“Don’t count yourself out just yet, June,” she says, gathering a stack of books into her arms. “You read that one book, and one book can change everything.”
* * *
By the end of fifth period, Ms. Bradshaw’s flyers are all over the school. I’ve only hung one of mine. I had been hoping to wait until after my mom returned The Makings of a Witch. But the flyers pepper the library door, the drink machines, and even the math hallway. Ms. Bradshaw or other groupies have been hard at work. And if Mom sees them—and how could she possibly not?—it will just make things worse.
When I reach the high school band room next door, I’m about to jump out of my skin. I lace up my running shoes and drop my boots in a heap by the wall. Grabbing my case from the shelf, I put my flute together and sprint through the back door as fast as I can, my light brown ponytail swishing against my neck with every step.
“Come on!” Emma loops her skinny arm through mine and half walks, half drags me toward the field. “We’re going to miss it!” I grin in spite of myself.
Emma loves being in high school band as much as I do. But I know there’s a specific reason she’s in a hurry now. Matt Brownlee. He’s an eighth grader, and when he smiles, he shows off matching dimples. Emma and a few of the high school flute players won’t stop talking about them.
Emma squeezes my arm. “Three o’clock.” She nods toward Matt. He’s chatting with the other baritones next to a gray car. My mother’s car. I think I’m going to be sick. I guess Mom couldn’t wait until after school.
“Emma,” I say.
But her eyes are locked on Matt. “He’s never had a girlfriend. How is that even possible?” Her short black hair is pulled back, the flyaway pieces secured with sparkly clips.
“Em,” I say again, and grab her arm.
“What?”
I point to my mom’s car. And of course Matt reaches for his Gatorade at that exact moment and sees my finger aimed in his direction. He raises an eyebrow. I turn away, cheeks burning brightly against my tan.
Emma’s voice comes out as a hiss. “June! He saw you.”
I shake my head and ignore her. I have bigger problems right now. “It’s my mom’s car,” I hiss back at her.
Emma sucks in her breath. “Just try not to think about it—there’s nothing you can do.”
She’s right. It’s done, whatever it is. I dart a glance over my shoulder at the band room’s back door, only to spot Brooke charging toward us. Mom is still nowhere in sight. “Wait up!” Brooke yells.
“Finally!” she gasps, trying to catch her breath. “Oh my gosh, so I’m in the hallway, and the old dude who teaches eighth-grade science stops me and asks where I’m going. I hold up my flute and I’m like, ‘I’m late for band.’ And then he tells me I can’t be in the hall after the bell rings anymore unless I want a write-up.” She rolls her eyes.
“Ugh, what’s with that guy?” Emma says. “You were running to honors band! It’s not like you were doing something really bad.”
“Right?” Brooke exclaims, the freckles on her pale cheeks coming out in the sun.
“I’ve never even gotten a write-up. Have you?” Emma says.
“Nope.” I glance back to Mom’s car.
“Same. When are they going to realize they can trust us to do the right thing?” Brooke says.
I think about The Makings of a Witch and the “scary” scenes that made my parents so angry. “I don’t know if they ever will,” I say.
We trickle onto the path toward the stadium. After school, we practice on the student parking lot, but we can’t do that when the cars are all still here. So we get to practice on the football field. I stare up at the stands in awe as we walk in—even without an audience, it feels exciting to play here.
“Hey, June,” someone behind me says. Emma’s eyes widen and she looks like she’s about to say something. Graham. He falls into step with me and says, “I’m here if you need me to catch you.”
I offer a smile that probably makes me look like I’m in pain, but that’s generally what happens when I have to talk to cute guys. Strolling through the stadium gates and onto the track, I sneak a glance up at Graham. What am I supposed to say? You’re pretty? Ugh. I kick a pebble into the grass.
I keep walking, trying not to look at him. Emma and Brooke tag along next to us, craning their necks to watch.
He shifts his trumpet to his other hand. “So, I was wondering. You wanna go to the diner after the game? A bunch of us are going.” He nods over at Emma and Brooke like they’re an afterthought. “You guys can come, too.”
Emma’s face lights up like Christmas just came early. I’m tempted to turn around to make sure he’s not talking to someone else. But he’s staring at me, waiting for an answer. Is he asking me out out?
Like on a date? I wish I could tell him anything but the truth. It’s so embarrassing. And I’m still really upset about it. “I don’t think I’m allowed.”
Emma whirls around. “She’s allowed!”
“Emma!” This is hard enough without help.
His mouth twitches with amusement. “So, which is it?”
Emma looks like she’s about to explode.
I know the diner will never happen. Even if I weren’t grounded, there’s still the whole no-dating rule. If it’s even a date. But it’s not like I can get in any more trouble today. “I’ll ask.”
“Great,” Graham says.
The squeaks of the loudspeaker humming to life echo over the field. “It’s heating up, guys, so let’s do what we need to do and get back inside for fight tunes. We’ll start at one in two minutes. Hurry up and get there.”
The crowd disperses by section. Clarinets merge toward the flutes on the eastern side of the field, and trumpets, baritones, and tubas scurry to the opposite end.
