Free Rolling Dice by Beth Reekles Page B

It’s
Dr
. Anderson.
Doctor
. Who is
so
going to give me detention for being late … Great. Detention on my first day—it just doesn’t get any better …
    I take a deep breath, and then sigh heavily as I push at the door.
    Except it doesn’t open.
    I sigh again, this time a heck of a lot more frustrated, and jiggle the handle, twisting it, and finally shoving my shoulder into the door. And, of course, when I do that, it flies open. Typical.
    Today is really just going totally
swell
.
    I fly into the room, clutching the door handle so I don’t fall on my face for the second time. In the sudden silence my heels sound unnervingly loud on the laminate tile flooring.
    “Late, as well,” says a voice. It doesn’t sound too pleased, either. “Miss … Clarke, isn’t it?”
    “Um …” I pry my shaky fingers off the door handle. It’s stupid, but my hands are trembling at the thought of a teacher being displeased with me. So I may not have been a model student in Pineford, but heck, I never got detention!
    “Um, yes …”
    The teacher looks like a Dr. rather than just Mr., I think. His hair is thick and white, and his thin silver-rimmed glasses are perched on top of his head. He has a bony, crooked nose, and he wears a long white lab coat. “You’re late, Miss Clarke,” he repeats.
    “Sorry,” I say, then add in an undertone, “Nobody ever said I didn’t know how to make an entrance, though …”
    I say it quietly enough that I think he can’t hear me, but a few people in the front row nearest me stifle a laugh, which makes me feel a little less nervous. However, even Dr. Anderson chuckles—he must have superhuman hearing or something.
    “Um, Dr. Anderson?” I say, edging closer to his desk after pushing the door shutbehind me. “There was a mix-up with my transcripts … I’m not actually supposed to be in this class.”
    “Then what are you doing here?”
    “Apparently there aren’t any classes for me to move into.”
    “Hmm. And how good are you at physics, Miss Clarke?”
    “Not very.” I smile innocently, just to make it clear that I’m not being modest, I’m perfectly serious.
    Dr. Anderson closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache. “Perfectly capable students and they can’t fit them into the class—and no wonder, if they keep messing up schedules.” Then he says, in a louder voice, “All right, Miss Clarke, you’ll have to grin and bear this class for the time being.”
    “I really don’t think there’s much chance of me being moved,” I tell him miserably.
    He scans the classroom. “Mr. Butler, please make space at your desk. Miss Clarke …” He waves a hand for me to go sit down.
    And at this, I suddenly see Dwight’s head snap up. He doesn’t so much as glance at me. “But can’t—”
    “Mr. Butler. Move.” The teacher looks back to me again. “You’ll have to try and muddle through, I’m afraid. I’ll speak to the office at the end of the day and see if there’s anything they can do, but I’m sure Mr. Butler over there will help you out. Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to think about extra classes, or a tutor.”
    Then Dr. Anderson claps his hands together. “Now, after that lengthy interruption, back to the
matter
at hand …” He chuckles at his own joke.
    I don’t even listen to the rest of the “matter at hand,” though; I’m too busy making my way to my designated seat next to Dwight. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as I drop onto the stool next to him.
    “Hi,” I say quietly. I have to say something, just to fill that empty void. It feels so incredibly tense, and I’m not even entirely sure why.
    Okay, okay! I
know
why. I should’ve said something to him at lunch rather than stammering incoherently and running off.
    But it stings: he was so nice and friendly to me the other day. Now he won’t even answer me and say hi back. Nor will he look at me, for that matter. So I try again: