Free My Time as Caz Hazard by Tanya Kyi Page B

nodded. “It does indeed. Mr. Hallard, Caz’s dyslexia is not severe. What we would like to suggest is that you place her in our remedial reading program. She’ll spend part of each morning with a small group of other students and receive personal attention from our learning assistance teacher. For the remainder of the day, she can take regular classes.”
    Dad agreed to everything, like he always does, and I tuned out. Was dyslexia curable? I didn’t want to ask.
    When we got outside, Mom was in a fury. “I can’t believe you stayed and let that woman talk to you like that,” she shouted as soon as Dad climbed into the car.
    â€œShe’s only trying to help,” Dad said.
    Mom echoed him in a high voice. “She’s only trying to help. Well, Ms. Goody Two-Shoes can stuff it. Caz isn’t stupid. I hope you told her that!”
    â€œI told her that we would do whatever it takes to help Caz improve,” Dad said. I thought that was nice of him, although I saw no real hope of improving.
    â€œYou are so immensely spineless,” Mom snarled. At Dad, not me. “They probably thought ‘sucker’ the minute they saw you. They can put your daughter into whatever retard class they want, and you say nothing.”
    I sank into the backseat upholstery and pretended I wasn’t there.
    â€œNo one’s calling Caz a retard,” Dad said.
    â€œNo one says retard anymore,” I told them. That was a mistake. It gave them an excuse to stop yelling at each other. They both glared at me instead.
    When we got home I went straight to the phone to call Mel and tell her how horrible Mom had been. Then I realized that I’d have to explain about the remedial reading class. Halfway through dialing, I hung up.

Chapter Three
    On the first day of school at Dogwood, I wore a burgundy skirt with my high black boots. A bit sleazy, I guess, but I wanted to make an impression. And I succeeded. I wasn’t even in the hallway for two minutes before this guy with curly black hair and huge brown eyes separated himself from his friends. I could tell he was the type who stopped conversation at a party just by entering the room.
    â€œNew kid?” he asked. I told him I’d just transferred.
    â€œI’m Brad. I’ll show you around.”
    â€œYou could show me to my first class,” I told him, giving him my best flirty look. I reached in my bag for the schedule the principal had given me. I found it, already crumpled. “It’s 112.”
    â€œSure,” he said, “112.” Then all of a sudden he stopped talking. His eyes looked like they were scanning the hallway for an escape route. Was it my imagination? Had I developed a giant zit on my forehead in record time?
    â€œI just remembered something,” he said. “I gotta go. Your class is at the end of the hall.”
    The door was only a few steps ahead and I found it easily enough. As I was walking into the classroom, I heard a guy’s voice at the other end of the hall calling, “Check it out — a new sped!” I glanced in that direction. Brad and his friends were looking straight at me, leering.
    I ducked into the classroom as if it were an emergency shelter. Then I looked around.This couldn’t possibly be the right place. It looked more like a day care than a high school classroom. There were two bulletin boards covered with brightly colored construction paper, looking like they were ready to showcase new finger paintings, and there was an alphabet pinned to the top of one wall.
    Seated around a long, rectangular table were four other kids — two girls on one side and two guys on the other. One guy was rocking back and forth slightly, tapping on the table. He had blond hair that hung over his forehead and swayed back and forth into his eyes as he rocked. He didn’t look up. The other guy had dark skin and piercing black eyes. He was staring at me like I’d