Chapter Four

The storm Johnny had been waiting for finally arrived on his first day at Brookhaven Public School, the day after Labor Day. The campus—what he could see of it through the passenger window of the Ford Victoria in the downpour—was typical of public schools, nice but not too fancy. The stone-columned entrance to the main building had an air of austerity about it.

Brookhaven was actually two schools, Brookhaven Elementary, which held kindergarten through fifth grade, and Brookhaven Junior High, which held sixth through eighth.

Though most kids Johnny’s age were starting fifth grade, he was starting sixth, having skipped a year because of his outstanding academic record at his school in Charlotte. This meant that instead of all of his subjects being taught in one classroom by one teacher, he would go to different classrooms for each subject and be taught by different teachers.

It also meant he would be at least a year younger than anyone else in his classes—or in the whole middle school, for that matter. A bit nerve-wracking, he admitted to himself as he bolted through the rain to the front entrance, though he maintained a calm and cool exterior. The worst thing any new kid could do was to let everyone at his new school know he was nervous.

Besides, this was a new adventure. If there was one thing he loved, it was new adventures. Johnny was looking forward to a fresh start.

The main hallway was filled with the clamor of excited students returning to classes after summer break, which was a bit surprising. Public school funding had been severely cut thanks to the Great Depression, and many kids from poorer homes dropped out completely to help support their families. Johnny felt bad for them and thankful his father made a decent living as a professor.

Even the kids fortunate enough to still come to school showed signs of the hard times. Their books were tattered, and their notebooks showed marks of being erased and reused from the previous year. Almost no one had new clothes. Many of the girls wore handmade dresses and scuffed Mary Jane strap shoes, while most boys donned denim shirts, patched jeans or overalls, and holey high-top Converse sneakers or worn work boots.

Still, judging by the laughter and animated conversations, none of the kids seemed to mind these hardships. Instead, they appeared excited at the prospect of a new school term.

Johnny’s schedule told him his first class was math, taught by a Mr. Blake in room 101b. Johnny saw room 101 and 101a, but for some reason 101b eluded him. He was just about to give up and ask directions when he saw Emmy standing in a crowd of kids. A cocky-looking bruiser of a guy a few inches taller than everyone else, with angular features, seemed to be holding court. A smaller, stocky boy with a flat face and a pug nose stood by him and echoed almost everything the bruiser said. Johnny walked up behind them quietly and heard their conversation as he approached.

“Five cents!” Emmy exclaimed. “You want each of us to pay you five cents?”

“No,” the bruiser replied, “I want each of them to pay me five cents. For you, it’s three cents.”

“Yeah, three!” said the echo. His voice was raspy.

“How generous,” Emmy said sarcastically. “Haven’t you heard there’s a depression on?”

“Hey, depression or not, I’m in business!” the bruiser said. “Information costs.”

“Yeah,” grumbled a scrawny, towheaded boy. “Some more than others.”

“You said you want the best science project you can get, little Lukey,” the bruiser continued. He flicked Luke’s ear.

Luke flinched.

“The best!” snickered the echo. He also tried to flick Luke’s ear, but Luke dodged the attempt.

“I’ve gotta ’specially great idea for you, Emmy,” said the bruiser smoothly. “Guaranteed A for your first big project.” He was trying to sound charming, but the effect was nauseating, Johnny thought.

“Guaranteed!” said the echo.

Emmy was about to reply when Johnny caught her eye. She smiled and said, “Oh, hi, Sherlock.”

Johnny winced.

“Sherlock?” the bruiser said with a laugh. “What kind of a dumb name is that?”

The echo snorted and said, “Yeah, dumb!”

“It’s a nickname,” Emmy said curtly. “Just like Arty-farty.”

The bruiser kept chortling, but Arty, the echo, glared at her. Luke stifled a chuckle, and Arty grabbed his shirt, nearly lifting him off the ground. “You think that’s funny, chicken legs?” Arty growled. “One more peep outta you and—aaah!”

“Let him go,” Johnny demanded, pinching Arty’s arm right at a nerve point. “Now.”

The bruiser stopped laughing. Arty winced and let go, jerking his arm free from Johnny’s grip and backing away. The bruiser sneered, “Looks like Sherlock here is a tough guy.”

Johnny looked at him evenly. “My name is John,” he said.

The bruiser leaned in. “Yeah? Well, it’s gonna be mud if you don’t mind your own business.”

Arty rubbed his arm, stepped behind the bruiser, and mimicked, “Yeah ... mud.”

Emmy poked the bruiser on the arm and said, “I’m not buying anything from you. So you and Arty-farty can take a hike.”

Arty took a step toward her, but the bruiser stopped him.

A simper curled the bruiser’s lips. “You’ll change your mind sooner or later, Emmy,” he said, trying again to be charming.

He turned to the other kids, and the simper became a scowl. “As for the rest of you, y’all know what you need to do. And you”—he stabbed a finger at Johnny—“you best watch yourself.” He pushed past Emmy and Johnny and strutted down the hall, and Arty tagged along after him.

Luke and the rest of the group quickly melted into the crowded hallway. Only Emmy and Johnny remained.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Johnny said. “What’s with him?”

“That’s Wilson Knox,” Emmy replied, opening her locker and retrieving some books and a pair of Keds tennis sneakers. “He’s in seventh. He’s also a pill, a goon, and a hard-boiled egg. Thinks he’s lord of the manor around here ’cause his family has been in Provenance since colonial times.”

“And the other one?”

“Arty Moore. Also from an old local family. He used to be nice ’til he started hanging around with Wilson.”

She shoved the books and sneakers into her bag and closed her locker. They started walking slowly down the hall.

“What was all that stuff about a science project?” asked Johnny.

“Oh, Wilson got everybody in a lather about the first big project in sixth-grade science. He took it last year, so he says he knows what the teacher wants from us. He said he’d help us out: ideas, instructions, supplies—the whole ball of wax.”

“For a price.”

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you tell a teacher?”

Emmy snorted. “People don’t cotton to snitches and stool pigeons around here, Sherlock.” Johnny winced again, and Emmy shook her head. “Sorry. It’s getting to be a habit. Look, I’d tell you to just stay away from Wilson and Arty, but that may not be possible because of the combineds.”

“Combineds?”

“Some classes are combined sixth and seventh grades. I think we all have history together.”

Johnny checked his schedule. Sure enough, after “History” it read “COMB.” He nodded. “Yep. Well, I’ll do my best to stay away from them the rest of the time.”

“So, how’s it going?”

“It’d be going a whole lot better if I could find room 101b.”

Emmy pointed. “You mean that one right over there?”

Johnny’s gaze followed her finger across the hall to a door marked 101b in neat, gold lettering. His freckles reddened. “I looked there!”

Emmy smirked. “Mm-hm. Nice powers of observation, Sher—”

Johnny glared at her.

Emmy held up her hands. “Sorry, sorry. I gotta go. I’ve got gym. I’ll see you in history class.” She headed off and then called back, “And at lunch I’ll help you find the food.” She chuckled as she walked away.

Mr. Blake’s math class began with a pop quiz that was supposed to take 40 minutes. Johnny finished it in seven. He turned over his paper and scanned the classroom. Several students were quietly scratching their heads, while others were scratching their pencils on their paper. Outside, the rain thumped on the windowpane. Johnny grinned, bemused. It was just a little geometry. What was the big deal?

“Mr. Whittaker!”

Johnny jumped at Mr. Blake’s calling his name.

“Join me, please,” Mr. Blake said, angrily waving Johnny toward the desk. “And bring your paper.”

Johnny picked up his test and walked to Mr. Blake’s desk. Mr. Blake leaned forward. “I don’t know what it was like at your previous schools,” he began, “but at this school, we don’t allow students to look at other students’ papers during a test!”

“I wasn’t looking, sir,” Johnny replied. “I’m finished.”

“That may be, but—” Mr. Blake stopped abruptly as the words registered. “Really?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Johnny handed over his paper.

Mr. Blake quickly scanned it and then cleared his throat. Then he continued, “Oh ... um, well, that’s, uh, fine, Mr. Whittaker, just fine. But while your test may be complete, the admission slip you gave me isn’t. You need to take it back to Mrs. Monahan.”

“Mrs. Monahan?”

“In the registrar’s office. You can’t miss her: short, stocky, looks kind of like Teddy Roosevelt without the mustache. Ask her to fill in the areas I’ve checked off. Take your books. You won’t make it back by the end of class. Here’s a hall pass. Just bring in the slip tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnny took the pass and the admission slip, then went back to his desk to gather his things.

As he headed out, he heard Mr. Blake give a low whistle and mutter, “Extraordinary.”