Girl Incredible

Chapter 8: Trouble

I stand up on reflex, head for the front of the class while everyone laughs. Mr. Gladwell doesn't seem to notice, purple veins jumping out across his wide cheeks and the surface of his slightly squished nose. He reminds me of a cranky old dragon who's had one too many run-ins with a knight in shining armor. That thought conjures an image superimposed over his face that might be the end of me if I let it make me giggle.

Steam erupts from his scaled snout as his bulging eyes follow my progress. He holds out his hand and I deposit my precious smartphone into his taloned grasp, fearful his scales might scratch the surface. Or pull off some of the sparkles I glued on last Friday when I got it home from the store. Please, let him be gentle with my new phone.

"Miss MacLean." Sparks follow the smoke from his snout, sharp teeth dripping saliva that hisses when it hits the round of his belly poking forward over the top of his belt. Small wings flutter in agitation, his tail thrashing around him while I bite my lower lip and do my best to take this seriously.

I really need to take this seriously, I think.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gladwell," I say. "It won't happen again."

A gust of hot air hits me when he spews dragon fire over the classroom. Everyone ducks, screaming, as the room transforms into a dark pit, the floor slippery with gold coins and jewels. I jerk back to normal while he speaks, the sudden reappearance of the classroom, students sitting calmly-if amused-in their seats.

"Cell phones and other devices," he slams my sweet new pet down on the top of his desk and I wince as two of the pink rhinestones break free and skitter to the floor, bouncing under his chair. Oh well, I have more at home. Easy to replace. I watch with a twinge of horror as he jerks open his desk drawer and dumps my phone inside before slamming it shut. "Are not permitted." He grits his teeth, a dragon again for a flash, then a round, fat man with a terrible case of rosacea. "In my classroom." Good thing he teaches law and not English. His grammar and sentence structure are horrendous.

He glares at me a long moment as I wait. Is he done? He might be done. It's hard to tell with the way his nostrils flare with each breath, how his clenched hands seem poised to action. I don't dare go sit down until he's finished.

"Miss MacLean." The class titters. "Sit. Down."

I bob a nod and head for my seat. When did I become so bad at reading people? I'm usually really good at it.

I spend the rest of the class trying my best to sit up and pay close attention, but I'm so far ahead of his lecture-did you know you can buy second hand college textbooks online? It's awesome!-my mind starts to wander again.

But, every time it does, I jerk it back, resorting to pinching myself hard on the inside of my arm just to stay focused. Mr. Gladwell has my phone. And, if I want it back, I have to be a good student and at least pretend to be interested in what he's saying.

By the time the last bell rings, my cheeks ache from the forced smile and my eyes are burning from trying not to blink. Not to mention the small, red mark on the soft part of my arm. I wait for everyone to leave-seems to be a habit with me today-before heading to Mr. Gladwell's desk and waiting.

And waiting. My anxiety stirs as I glance at the clock over his head, then at the watch on my wrist. I'm going to miss my bus. But, Mr. Gladwell doesn't look up, head down over something he's reading. I clear my throat once, just in case he missed the fact I was there. And again, for good measure, a little louder.

When he finally looks up, I smile my brightest and hold out my hand.

"Thanks for the wonderful class," I say. "May I have my phone, please?"

He's not smiling. Funny, my best beam usually elicits at least a grin from most people. A corner twitch, an eye sparkle. But, Mr. Gladwell seems even more dragon like now than he had at the first of class.

"Give me one good reason why I should return your phone, Miss MacLean." He's transforming again, scales jumping out on his face and neck, a thin, red tongue snaking out to swipe over his fangs.

"Because it belongs to me?" I don't understand the question.

He stands up, towering over me as he grows, shoulders pushing upward and outward, huge, green scaled body looming. The heavy scent of sulfur makes me choke, the clink and rattle of gold under his giant feet a soft song counterpoint to the rumble of his voice that shakes me to the bone.

"No. Phones. In. Class. You know the rule, Miss MacLean?"

I nod, swallow. But, I wasn't the only one-

"You broke the rules. Which means your phone is mine, now." He turns his back on me and I blink, astonished, as he becomes human again. The classroom feels suddenly claustrophobic, my heart pounding in my chest. "If you want it back, your parents have to come get it for you."

My parents? What do they have to do with this? Mr. Gladwell grabs his briefcase and strides past me, out the door.

I stand there, gaping, hands sweaty as they clench the leather strap of my messenger bag. I look down with longing at the desk drawer, at my poor, imprisoned phone.

Just take it. That's Kitalia's answer. But I back away, shake my head. And leave the room.

What am I going to tell Mom and Dad? This has been the strangest day of my life.

Just as I feared, I missed my bus. I watch it pull away, running to catch up, but I guess the driver doesn't see me waving. It's a ten block walk home, not a big deal, really. And yet, it feels like forever as I look down at the tips of my black boots while they stride over the cracks on the sidewalk and ponder the last message I read before my phone was confiscated.

The KingPin? Who is that? And what triggered a warning like that? I kick at a stray stone, watch it bounce forward and tap another, knocking it aside. Ripples of events. So, something I did during the day caught the attention-and ire-of this KingPin. I shake my head, bangs ruffling in the breeze. It's really too hot out for my fuzzy leggings and I wish I'd caught the bus. I don't mean to think unkind thoughts about Mr. Gladwell, but by the time I reach my block, I'm hot, sweaty and more than a little miffed at him.

A car pulls into a driveway three houses up and across from mine. I look up, just for something new to focus on, and am shocked to see Tate get out of the passenger's seat. Even more so when Mrs. Cradle, my new principal, exits the driver's side of the same car. I stop and stare, can't help it, as the pair go inside, talking but too far for me to hear them.

How cool is that? Tate is so lucky to have a principal as her mom. Must be her mother, right? I change trajectory, impulse carrying me toward their door, but they disappear inside. Well, I'll just have to pop over after dinner and say hidey ho.

Good thing I went right home. The phone is blinking, a message waiting for me.

Mom. Huh, I wonder what's up? She never calls from work. I call her back and answer her professional, "Dr. Pache's office," with a cheerful hello. But, her tone is much darker than mine.

"Come to the office," she huffs before hanging up. I stare at the cordless handset, whisper hello a few times into it just in case I misheard her. Why does she want me at her work?

Well, I guess if she does, she does. Still struggling with my very odd day, I leave the house again and head for the bus stop and downtown.

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