Free Swagger by Carl Deuker

Harding High, it was his academic requirements that came flooding at me.
    In my first two classes—English and Algebra II—the teachers passed out a syllabus, warned everyone not to fall behind, and promised that we’d learn a lot if we studied hard. The other kids leaned back in their chairs and rolled their eyes; they’d heard the same lecture for years. I’d heard it too, but I felt as if it were Richter in the front of the classroom, his intense eyes warning me not to blow my chance. Both Mrs. Miller and Mr. Wunderlich had kind smiles. Maybe I’d be okay with them.
    Chemistry, my third-period class, wasn’t okay. Mr. Butler was an old-school, no-nonsense type, with a receding hairline and a shiny scalp. He wore a brown suit and a skinny brown tie.
    Once the bell rang, Butler strode up and down the rows. “I’m not like most teachers. I won’t give you a C for breathing. A C in my class means you have an average knowledge of chemistry. If you have a below-average knowledge of chemistry, you can expect a D or an F.”
    He growled on like that for a while before he sat down behind his desk, which was front and center, and stared out at us. For a long minute, the silence was heavy. Then a thick, short finger was pointed like a gun at my forehead. “Name?”
    â€œJonas Dolan,” I managed.
    â€œOkay, Jonas Dolan, tell me something about the periodic table.”
    A roaring filled my ears. Every kid in the class was staring at me. What could I say? I didn’t know anything about the periodic table.
    â€œCome on, come on,” Butler spat the words at me like bullets. “You must know something about the periodic table.”
    Kids around me laughed, nervous laughs,
Thank God I’m not him
laughs. When I felt like I was about to fall apart, a dark-haired girl looked over at me. She mouthed a word.
    â€œOxygen,” I said. “Oxygen is on the periodic table.”
    Butler clapped slowly and maliciously. “Brilliant, Jonas Dolan. Absolutely brilliant. Taxpayers will be delighted to know that the money they have coughed up for your education has not been wasted. You’ve heard of oxygen. Amazing.” He turned from me and honed in on Edward Yang, a bright-eyed Asian kid in the first row who knew about uranium, plutonium, and everything else on the periodic table. The praise Butler gave him wasn’t sarcastic.

2
    I HAD LUNCH AFTER MRS. CLEMENTS’S fourth-period American government class, but instead of going to the cafeteria, I went to see Mrs. Stone, my counselor. When I told her I wanted out of Butler’s chemistry class, a smile crept across her face. “You’re not the first student who has said that to me.”
    She spun around in her chair to face her computer. Screens came up and screens went down. After about two minutes she turned back to me. “Keyboarding. Or you could be a library assistant.”
    â€œI need a lab science.”
    â€œYou’ve already taken biology.”
    â€œDoesn’t somebody else teach chemistry?”
    She raised her eyes. “At Harding chemistry means Mr. Butler.”
    â€œWhat about physics? Could I take physics?”
    â€œChemistry is a prerequisite.” She paused. “Should I switch you to keyboarding?”
    I took a deep breath and exhaled. “No, I’ll stick with Butler.”
    She looked surprised. “Okay. But if you decide to switch later, it’ll be harder.”
    I had Spanish fifth period with Mr. Contreras, and as my classmates struggled to introduce themselves in Spanish, I half considered slipping out of the classroom to phone Coach Richter to tell him I had a crazy man for a chemistry teacher and to plead with him to drop the laboratory-science part of the deal. But the other kid Richter was considering for the scholarship—whoever and wherever he was—that kid wasn’t going to drop classes. He was probably going to get