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How I wound up taking history after lunch, when my brain wanted a nap, I’d never know. But today, wide awake with brain buzzing, I rehashed what happened with the journal instead of following the discussion about Pandora. I seesawed between awe over what the journal could do and amusement over Mallory and Tatiana.
The Tatiana incident showed me Madame Vadoma and Mallory were right; I needed to be careful about what I wrote in the journal, especially because it seemed nonreversible. Otherwise Tatiana would be gone, which would make me a little sad.
Once Mallory got over the whole noxious farting aspect, she might think it cool to have her own personal fairy. If Tatiana didn’t disappear.
“Miss Ashby, will you please read the next paragraph.”
Mr. Harris broke through my thoughts. I didn’t even know what page we were on. I glanced at the open book next to me, and flipped a page. I opened my mouth to bluff my way through, but the bell rang. Phew.
Out in the hallway, Billy Shipman pinned Zach to the wall by the front of his shirt. Zach’s feet weren’t even touching the ground. Everyone gave them a wide berth. No one wanted to become Billy’s next target. Clusters of students whispered to one another, and a few brave souls tried to inch past without attracting notice.
What had poor Zach done? Sometimes all it took was breathing in Billy’s space.
Billy reminded me of a baboon I once saw at the zoo. He had small eyes, a long nose that ended in flared nostrils, and a vicious snarl.
I whipped the journal out of my pack. Here was a chance to use its magic for good.
Billy Shipman is such a bully. He should get a taste of what it feels like to be bullied by someone bigger and stronger than him.
An angry yowling sound reached my ears as I quickly shoved the journal back in my pack so no one asked me about it. I scanned the hallway, but no one looked brave enough to have made the noise.
The outside doors flung open and all conversations stopped. I’d never seen the kid who came through the doors before. He wore biker boots, jeans, and a leather jacket with a T-shirt underneath. His wallet was hooked to his studded belt with a chain. If Billy Shipman was big, this kid was humongous.
“Hey Shipman. What’re you doing picking on a runt?”
Billy let go of Zach, who slid down the wall.
Once Zach’s feet touched ground, he bolted.
The big kid reached Billy and shoved him in the chest. Billy slammed into the wall.
“Where were you?” He grabbed Billy by the shirt and hefted him in the air, just like Billy had done to Zach. “We got together and waited, but you were a no show.”
Excited murmurs broke out from those who hadn’t escaped the building.
“Do you see that ...?”
“Finally, Billy’s gettin’ it.”
“I—I c-c-can explain, Spike.” The color left Billy’s face.
Spike? What a name for the bully of the bully. It sounded like something you’d name your Pitbull.
Spike growled.
Maybe he was like a Pitbull gone bad.
His malice filled every crevice in the hallway. “No explanations. And no excuses.”
He pulled Billy off the wall, raised him even higher, and slammed him against it again. Billy’s head snapped back and banged the wall with a sickening thunk. Then Spike let go. Billy slid to the ground. He slumped against the wall, dazed.
A teacher poked his head outside the door. “Is there a problem here?”
Where had he been when Billy had Zach plastered against the wall?
Spike turned off his hostility, like someone flipped a switch, and the tension drained from the hall.
Billy shook his head and scrambled to his feet. “No problem. I tripped and fell.”
The teacher stared at Billy and Spike for a few moments, hands on hips. Then he turned, muttering the whole way, and went back into his room.
As soon as the door closed, Spike’s anger flared again. His voice quiet, he leaned in. “We’re not through, Billy-boy. I’ll see you at home.” The puffs of his breath caused Billy’s hair to jump with each word.
Spike was Billy’s brother?
Then Spike walked forward, his shoulder slamming Billy into the wall one last time. The sound of his boots rang out as he left the building.
Everyone froze. No one wanted to move and catch Billy’s attention. He might pick on someone just to show he was still in charge, not Spike. But no one looked away from him. It was like watching a wreck at the side of the road; not wanting to see the gore, but not being able to look away.
Billy surveyed the room and his face crumpled. “Quit staring at me.” He bolted toward the door, unshed tears tightening his voice.
Whoa. Not something I thought I’d ever see. I touched the journal in my bag. Powerful stuff.
