The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(7) Grandpa Massingham

The classroom door bounces off the wall as I slam it wide and stride into the classroom. Everyone flinches. Even Exie, with a startled look that vindicates my entry before she schools it back into that high-class disapproval she probably learned from her parents. I give her a shark's grin and swagger to the front of the classroom. To the desk right next to her own, in fact. This is already reckless, but her subtle shifting in her seat throws coal on the fire of my sudden loss of self-preservation. I'm done beating around the bush. If this school is used to delinquents, then I'll just have to find out how high their threshold for nuisance is.

Mrs. Hardwork, true to form, beams fondly at Exie. "Welcome back, dear. I heard you were at the library getting a head-start on your project yesterday evening; I can't wait to see what you produce on this assignment."

Something cold simmers through my chest. Of course our esteemed educator only expects anything from Exie. Nobody ever deemed me worth that kind of attention.

Mrs. Hardwork is still going. "I got a message from Mr. Farnworth that you were having difficulty finding a particular book. He passed the matter on for my assistance. I do believe I have another volume on the Santa Clarissa Cathedral in my personal library. If you humor me after class at today's end, I'll do what I can to get it for you."

Exie demoiselle Quinnell is at it again. I'm not sure which rankles me more: the fact that Exie is so obnoxiously committed to her ruse, or the fact that she's already—in a single day of posturing—done more to infiltrate Melliford Academy than all my exploration, espionage, and troublemaking combined.

Exie's eyes light up. "Oh! That would be wonderful. You have your own personal library? If you have books on Santa Clarissa, there must be all kinds of quality literature in there."

I am drubbed with the urge to empty my stomach's contents into someone else's shoes. Any teacher with half a brain should smell that rancid fakery from halfway across southern Englemark, but Mrs. Hardwork lands in the quarter-brain category. Even teachers at a school for minacious students, it seems, aren't immune to flattery.

Mrs. Hardwork preens. "I don't normally display it to students, but I can be convinced to make an exception."

"Do you consider yourself a collector?"

"Oh, only a little. But I am quite proud of my collection. And the Santa Clarissa Cathedral is a particular favorite of mine."

With that, our teacher treats Exie to a conspiratorial wink.

I wish I could say I'm not thinking straight. But the truth is, my thoughts are perfectly clear as I stand up, grab my chair, and drive it straight through the classroom window.

Glass explodes across the school lawn. Students scream, gasp, freeze. And finally—finally—Mrs. Hardwork reacts. For a moment, she's rooted, a shocked mask pasted over her expression. It's chased by a shadowed look, then a return of neutrality less placid than before. She's trying to regain that placidity, I can tell. She's failing.

"Mr. Ashcroft," she says, looking me dead in the eye. "Please take this young lady to the meeting room."

I realize too late that there's someone behind me. A hand like iron locks around my upper arm. The pale-eyed man from the end of yesterday's class looms at my side. "Come," he says. It's not a request.

"And if I don't?" I spit back.

"Here at Melliford Academy, we prefer when students do things voluntarily. We find it saves a great deal of grief for all parties involved."

"That's too bad."

I lunge sideways. I succeed only in wrenching my shoulder and making an undignified spectacle of myself in front of Exie. She's staring at me like she too has misplaced her haughty mask. Mr. Ashcroft tows me down the aisle. He's not even holding tight enough to hurt, except when I throw myself against his inhuman grip. Something feral grips my consciousness. I buck against that grip, snarling, writhing and kicking like a trapped jackrabbit. My foot catches a desk-leg. It's wrenched free, so I snare another, and this time lock a leg around until Mr. Ashcroft pries me loose. I grab it instead. He frees my hand. I collapse both legs. His grip keeps me standing. This man can't be human. Maybe they're all vampires here, and I should snatch some religious iconography for self-defense. But all iconography was already here, which means anyone here is either immune or accustomed to it. I should have stocked up on garlic.