“I’ll catch you after the game,” Graham says. Yep. And I’ll catch the wrath of my parents. It’ll be awesome.
The flute section awaits, and Emma and Brooke look like they’re about to burst. But there’s no time to talk. I’m not really feeling up to it anyway. Now I get to worry about telling Graham no and about Ms. Bradshaw. Graham is going to think I’m a princess locked in a tower who can’t talk to boys, which is totally not true. My bedroom isn’t in a tower.
We have just enough time to line up, and then the snare drum starts its cadence. Our band director, Mr. Ryman, decided to have a Jaws theme for our show this year. The best part is that we get to wear T-shirts that say WE’RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER BOAT. It’s pretty much my idea of heaven. I can quote almost every line from the film (the edited, less scary version, of course).
We make it through the show twice. The third time, at the crescendo of the Jaws theme, the back door of the middle school bursts open like the building is on fire. Ms. Bradshaw follows, a box in her arms and her purse slung over her shoulder, and makes a beeline for her beat-up gold car. One of our school security guards steps out of the building behind her.
Something is majorly wrong.
This isn’t a coincidence. My mom went to the library, and now Ms. Bradshaw is leaving. I want to sprint to the parking lot, but I’ll be written up for sure if I go tearing off the field during class for no reason. All I can do is watch from a distance as Ms. Bradshaw slams her trunk shut. I know that everything happening to her is my fault. The Jaws theme makes it feel even more messed up.
I do my best not to get trampled by my section when her car peels out of the lot.
“Get it together, flutes!” Mr. Ryman says. “Act like you’ve done this before!”
But I’m hopeless. If I fall in line with any formation at all, it’s by sheer habit and luck. I can’t focus on anything other than finding out what happened to Ms. Bradshaw.
“Watch your step!” Emma yells over her shoulder in the show’s final moments. “You almost ran right into
me!”
We play the last note and snap our flutes into vertical positions in front of us. I march down the sideline and off the field to the beat of the snare. It doesn’t feel like the afternoon before our last real game. It feels like a march to the gallows.
“Wake up, June!” Emma hisses. We exit in pairs through the main gate.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
And I am. I’m so sorry I ever got caught.
I stake out the uniform closet the minute the final bell rings, but it’s a total waste of time. Mom doesn’t show until an hour before the game. It’s not like her at all. She loves her role in the band.
“Mom,” I say. “Did you see Ms. Bradshaw?”
“Not at first.”
Not at first? “Okay, who did you see?”
“Principal Beeler. I showed him your book, and then we paid Ms. Bradshaw a visit.”
Heat creeps into my face. “You could’ve just returned it,” I say quietly.
She presses the iron to the maroon pants until the material yields in a perfect crease. Mom is good at getting everyone and everything to do what she wants. Even pants. “I could’ve, but what about other kids who might be exposed to it? It just wouldn’t be right.”
“And then?” I keep my voice calm. The better to cover the rush of panic I feel washing over me. What did she do?
Five clarinets pick that exact moment to check out their uniforms. She clears her throat, business as usual. “Now isn’t the time, June. We’ll discuss it later.”
* * *
It’s our last game of the year, and I’m sitting helpless in the stands gnawing on room-temperature pizza and listening to the gossip flying around me.
“I’m telling you,” Brooke says from under sweaty bangs, “security doesn’t run teachers off without reason.” It sounds logical enough, except for one problem. There’s no good reason to send Ms. Bradshaw away.
Emma smears ChapStick on her lips and gives me a small smile. She hasn’t said a word since it happened.
“I bet she got accused of something, and now she’s under investigation.” Brooke removes her glasses and polishes them on her pants.
Emma glances at me, but she stays quiet, protecting my secret. I attack a hunk of crust much too large for me to chew. It’s either that or tell Brooke about my mom, and then everyone will know that this is all my fault.
Something happened in that room to drive out Ms. Bradshaw. Something horrible enough to require a security escort. But what? Surely this can’t be all Mom’s doing? Or Dad’s? I know they go overboard, but a scary book isn’t enough to make them this mad…right?
The drum major climbs the podium and calls us to attention to play one of the twenty fight songs we have memorized. But I can’t focus. I’m not in the mood to cheer for anything. I crack open a Coke, even though I know I can’t play my flute for the next hour unless I want the sugary syrup to collect on the key pads like sap. I guzzle the drink.
Using the back of my white glove as a napkin, I survey the track. From dozens of yards away, my parents seem normal. They lean over the fence in their band booster shirts and jeans, looking like they actually care about organized sports. Even from way up here, I can still make out the outline of a great white shark on the backs of their shirts.
Mr. Beeler, the principal, is in intense conversation with them—probably over how to ruin my life. He looks over his shoulder and scans my row until his eyes locate me, seated with Coke in hand while everyone around me plays on cue.
Before I can move an inch, Mom turns and zeroes in on my quiet rebellion. I jump to my feet and fling down the can.
But it’s too late. The damage is done. She shakes her head. I can hear it now. “June, you really wanted that flute, didn’t you?” and “I’m so glad we invested in something you could destroy without a moment’s thought.”
