache’s office,” with a cheerful hello. But, her tone is much darker than mine.

  “Come to the office,” she huffs before hanging up. I stare at the cordless handset, whisper hello a few times into it just in case I misheard her. Why does she want me at her work?

  Well, I guess if she does, she does. Still struggling with my very odd day, I leave the house again and head for the bus stop and downtown.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  I like downtown, the hustle and bustle of the sort of city. It’s nothing like Cleveland or anything, but it’s home and I know all the shops on the street where Mom works. It’s fun just to wander through them and hitch a ride home with her when she’s done. More fun with Clare and Calvin, though.

  I do my best not to be bummed they aren’t here. I could ask them what they thought of this KingPin business. I’m sure Calvin would know exactly what it was about and tell me what I needed to know to make it stop.

  It might have been funny at first, but one day of it is enough for me, thank you.

  I dawdle next to the Chic clothing shop, ogling a pale green dress with checker board trim and make a note to drag Mom across the street before we go home. With a sigh, wishing I’d saved some of my allowance, I finally cross to the plain glass door on the corner and enter the office.

  I don’t have anything against dentists, don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just the smell in here makes me sick sometimes, all that sweetness mixed with chemicals and the buzzing of the instruments in the back. Mom sits behind the counter, talking to a patient, taking information. I beam at her, but she doesn’t smile back when she sees me. She waves for me to sit down and I instantly obey. Whatever has her upset, I’m sure I can clear it up just as soon as I can talk to her.

  She finishes with her patient and I’m about to stand up again when the door opens and Mrs. Brown stomps in. She has Tom with her, dragging him behind her by the elbow. Mom stiffens at the sight of her, two patients dodging out of the way as Mrs. Brown’s hips make a path for her sizeable bulk.

  “I want to see Dr. Pache immediately.” I’ve always liked her voice. Mrs. Brown never has a problem being heard, all robust and booming. Mom, however, seems to find it—or something nearby—offensive as she wrinkles her nose.

  “What seems to be the problem, Helen?” Mom’s smile isn’t real. Huh. She’s usually nicer than that.

  “I’m not here to speak to you,” Mrs. Brown says, voice elevating further. “I said I wanted to talk to Dr. Pache and I meant it!”

  Mom’s skinny boss appears around the corner behind the counter, round glasses catching the light as he smiles hesitantly up at Mrs. Brown. He seems uncomfortable, pink spots standing out on his cheeks. “Helen,” he says.

  “Dr. Pache.” She jerks Tom forward, pushing her son against the counter. Really, that can’t be comfortable. But he doesn’t fight her, going limp in her grasp. “Do you call this dental work? Look at those molars.”

  I almost giggle, but hold back because the other patients are laughing and Tom looks like he’s about to die of embarrassment. I feel terrible for him. I wish I could help. Especially now he’s shown some interest in maybe being real friends instead of hanging out on the periphery.

  “Why don’t we discuss this privately?” Dr. Pache points to the side door, the entry to the clinic area. Mrs. Brown huffs, dragging Tom along. He glances my way, eyes widening and I wave, smile.

  He doesn’t smile back. In fact, if anything, he jerks his head around and refuses to acknowledge I’m there. Well, fair enough, really. I wouldn’t want my friends to know I wasn’t 100% happy with my teeth, either.

  Silly crooked front tooth.

  He dis
appears with his mother behind the door to the sound of laughter. Really, it’s not nice to be amused by someone else’s embarrassment. I find I can’t stop scowling at them and, at last, the room falls silent again.

  “Kit.” Mom jerks her hand at me. “Here. Now.”

  I go to her, hoping she wasn’t laughing, too. But, from the expression on her face, laughter is the furthest from her mind. She’s emerged from behind the counter and points to the exit door. Confused, I go back outside and stand on the street while Mom hunches close to me, face tight and intense.

  She works so hard. Maybe she needs a vacation? Once I know what she’s after, I could ask her to help me sort out my weird day. And get my phone back.

  I try to hug her, to help her feel better, but she shoves me back instead.

  “Mom,” I say. “Are you okay? Who upset you?”

  She seems flustered, spluttering and unable to speak a moment before she stops and stares. Then laughs and hugs me. “Kitten,” she says into my hair. “Why do I even bother?”

  “Bother with what?” I pull away. She’s really confusing me now.

  Mom smooths my hair from my face and I shake my head to settle my bangs even as she pulls me back into the office. I follow her, mute and worried, into the staff room. I set my messenger bag carefully down on the table as she speaks again.

  “Getting upset with you when you don’t even know you’ve done something wrong.” Mom sighs and I feel my face crumple. I did something to hurt her?

  Okay, this day is weird and just got awful.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Whatever it is, I didn’t mean it.”

  Mom squeezes my hand. “We forget sometimes, your father and me, how brilliant you are. And, how carefully you hide it from everyone. Including yourself.” She exhales again while I ponder that. Being smart isn’t so great. I’m happier being happy than a genius. “Mr. Gladwell called.”

  He… “About what?” The pictures?