Free Sliding On The Edge by C. Lee McKenzie Page B

says.
When you love something, it’s tucked under your heart.”
    “ I don’t love one single
thing around this place,” I say, before I walk away.
    “ That’s gotta be terrible
for you,” Sunday Boy calls after me.
    What is he, anyway, a
damned preacher? I scuff the dirt with my
feet. “I don’t have anything tucked anyplace.”
     

Chapter 18
    Shawna
     
    Pollard Nix is my history teacher.
He’s standing in front of the class, tugging at a really ugly
floral tie and looking a lot like a sausage stuffed inside his
jacket. He’s said something important, because he picks up the
chalk and turns to write on the board. When he lifts his arm, the
stitches along the back seam give way, so now the lining peeks out
from inside. It’s kind of like looking at a guy’s fly that comes
unzipped. You want to say, “Hey! It’s snowing, bud.” But instead,
some students slide glances at each other, while others pretend
Pollard Nix isn’t popping out of his clothes. I join with the last
group and write down the dates he’s scribbled on the scarred
blackboard.
    Sweet River High is so far under the
hi-tech radar that I’m guessing whiteboard has never been an entry
in their dictionaries. The computer lab is the size of maybe a big
broom closet, and their computers are charity donations that the
good citizens of the community have provided. Three Apples (plain
with fat monitors) and two PCs loaded with older Windows software.
The third and newest one actually has the latest version.
Networking is not in anyone’s vocabulary, but that’s fine with me.
I’m not into being connected with anyone, so I don’t bother with
the so-called computer lab.
    Pollard is making more
points . . . important ones. I’m writing—I think. But my head keeps
snapping back and waking me up, so maybe I’m actually not awake.
I’m dreaming I’m writing. Snap . I’m dreaming I’m meeting the
Sunday Boy. Snap .
I’m . . .
    “ Shawna. Pssst.”
    Snap . Up comes my head again.
    “ He’s coming. Wake
up.”
    I look across at The Troll.
    “ Nix” she hisses. “Look
out.” She buries her nose in her book and scribbles notes on the
lined paper next to it.
    “ Miss Stone?”
    I look up at my friend Pollard Nix and
yawn.
    “ It seems I’m boring you
today,” he says.
    “ No.” I’m awake now so I can
answer and sound alert. “Not today.”
    “ Nice to hear. Please see me
at the end of class.” He glances at The Troll, who has filled the
entire page with . . . what? He walks back to the front of the
room, white stuffing poking out even further from his jacket seam
than the last time I looked.
    The Troll slides me a glance
and a grin. What does she want? Good
grief, go away.
    The bell ends my captivity in history,
but Pollard wants more of me today, so I gather my books and
shuffle to his desk.
    He looks up from his seat and smiles.
“How about a mini-review, Miss Stone?
    I think it would do us both good to go
over today’s lesson.”
    I shrug and shift my books to my hip.
He breaks a pencil.
    “ What was today’s lesson?”
he asks, staring at the two pieces of yellow #2 in each
hand.
    “ Industrial Revolution,” I
reply.
    He nods.
    “ And what are the main
points I made today?”
    “ Children suffered. Some
people organized the National Child Labor Committee in 1904. They
wanted to stop the abuse of young workers. By 1907, about two
million little kids worked and didn’t go to school. In 1912, Taft
created the Children’s Bureau. He gave a woman named Julia Lathrop
the job as head of the bureau.” I shift my books to my other
hip.
    Pollard Nix tosses the two pieces of
pencil so they popped into the air. Without saying anything, he
shoves his chair away from his desk and stands. He walks to the
door, stops, and faces me. “And just think what more you could tell
me, Miss Stone, if you’d remained awake?”
    “ There was more?”
    He slams the door so hard, the picture
of George Washington tilts left.
    I wait for the