Marigold’s face went hot. She snatched the gloves, her fingers accidentally brushing against Kenji’s.
With a jolt, her vision blurred and her breath caught in her throat. She was outside, on a flat street of houses, each flanked by two palm trees. LA, she guessed, where Kenji lived before moving to Berkeley. Voices shouted in the distance. A man’s and a woman’s. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could feel Kenji’s hateful fury rise as he listened.
Her classmate came into view, younger and shorter. He was carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder and stalking toward a gray Datsun parked on the curb.
He glanced behind him. The voices were still yelling, and the bat was trembling in Kenji’s grasp. He folded his hands atop each other to steady his grip—then he swung.
The passenger window shattered. Glass flew onto the roadside, scattered across the pavement like broken stars.
Stop!Marigold tried to shout, but she never had voice in these visions. All she could do was watch the past unfurl. Again Kenji swung. He couldn’t think straight or see straight. He was too angry, his blood too thick. He busted the windshields. Lopped off one of the side mirrors. Then, as he was about to smash the headlights, Kenji suddenly dropped his bat and looked up—
In a blink, classroom A-13 came rushing into focus, and she was back in world history at her desk. When she looked up, Kenji Yamamoto was still grinning at her.
“You okay, Mari?” he asked.
Her fists were still clenched at her sides, her breaths rapid and shallow.
“My name’s Marigold,” she said. “Not Mari, not Mary. Not Marjorie or Margaret.”
Kenji’s smile faltered. “Hey, take it easy, Mari. I mean, Marigold. I didn’t mean to—”
“You can stop pretending to be nice,” she said harshly. “I know it’s an act.”
She could still feel his hate swelling inside her chest, her throat tight with his anger. What had happened after he’d smashed the car? she wondered. She supposed she’d never know.
Their classmates were still pointing at her and whispering. While he continued grinning as though he’d done nothing wrong.
She put the gloves back on. “Just leave me alone.”
As luck would have it, that was the precise moment Mr. Harkness returned to the classroom. “Yamamoto, why are you out of your seat?” he barked. “And you, Yuen. Do I need to confiscate those mittens?”
Marigold shrank. “No, sir.”
“Then why’re you wearing them? It’s eighty degrees, even the Eskimos are out in T-shirts.”
“Actually they wear caribou skin,” replied Marigold, against her better judgment. “And their proper name is the Inuits.”
“The innu-what?” Coach Harkness made a face. “Give the mittens here.”
Marigold wouldn’t. These gloves were the only armor she had that fully dampened the sparks. She had spares, yes, but these were her favorite. “I need them.”
“Needthem?” Harkness repeated. “Class, do you hear that? Looks like Miss Smart Aleck here has a security blanket.”
Marigold’s cheeks burned, but she said nothing. She held her chin high.
“She said her hands get cold,” Kenji spoke up. “Let her keep them, Coach, I was the one disturbing the class while you were out—”
“Stay out of this, Ken, I’m not talking to you.” Harkness pointed at Marigold. “You, report to detention after school. Two hours for insubordination.”
Detention! Marigold’s head buzzed. She couldn’t believe it.
The bell rang, and she shot out of her seat, the first one out the door.
“Hey, Marigold!” Kenji cried, trailing her to their lockers. “Mr. Harkness was being a jerk, I’ll try talking to him after practice—”
“Don’t bother,” she said through her teeth. “I’ll just do my homework. It’s fine.”
“Then I’ll go too and stay with you.”
