Free Quaking by Kathryn Erskine

library conference rooms next to my computer. She is followed by a half-dozen students. They do not look upset, so I assume they are not in trouble.
    I go back to surfing until I hear her laugh. It is always a little odd when a teacher laughs. So I listen.The conference room door is open, after all, so I cannot help but hear.
    “No, I really can’t,” she says.
    I hear a chorus of “please,” “aw, come on,” “maybe if you . . . ,” but everyone is talking at once.
    Finally, I hear Mrs. Jimenez above the others. “I’m still new. Wouldn’t a peace club normally have someone like a World Civ teacher as a sponsor?”
    “Except we only have one, and he happens to be Franklin High’s registrar for the Selective Service. Not exactly a peace candidate, huh?”
    “Yeah,” a boy adds, “and Mr. Morehead is definitely not normal.”
    There is laughter, but a girl halfheartedly reprimands them. “You guys, come on.You know why he’s like that.”
    I know that voice! Susan from World Civ! The one with the frizzy hair. Like me. I wonder if—
    The door to the conference room closes and I look over at it, surprised, as if someone has suddenly muted the TV.
    “Hey,” a voice behind me says, “if you’re not using the computer, can you get off? I’ve got actual work to do.”
    I grab my stuff and leave. But I wonder what is going on behind the closed door.And why Mr.Warhead is the way he is.
    But I do not wonder for long because soon it is the end of the day and the bus ride is hell, as usual.The Rat’s greasy, stringy dark hair falls onto his desert army jacket. His skinny black legs stick out from the bottom of the jacket like two snakes that have been lulled into service holding him up and then died of shock when they realized who was looming over them. The Rat may be in camouflage but it does not make him blend in. His pointed-toe boots trip people coming down the aisle. He makes unsavory comments about one boy’s mother. He describes the blemishes on a girl’s face, loudly, until she is in tears. He gets up and struts farther to the back of the bus to avoid the “bawling bitch.”
    I am guiltily grateful that I am not the Victim.
    In the Quaker kitchen, Jessica is putting groceries away. I notice she has two large hunks of cheese. I watch her put them behind the margarine tub in the fridge drawer. It is not much of a hiding place but it will work for Sam.
    I hear the front door open.“Hi, family!” Sam calls.“How is everyone?”
    He walks into the kitchen and the Blob claps for him. Jessica gives him a kiss and he practically steps on one of the grocery bags on the floor.
    “Whoa!” he says, stepping back and then peering into the bag. “Hey, did you get me any cheese this time?”
    She gives me a quick, crafty smile. “Uh, no.”
    I have to give her credit. She is not lying. She did not buy the cheese for him. She bought it for me.
    “When am I ever going to get cheese again?” he asks with a pouty face.
    “When your cholesterol goes way below 312 like it is now!”
    “But my good cholesterol is high, too,” he protests.
    “Good thing,” Jessica says, patting his puffy cheek.“It can go to work on all that ice cream you sneak when I’m not watching.”
    He sticks his hands in his pockets, slumps his shoulders, and sticks out his bottom lip. “You’re a meanie,” he says, sounding like a two-year-old, and I can tell that he is barely able to keep from laughing. “I’m going to go find a wife somewhere else.” He starts backing out of the kitchen.
    Jessica pulls a package of napkins out of a grocery bag and flings it at him. He catches it with a grin and they both start laughing as Sam rushes at her, grabs her, and kisses her, which starts the Blob laughing, too.
    We sit down to dinner with the new napkins. Purple. Again, they clash with the décor.
    Over our dessert of apple slices and nonfat cookies, Jessica tells Sam that Our Lady of Peace was attacked a second time. “I thought it