Eight

Summer

To say the day is hot would be an understatement. Even with my hair tied in a ponytail, the sun's rays warm the top of my head to the point where I'm pretty sure I could fry an egg on it. I know that any normal kid would be escaping the heat, taking sanctuary in their air-conditioned home in front of a television screen--and most of them probably are--, but I am intent on soaking up every last bit of summer before school starts next week. Before junior high.

I'm riding bikes down the road with my best friend, Jamie. Although she's only going into seventh grade like I am, she is tall and blonde and looks like she's fifteen. Everywhere we go, it seems at least one boy is staring at her. I, in contrast, am very short for my age, with average brown hair and no particularly distinguishable qualities. Grown-ups always say that I'm very pretty, but I know that I'm nothing compared to Jamie. When I point this out to my mother, she says to just wait until I hit my growth spurt.

Upon arriving at our destination--a mostly dried up creek surrounded by a small forest--, we get off of our bikes and leave them on the side of the road. Our town is small, so there's no fear of anyone stealing them. We begin our aimless trek down the worn path by the creek, and Jamie immediately starts babbling anxiously about junior high.

"I can't believe it's only a week away. We haven't even gotten our schedules yet! What if I can't find my classes on time? I heard that one time a kid was late and his teacher made him do ten pages of algebra problems as a punishment."

I half-listen to her as we stroll down the path, my eyes surveying the ground near the creek for cool rocks. A few years ago I found one the size of an apple, with red swirls and little shiny gold-colored flecks in it. It was mostly buried in the watery mud; I still remember trying for fifteen minutes to wrench it from the ground. The mud eventually succumbed, and I proceeded to walk home and use the garden hose to carefully polish my new treasure. My older brother, Drew, made fun of me for going through so much effort for a rock. He was thirteen at the time, and was convinced that he knew everything, and that grown-ups who were thirteen had more important matters to deal with than rocks. But I'm almost thirteen now and I still enjoy my rock very much.

"Sarah." Jamie interrupts my daydream. "Sarah, are you listening to me?"

     "--Huh? Sure. Schedules. Classes. Continue."

     She lets out a big huff. "I don't know how you're doing this, Sarah."

     "What do you mean?"

     "You seem so relaxed! Aren't you worried about getting lost in the halls, or having a teacher who's absolutely evil?"

     "I don't think there are any evil teachers at Carl Sandburg," I point out.

     "Actually, that's not necessarily true..." She trails off there, quiet for the first time since we got off our bikes.

"What, are you saying there really is an evil teacher?"

Jamie takes a deep breath. "Have you heard about Miss E?"

"Yeah. Isn't she a new teacher? I remember the principal giving her a welcome speech at the seventh-grade orientation."

"She's a seventh-grade English teacher. And this might sound crazy, but all the older kids say she's a witch."

I can't believe how absurd that is. "There is no way that's true."