I held my breath before opening the door for Science. I liked Mr. Delgado, but hated walking into his class each day. The smell coming from the jars of frogs swimming in formaldehyde made my stomach turn. If I had to describe it, I think I’d say it smelled like all of nature died. Or maybe it smelled like rotting zombie farts.
I took my seat and breathed through my mouth until my nose acclimated to the stench. If the smell filled the room when the lids were on tight, I shuddered to think how it would smell when we opened them and had to dissect the frogs.
My stomach rolled.
Even fairy farts smelled better than formaldehyde.
The room was divided in half with the desks closest to the hallway door and the lab tables in rows against the outside wall. A frog nose pressed against the glass jar on the lab table closest to me. Shudders ran up my spine. I didn’t want to dissect anything.
I wondered what it would take to get Mom to write a note saying dissection was against our religion. The school couldn’t make me do anything against religious beliefs, could they?
Mom would never write such a note, so I’d probably embarrass myself by throwing up or passing out as soon as I cut into the frog. Someone made perfectly good computerized programs on dissection, why couldn’t we use those instead of actual frogs?
Real frog dissection was a carryover from medieval times. No doubt it was a means of torture. You defied the King? It’s frog dissection for you!
I glanced at Mallory’s empty seat. She’d be the only reason I made it through this class.
Mallory couldn’t wait until Mr. Delgado started the chapters on dissection. She thought the digital dissection lacked reality. Although, she thought it would be good practice for the real thing.
Mr. Delgado breezed into the room. Dressed in a collared shirt and tie, with creased slacks, he wore his thick and wavy dark hair brushed back from his forehead, except one stubborn curl that fell forward when he moved a lot. His goatee framed his mouth, and his teeth gleamed when he smiled. His dark eyes crinkled slightly at the edges when he laughed and his cologne carried a hint of spice.
His cologne completely made up for the formaldehyde stench.
Mallory scurried into the room and dropped her books on the desk with a thud. I swore her stack of books got larger every day. Soon she’d be hunchbacked from carrying them around.
Mr. Delgado quickly called roll and used his hook to pull down a frog chart from the ceiling.
He picked up his pointer stick from the dry erase board tray and tapped the chart. “Today we’re going to learn how to make a frog sandwich.”
Ew. I pictured the frog in the jar between two pieces of bread with the rubbery legs sticking out the side. Even with mustard to mask it, gross.
Mr. Delgado looked me straight in the eyes and grinned. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” He made his voice squeaky. “Ew, Mr. Delgado. That’s gross.”
My face flushed.
“Let me explain what I mean. First we’re going to start by reviewing the outer portion of the frog, or looking at the dorsal view.”
He pulled down another chart. “Next we’ll talk about the skeleton then the brain and nervous system, and so on.”
He put the frog skeleton chart back up. “Once we learn all the parts of the frog, we’ll know what we’re looking at when we dissect them.” He tapped the dorsal view chart with the pointer again. “Now let’s get started.”
Chairs scraped on the floor and papers rustled as everyone in the class got ready to take notes. I pulled out my notebook then grabbed the journal and sandwiched it between the pages.
“We’ll start with an easy one.” He slapped the pointer on the back leg of the frog picture. “Who can tell me what this is?”
Mallory’s hand shot into the air.
Mr. Delgado scanned the room. “Trey. What is it?”
Trey slid sideways in his chair and his tongue flicked his upper lip. “The back leg, Mr. Del.” He smirked at his buddies.
“And that answer will be wrong on the test.”
Half the hands in the air dropped.
“What?” Trey sat straight in his seat.
Mr. Delgado pointed to the back of the class. “Zach, can you tell us?”
“Hind limb?” Zach’s voice trailed up as if he wasn’t one-hundred percent certain.
Trey chuckled.
“You are correct.” Mr. Delgado clapped his hands together.
The smile left Trey’s face and he grumbled.
Mr. Delgado rested the pointer on the ground. “Do you have a problem with the answer, Trey?”
“Yeah. In fancy restaurants they serve frog legs, not hind limbs.”
Mr. Delgado rotated the stick between his palms. “Yes, you are correct. So if you’re in a restaurant, you can call them legs, but here in my science class, they are limbs or they are wrong. Most times you don’t order food in a restaurant by its scientific name.” He tapped the frog’s front limb. “Any guesses on what this is?”
