1
OCTOBER IN EAST EVANSBURG,and the last warm sun of the year slanted red through the sugar maples. Olivia Adler sat nearest the big window in Mr. Easton’s math class, trying, catlike, to fit her entire body into a patch of light. She wished she were on the other side of the glass. You don’t waste October sunshine. Soon the old autumn sun would bed down in cloud blankets, and there would be weeks of gray rain before it finally decided to snow. But Mr. Easton was teaching fractions and had no sympathy for Olivia’s fidgets.
“Now,” he said from the front of the room. His chalk squeaked on the board. Mike Campbell flinched. Mike Campbell got the shivers from squeaking blackboards and, for some reason, from people licking paper napkins. The sixth grade licked napkins around him as much as possible.
“Can anyone tell me how to convert three-sixteenths to a decimal?” asked Mr. Easton. He scanned the room for a victim. “Coco?”
“Um,” said Coco Zintner, hastily shutting a sparkling pink notebook. “Ah,” she added wisely, squinting at the board.
Point one eight seven five,thought Olivia idly, but she did not raise her hand to rescue Coco. She made a line of purple ink on her scratch paper, turned it into a flower, then a palm tree. Her attention wandered back to the window.What if a vampire army came through the gates right now? Or no, it’s sunny. Werewolves? Or what if the Brewsters’ Halloween skeleton decided to unhook himself from the third-floor window and lurch out the door?
Ollie liked this idea. She had a mental image of Officer Perkins, who got cats out of trees and filed police reports about pies stolen off windowsills, approaching a wandering skeleton.I’m sorry, Mr. Bones, you’re going to have to put your skin on—
A large foot landed by her desk. Ollie jumped. Coco had either conquered or been conquered by three-sixteenths, and now Mr. Easton was passing out math quizzes. The whole class groaned.
“Were you paying attention, Ollie?” asked Mr. Easton, putting her paper on her desk.
“Yep,” said Ollie, and added, a little at random, “pointone eight seven five.” Mr. Bones had failed to appear. Lazy skeleton. He could have gotten them out of their math quiz.
Mr. Easton looked unconvinced but moved on.
Ollie eyed her quiz.Please convert 9/8 to a decimal. Right.Ollie didn’t use a calculator or scratch paper. The idea of using either had always puzzled her, as though someone had suggested she needed a spyglass to read a book. She scribbled answers as fast as her pencil could write, put her quiz on Mr. Easton’s desk, and waited, half out of her seat, for the bell to ring.
Before the ringing had died away, Ollie seized her bag, inserted a crumpled heap of would-be homework, stowed a novel, and bolted for the door.
She had almost made it out when a voice behind her said, “Ollie.”
Ollie stopped; Lily Mayhew and Jenna Gehrmann nearly tripped over her. Then the whole class was going around her like she was a rock in a river. Ollie trudged back to Mr. Easton’s desk.
Why me,she wondered irritably. Phil Greenblatt had spent the last hour picking his nose and sticking boogers onto the seat in front of him. Lily had hacked her big sister’s phone and screenshotted some texts Annabelle sent her boyfriend. The sixth grade had been giggling over them all day. And Mr. Easton wanted to talk toher?
Ollie stopped in front of the teacher’s desk. “Yes? I turned in my quiz and everything so—”
Mr. Easton had a wide mouth and a large nose that drooped over his upper lip. A neatly trimmed mustache took up the tiny bit of space remaining. Usually he looked like a friendly walrus. Now he looked impatient. “Your quiz is letter-perfect, as you know, Ollie,” he said. “No complaints on that score.”
Ollie knew that. She waited.
“You should be doing eighth-grade math,” Mr. Easton said. “At least.”
“No,” said Ollie.
Mr. Easton looked sympathetic now, as though he knew why she didn’t want to do eighth-grade math. He probably did. Ollie had him for homeroom and life sciences, as well as math.
Ollie did not mind impatient teachers, but she did not like sympathy face. She crossed her arms.
Mr. Easton hastily changed the subject. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about chess club. We’re missing you this fall. The other kids, you know, really appreciated that you took the time to work with them on their opening gambits last year, and there’s the interscholastic tournament coming up soon so—”
He went on about chess club. Ollie bit her tongue. She wanted to go outside, she wanted to ride her bike, and she didn’t want to rejoin chess club.
When Mr. Easton finally came to a stop, she said, not quite meeting his eyes, “I’ll send the club some links about opening gambits. Super helpful. They’ll work fine. Um, tell everyone I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “Well, it’s your decision. But if you were to change your mind, we’d love—”
“Yeah,” said Ollie. “I’ll think about it.” Hastily she added, “Gotta run. Have a good day. Bye.” She was out the door before Mr. Easton could object, but she could feel him watching her go.
Past the green lockers, thirty-six on each side, down the hall that always smelled like bleach and old sandwiches. Out the double doors and onto the front lawn. All around was bright sun and cool air shaking golden trees: fall in East Evansburg. Ollie took a glad breath. She was going to ride her bike down along the creek as far and as fast as she could go. Maybe she’d jump in the water. The creek wasn’tthatcold. She would go home at dusk—sunset at 5:58. She had lots of time. Her dad would be mad that she got home late, but he was always worrying about something. Ollie could take care of herself.
Her bike was a Schwinn, plum-colored. She had locked it neatly to the space nearest the gate. No one in Evansburg would steal your bike—probably—but Ollie loved hers and sometimes people would prank you by stealing your wheels and hiding them.
