Free School of the Dead by Avi Page B

her smile big. Though she was familiar, I was so upset that I couldn’t recall her name.
    â€œHi,” she said, her smile turning tentative as she searched for recognition in my eyes. “Lilly,” she said. “Your class? I didn’t mean to startle you. Don’t you love the fog?”
    I remembered. “Oh, sure. Lilly.”
    â€œRight,” said the girl, head cocked to one side in self-mockery. “Just me. Anyway, it’s my birthday this week. Oh my God, thirteen.” She lifted her shoulders as if squeezed by the huge event. “So, I’m having a party. Friday. Bunch of kids from class. Movie, go for pizza. Don’t have to bring a present. Can you come?”
    â€œThink so,” I said, recovering. “Thanks. Thirteen, congrats.”
    â€œGive you info later,” she said, and darted away as if she had acted boldly and needed the protection of three giggling girls who were watching.
    Belatedly, I realized that Lilly had to be the girl who’d written the comment that she was glad I was in the class. I was annoyed. I was embarrassed. I was pleased. Mostly I was tense, sensing that unclear things were swirling around me—the fog, the Penda Boy, Uncle Charlie. Even Lilly.
    Telling myself,
Calm down. There must be reasons
,
I checked the doors. No longer seeing the Penda Boy, I went into school.
    When I reached homeroom, I took an isolated desk. Breathing deeply, I tried to settle myself and make sense of what had happened by looking out the window at the heavy fog.
It’s all in my head
, I kept telling myself.
It’s all in my head.
Except I no longer knew what or who was in my head.
    After a while, I stole a look over to where Lilly was sitting. She must have sensed my glance, because she peeked over her shoulder and smiled shyly at me. I forced a return smile. Then I caught Jessica watching me, a reminder that I had promised to speak to her. With so much tumbling in my head, I couldn’t. Instead, I tried to pay attention to Batalie, who, thankfully, called the class to order.
    I acted as if I was there. The truth is I didn’t know where I was.
    An hour and an half later, the recess bell rang. As students rushed out, I realized Jessica had stayed at her desk reading a textbook. I was sure she was waiting for me. Though too tense to talk, I made myself go up to her.
    â€œHey, Tony. What’s up?”
    â€œI sort of want to talk about . . . you know.”
    â€œSure. Come on.”
    â€œHow about Wednesday, after school?”
    She focused her dark eyes on me and pushed back her hair. “Don’t want to be seen with me?”
    â€œI want more time.”
    For a moment, her eyes were fierce, like those in that painting of Mrs. Penda. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know.” She went off, flipping a forgiving smile over her shoulder.
    During recess, I stayed at my desk thinking about Uncle Charlie, endlessly replaying what had happened when I came to school in the fog. Had Uncle Charlie been there or not? If yes, what
was
he? I thought of the expression
touched by memories
. Yeah, but not
really
touched.
    I gazed out the windows. There was as much fog inside my mind as there was outside. I was asking myself,
If you are crazy, do you know you are crazy?
    Seventh-grade history was a European survey, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century. We were up to medieval times. The teacher, Mr. Bokor, was an enormous guy from Haiti, big enough to be an NFL linebacker except he wore baggy brown suits. He hada deep, lilting voice, which filled the classroom. As he moved among students, he was always dramatic, often funny, poking kids’ shoulders to make a point or to hold their attention. He had the kind of teaching energy kids love.
    That day he was telling stories about the medieval Tower of London, about the many people imprisoned, tortured, and killed there, their heads chopped off. He was being colorful