Mallory’s hand remained high in the air, intent on catching Mr. Delgado’s attention.
I slipped the journal out from behind the pages so it looked like a part of the notebook while Sofia Pèrez answered the question. I propped my head on my hand to read the entries and wondered how the journal worked.
The frog in the jar stared at me. Creepy.
I felt Mr. Delgado’s eyes on me. I needed to look like I was taking notes.
I don’t want to dissect frogs. I think it would be wonderful if the jar lids disappeared, and the formaldehyde turned to water, to stop the stink. And the frogs came to life. Then they could hop out of the jar and escape to the great outdoors and find a pond to live in.
“Who can tell me where the tympanic membrane is and what its function is?”
I glanced around the room. Everyone except Mallory dropped their hand. I thought the question should be Who wants to know? I faced front as Mr. Delgado called on Mallory.
The frog in the jar blinked at me.
Oh no. It took about a second and a half for the monstrosity of what had just happened to hit me. I had scribbled my fake notes in the journal. If I had written them in the notebook, nothing would be happening, except I’d be getting one class session closer to dissecting frogs.
But no, I had to screw up and write in the wrong book. Several frogs blinked and others flexed their fingers. I couldn’t catch my breath. Good grief ... what had I done?
My eyes widened when the jar lids disappeared. I sniffed. The air smelled fresher. Had my nose desensitized to the stench? The window nearest the lab tables was cracked open.
Mr. Delgado called on Mallory.
The frog gripped the top of the jar with his long, webbed fingers.
“The tympanic membrane is on the side of the head behind the eye, and its function is hearing.”
I heard Mallory answer the question, but the words sounded like gibberish as my heart beat rapidly and palms moistened while watching the frog pull up to the top of the jar. With his hind limbs, the frog gave a huge kick and landed on the table with a splat.
Sofia Pèrez jumped to her feet and screamed. More frogs hopped out.
Startled by her scream, Mr. Delgado rushed to Sofia. He had no idea what was wrong until a frog croaked. His head snapped back in surprise.
One frog kicked so hard to get out he knocked the jar over. Water spilled everywhere and the jar rolled slowly to the edge of the table.
Crash.
The glass smashed as it hit the floor and shards flew everywhere.
Screams filled the air along with chairs and desks scraping on the floor as kids jumped to their feet. Frogs hopped across the lab tables with a squishy sound and the occasional ribbit and headed toward the window.
Mallory’s eyes looked like they would pop out and her jaw dropped. “Did you ...?”
The first frog made it to the window ledge and with a mighty leap jumped out the window, taking the screen with it to the ground. More kids screamed and some ran to the furthest corner of the room.
Like an itty bitty frog would hurt them.
The rest of the class seemed frozen in time. Afraid to move; maybe even afraid to breathe.
Mr. Delgado tried to regain control. “Quiet!” He held both arms in the air.
All the screams and chatter stopped. The thump-squish of frogs hopping toward freedom took the edge off the quiet. A mass exodus of no-longer-to-be-dissected frogs.
A lock of Mr. Delgado’s hair fell forward into his eyes. He whipped it back with his hand. “Class will now take place in the library. Please read the material about frog parts.”
He surveyed the wreckage of his classroom. “How?”
Mallory grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door. Hard.
As the rest of the class filed toward the outside doors, Mallory led me to the back.
She finally released my arm. “Angela Ashby, what did you do?”
“I didn’t mean to.” Well, not entirely. “It was an accident.”
“How could dead frogs coming back to life and making an escape be an accident?” Scorn dripped from her words.
“Because I thought I wrote those things in my notebook, but it was the journal.” I did forget, sort of. But I couldn’t feel bad about reanimating the frogs. They had a second chance at life, and I didn’t have to cut them open. Win-win in my book.
Mallory covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. When she finally dropped her arms, she pinned me with a glare. “You need to be careful about what you write in the journal, Angela. How is Mr. Delgado going to explain the frog resurrection? It’s not like it will be a secret.”
Oh, I didn’t think about that. How would he explain the obvious dead hopping away? I’m surprised someone didn’t start screaming about killer zombie frogs.
Mr. Delgado came to the door and put his hands on his hips. “You girls are supposed to be in the library.”
“Yes, Mr. Delgado.”
We hurried out of the building.
