The Cure for Dreaming by Cat Winters Read Free Book Online

steep slope of my desk.
    Percy scratched his shoulder with his chin, his eyes turned downward, and I held my breath, wondering if he had caught me staring at him. His eyelashes rose. His gaze met mine. The right side of his mouth curved into one of his sly grins, and I smiled, too, while the back of my neck prickled.
    â€œMr. Acklen, what do you believe Longfellow meant in this last stanza?” asked Mr. Dircksen, our white-haired teacher with furry sideburns that reminded me of rabbits sticking to his cheeks. His broad shadow loomed across Percy’s desk and somehow chilled my own arms with gooseflesh.
    Percy returned his attention to his reader and straightened his posture. “Um . . . I think it means, sir, we’re all trying to see more in life than what there actually is to see. The moon makes everything look more . . . spiritual. I think.”
    â€œAre you positive about that?”
    â€œYes. That’s my interpretation, at least.”
    â€œMr. McAllister, would you care to go one step further?”
    Quick-witted Theo McAllister launched into a detailed interpretation of the poem, and Percy’s shoulders relaxed.He peeked backward again to see if my eyes were still upon him—which, of course, they were.
    I mouthed three words to him: “I brought
Dracula
.”
    â€œWhat?” he mouthed in return.
    â€œDracula.”
I pointed to my toffee-colored book bag hanging on a hook on the wall next to all the other bags.
    â€œAh.” He nodded, and with an eyebrow cocked, he added, “Corrupt me.”
    My cheeks burned. Percy snickered.
    â€œMr. Acklen!” Mr. Dircksen whacked Percy across the head with the palm of his hand, hard enough to knock him out of his chair. “The first rule in this classroom is respect.”
    Everyone in the room collectively stiffened. My stomach turned with guilt as Percy—red-faced, shoulders hunched— crawled back into his chair and rubbed his ear.
    Mr. Dircksen stood up tall above Percy’s desk with his hairy neck stretched high. “Turn around in that chair one more time, and you’ll be facing the paddle in the principal’s office. Do I make myself clear?”
    Percy combed his hand through his hair. “Yes, sir.”
    Mr. Dircksen then pointed a bony finger at me. “You, in the back there. I forgot your name.”
    I choked on my own saliva.
    â€œWhat is your name?” he asked in a voice that slapped me on the back and made me cough out the words.
    â€œOlivia Mead.”
    â€œMiss Mead”—Mr. Dircksen tapped his reader against hisopened hand—“do
you
require a firm reminder of the first rule of this classroom?”
    â€œN-n-no, sir.” I shook my head until the classroom went fuzzy.
    â€œGood. Now, where were we before this interruption?”
    I clutched my desk, doubled over, and spent the rest of the class trying to remember how to breathe.
    AT PROMPTLY ONE O’CLOCK, MR. DIRCKSEN EXCUSED US. I grabbed my book bag and hustled out to the hallway ahead of my classmates, hoping for a whiff of fresh air, but all I inhaled was the smell of pencil shavings and other students. Even worse, Henri Reverie’s eyes haunted me from another black poster that someone had pinned with thumbtacks to the burlap-covered bulletin board across the hall, next to a notice for the school’s banjo club. The dramatic yellow letters—all capitals, all screaming to be seen—peeked at me from between the passing hair bows and the male heads with severe parts combed down the middle.
    THE MESMERIZING HENRI REVERIE
    â€œI’m glad he didn’t wallop your head, too,” said Percy from behind me.
    I spun around, my book bag sliding to my elbow.
    Percy walked toward me, his satchel slung over one shoulder, his hair falling into his eyes. He rubbed his earagain. “I’d use a word to describe teachers like him, but that would guarantee I’d get the