Free The Fake Heart (Time Alchemist Series) by Allice Revelle Page A

classes only an hour long, but the schedules were never overlapping or right next to each other (so you don’t have to dash from the English hall all the way to Gym which was across the campus in five minutes flat).
    I was pretty fortunate to get many hour long g aps between most of my classes. Maybe it was karma’s way of saying I had suffered enough (what, with the whole near death experience and stuff), but I went the entire day finding the right classrooms and lucking up with brilliant and (somewhat) friendly teachers. Heck, even my classmates actually cared about their education, unlike the sad lot back at my old school in New York.
    Surrounded by the crisp smell of newly cracked textbooks and dusty chalk, I remembered why I had thrived to come here in the first place. I temporarily forgot all about Dove and alchemy and the Elixir and just escaped into my studies. If there was one thing I was confident about it was doing perfect in my school work.
    Because that was the one thing I could finally control.
     
    ◊◊◊◊◊
     
    I slid in the last remaining seat of History III just as the warning bell rang. My bag fell in a heavy thump on the floor, filled with the required textbooks and giant load of homework. I was exhausted, and it didn’t help I hardly slept a wink last night. I had been too busy tossing and turning, playing Dove’s words over and over in my brain.
    “Good afternoon, class,” a tall man said, walking up to the front. His hair was shaggy and black and his chin had a hint of stubble. Behind his thick , framed glasses, his eyes twinkled in excitement. Judging from his posture and his broad smile, I had a feeling I would really like him, unlike my stern Economics professor Mr. Wesley, who immediately kicked out two students for coming in right as the bell rang. Instead, they were forced to wait in the hall the entire hour as he lectured about our first assignments.
    But I loved history, so I was pretty sure, mean teacher or not, that I would have a blast either way.
    “Welcome one, welcome all,” he said, writing his name in big, bold letters on the chalkboard. “I am Mr. Hogan. No, you may not call me Mr. Hoggie or Mr. Ho, you kids and your hip slang.” A ripple of light laughter came from the students, and even the ones who pretended to be bored had their lips curled in a smile.              
    “Ready for a pop quiz?”
    Instantly the laughter disappeared, replaced by a chorus of groans. Mr. Hogan lifted his hands up, “Hey, it was just a simple question, no need to get so eager! And no, there is no pop quiz, but at least I know how I can get on your good sides.”
    I laughed with the class as he passed out papers on what we would be learning and information about the clubs he ran. The class rushed by in a blur, and it turned out that Mr. Hogan was a favorite amongst my peers. He was light hearted and an occasional prankster, but he really put his foot down when somebody was misbehaving, unlike the professors that issued Detention cards or where too scared to anger their students.
    Mr. Hogan respected his kids, and it was returned. I liked that about him.
    As the final bell for the day rang, everybody sprang from their seats and rushed out the doors, gym bags and purses flapping against their uniforms. I wandered up to the chalk board, eyeing the assortment of papers that read “Join the Presidential Club!” , “The Debate Club Needs You !”, or “Classic and Historical Literature Club.” Until my eyes caught a list with large, childish handwriting. “Come Join the Humanities Club!” it read:
     
    Like History? So Do we!
    Like Mythology? This is The Place to Be!
    Don’t Really Like Either but Want Some Free Food? Then Come to the Library Room 206 on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays After School at 4:30 pm! Don’t miss out! If You Have any Questions, Ask the Hoganator or Mrs. Clarke for Information! Or Contact Miss President Karin Foster at [email protected]!