9:45 a.m.
Alex stared out the window of Room 15. He had spent all of homeroom and most of first period thinking about that dog. But then his stomach started to growl, and by second period he had a serious case of cupcakes-on-the-brain.
His teacher, Mrs. Hamlin, had given him a funny look when he handed her the cupcake box that morning. He had tried to reassure her that the cupcakes weren’t a total loss. He figured he could scoop up the mashed remains like snowballs and mold them back into shape. Totally salvageable. “They’re a little smashed, but they taste fine. I tested one to be sure.” She looked at the box like she was considering throwing it away. But all she did was raise an eyebrow and set it on her desk.
Now Alex’s stomach grew so noisy that Doug started growling back at it under his breath, which gave Kwan the giggles, which goaded Doug to growl even louder, which cracked up the rest of the class but also drew a look from Mrs. Hamlin. This was a problem, because Alex was trying to figure out how he could convince her to let them eat the cupcakes now.
Just as Alex was about to raise his hand and ask about the cupcakes, a runner came with a note for Mrs. Hamlin, who stepped out of the room to read it.
Alex sighed and lowered his hand. His mind drifted back to the stray dog. He couldn’t explain it—after all, he’d only seen the dog for a few seconds—but when he thought about the dog, he felt the same way he’d felt when his dad put his hand on his shoulder at the air show, warm and happy and connected.
That dog had really gotten under his skin. Alex gazed out the window, half-expecting to see the yellow mutt waiting for him outside.
“Alex?”
He’d been daydreaming. Mrs. Hamlin stood at the front of the room, the note clutched in her hand.
“Pack up your bag, and let’s go.”
Alex looked around, confused. Chairs scraped as the other kids gathered up their backpacks and shuffled towards the door. The classroom was already half-empty.
“Alex, did you hear me? You’re to pick up your sister from Room 4B and go straight to see your mother at work.”
“Um, now?”
“Yes, now.”
“We’re leaving?”
“Yes. We’re…finishing early today.”
“But what about the box?”
“What box?”
“My cupcakes.”
“Just leave it.”
“But it’s my bir—”
“Alex Douglas, not another word! We’ll do it another day. Now let’s go.”
The one other time Alex could remember getting sent home early was when someone set off a stink bomb last year in the girls’ bathroom. The smell was so gross that even the teachers were running outside, staggering around the playground and gasping for air. He heard six kids in the class next to the bathroom couldn’t even make it to the trash can and puked all over their desks. School was canceled while they aired out the building that day, but it still smelled like rotten eggs for an entire week. The only person who seemed to think it was hilarious was Jordan.
Maybe Jordan was behind this, too. Alex sniffed the air but couldn’t detect anything stink-bomby.
He looked over at Dougie and Kwan: what gives? They shrugged.
Mrs. Hamlin hurried them out the door. Her face looked bloodless, as gray as fireplace ash. When he tried to catch her eyes, she looked away.
He gave one last glance at the box of mangled cupcakes on her desk, then gave up and headed for the door. Next to the door hung the class calendar; he stared at the words written there in big green letters: “ALEX’S BIRTHDAY.”
The date was even circled: September 11, 2001.