Free XGeneration 1: You Don't Know Me by Brad Magnarella Page B

now.
    “Scott?” she asked to be sure.
    He made a choked sound and coughed into his fist, then pushed up his glasses and opened his mouth to try again.
    The closet door inside the classroom flew open. Janis spun around with the other students. A woman who looked to be in her sixties sprang into the room, a wave of silver hair following her. Off to Janis’s left, the A’s screamed. The woman skidded to a stop at the teacher’s desk, her skirt of multi-colored patches billowing out, and shot her gaze from the columns of empty desks to the students at the rear of the room. She adjusted her glasses from the sides, magnifying her eyes. Then she stood back and grinned.
    “Well, drat! I was sure I’d catch one of you at a desk.”
    She turned and wiped the DO NOT SIT! message away with an eraser, then brushed her hands together and wheeled toward the classroom again. Her owl eyes blinked twice before closing. She stood there straight, chin lifted, silent. Behind Janis, a couple of titters arose. Mrs. Fern brought a long finger to her lips. The titters broke off.
    “Is there a Mr. Dougherty here?”
    A block-shaped boy to Janis’s right peered to each side as he inched forward. “Present,” he said.
    “Oh, hush with the present . This isn’t a roll call. Let’s see… Dougherty, a variant of Do her ty, probably. Irish. Of course it would have originally been O Dochartaigh or something close.” The globes of her shuttered eyes moved back and forth as if she read all of this from the inside of her eyelids. “Unfortunately, the name means ‘obstructive.’ Are you an obstructive sort, Mr. Dougherty?”
    “No, ma’am,” he answered.
    “Well, we can’t take any chances. It’s there in your name, after all. And quit it with the ma’am . I’ll start looking for my mother, and she’s ten years buried. Chop-chop! To the head of the class with you.”
    Dougherty made his way to the desk where she stood, the fingers of one hand balanced on the desktop. When Mrs. Fern stepped away, Dougherty snuck a look back and twirled his finger around his ear.
    “Obstructive and disrespectful, I see,” Mrs. Fern remarked.
    Dougherty jumped, but so did most of the rest of the classroom. She couldn’t have seen anything. Her magnified eyelids hadn’t parted, not even in the slightest. The back of Dougherty’s neck broke out in red splotches, and he began to stammer, but Mrs. Fern held her palm out for silence. No one laughed this time. Her eyes were reading the inside of her lids again.
    “Miss Pavoni?”
    “Presen—I mean, here.” Amy stepped primly from her clan.
    “Is that an Italian name?”
    “Yes, I’m Italian on my father’s side. My grandfather arrived on Ellis Island, New York in 1934 when he was twelve…”
    Janis tensed her jaw. To anyone they deemed beneath them—which was almost everyone—Amy and her friends were dismissive and cruel. And still they were awarded Good Citizenship awards by hoodwinking their teachers with the same saccharine-speak that Amy was spooning out now.
    “…The immigration service held him there because there was a tuberculosis outbreak and—”
    “Do you know the Italian word for peacock?”
    Amy scratched her elbow, her cheeks beginning to flush. “Well, I’m not sure exactly , but the Italian word for bird is—”
    “It’s pavone , Miss Pavoni—with an e instead of an i . But pronounced almost the same. Pavone . Pavoni. Peacock. It was first used as a nickname for a proud person. Someone who thought too much of herself. Now, I’m willing to bet that the quality has winnowed over the generations since being ascribed to your family, if not disappeared altogether. But a bet is never a sure thing. How about this desk here, far from the windows where your reflection in the glass could pose a distraction.”
    When Janis snort-laughed into her hand, she thought she saw the corner of Mrs. Fern’s lips turn up slightly. Amy glared at Janis and stomped to her seat, the façade