My shoulders drop. I wish I could stop disappointing my parents. And now I can kiss any chance of going to the diner goodbye.
* * *
When the game ended, Mom was still fuming. She would’ve whisked me away from everyone as quickly as possible, especially after I had the nerve to ask if I could go for burgers to celebrate the last game of the season. But she had to run the uniform closet, so all she could say was “Absolutely not!” right in front of Emma and Brooke. No surprise there. At least she didn’t broadcast that I was grounded.
I lean back in my chair and wait. Brooke slicks her hair back into a fresh ponytail and dusts powder on her cheeks. Emma coughs inside a cloud of her sweet peach body spray. I don’t know why they’re getting ready. The diner’s not happening, and now I have to tell an eighth grader—that eighth grader—that I’m not coming. Why didn’t I just say no when he asked?
I’m still stewing over how unfair my life is right now when a duffel bag drops to the floor on my right. Graham grins down at me. “I’m starving,” he says. “Who’s up for some onion rings?”
My stomach gets that flippy feeling as soon as I hear his voice. This is going to be so painful.
“Sure, I’ll go,” Emma says, zipping her bag shut.
My jaw would hit the floor if it weren’t attached to my face.
“Count me in,” Brooke says.
Wait. What? How can they do this when they know I can’t go?
“How about it, June? Are you allowed?” Graham asks.
It takes everything in me to find my voice. “No,” I say. “Not tonight.”
His face actually falls like he’s disappointed. “Oh, okay.”
Maybe it was a date? And now I’ll never know for sure.
“Maybe next time,” I say. This is the last game. There’s no next time unless it’s an after-school thing.
“Sure. Next time.” He nods at the door. “My mom said she’d give us a ride.” His mom drives a fancy blue SUV.
I try not to look wounded. But I am. And then he’s out the door with Brooke without a second glance.
“Hey.” Emma hangs back for a moment. “Is this okay?”
I pretend like I’m looking for something in my bag. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I just—you don’t even like him. I didn’t think you’d care.”
I shrug. “I don’t care.” She knows I’m lying, but she leaves anyway.
The whole ride home is miserable. I’m caught between being in deep trouble, wanting to ask twenty questions about Ms. Bradshaw, and thinking about what it would be like to sit at a booth with Graham.
“Do you want to pay for a complete repadding?” Mom asks.
“No, ma’am.” I want to tell her that I didn’t play my flute at all, so the Coke couldn’t have hurt it, but I’d probably just get into more trouble.
“I didn’t think so. Maybe you should start thinking about babysitting next summer. I refuse to pay for something you purposely did.”
Dad speaks up. “That’s if she doesn’t go to a summer enrichment program.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “You’re going to apply soon.”
That means no band camp. I’m not sure this day could get worse.
We pull into the driveway, and I trudge into my weekend prison. Dad’s keys clatter across the side table, and he disappears into his office to answer emails. In the kitchen, the ice maker whirs and plinks cubes against Mom’s glass. This isn’t the time, but I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t know. I have to know.
Mom flops down on the couch and places her glass on a coaster.
“Hey, Mom?”
She drops her head and rubs gentle, counterclockwise circles into her temples with her thumbs. “What?” Her shoulder-length brown hair falls around her face like a helmet.
“Where did Ms. Bradshaw go?”
She sighs. “Who says she went anywhere?”
“Mom, I saw a security guard walk her out of the school, and so
did a hundred band kids. Secret’s out. Why did they make her leave?”
She parts her curtain of hair to look at me and presses her lips together. “It turns out there are things we didn’t know about Ms. Bradshaw.”
I wait. Ms. Bradshaw doesn’t seem like the type to have deep, dark secrets. Mom says nothing.
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
“Not tonight.” She takes a slow sip of iced tea.
How would Kate handle this? She’s always so good at getting what she wants. When my parents first enacted their no-party policy, she didn’t let that stop her. Kate insisted that she’d be attending an “academic celebration” at her friend’s house. And it worked. No, Kate would never come right out and say it. But I’m not Kate, and I’m already grounded.
“I don’t get why Ms. Bradshaw was forced to leave. I read a book, you returned it. People read books all the time.”
“Not those books.”
Stay calm. “Mom, I’ve read worse.”
“Have you, now?” The ice clinks against her glass.
I square my shoulders and raise my chin. “Yes.” I don’t feel half as brave as I sound.
She kicks off her shoes and props up her feet on the ottoman. “It’s time you went to bed.”
Dismissed. Swatted away like a pesky mosquito buzzing around her ear.
I haul my bags up to my room. I drop everything when I see the bookshelf in the corner. It’s empty.
Every. Single. Book.
Gone.
I charge down the stairs to the living room to find Mom curled up with my dog-eared copy of The Hobbit. Next to her, Dad reads The Little Prince.
I look from one to the other. “What did you do with my books?”
Mom turns a page and keeps reading.
“They’re in safekeeping until we can make sure they’re quality reading material.” Dad takes off his reading glasses and massages the bridge of his nose.
“What?” I don’t understand them at all.
Property of the Rebel Librarian Page 2
