didnât know what to say about that. It was hard to think of Coach as his father because the word had come to mean something Harrison didnât necessarily appreciate, and he already really liked Coach.
After Mr. Sofia realized Harrison had no reply, he pointed to a door down the hall. âThereâs your math class, Mrs. Zebolt, 209. If you have any problems or questions, you can stop by anytime.â
âThank you, Mr. Sofia.â
The guidance counselor smiled a big, bright smile and said, âKids call me âS.â Just âS.ââ
Harrison nodded and crossed the hall to 209. He opened the door and stepped inside. All eyes were on him.
âYouâre late, young man.â The teacher had little round glasses and the curly brown hair of a poodle. âThatâs no way to start your career with me .â
Harrison said nothing. One empty desk remained in the front row. He sat down at it, but not before he saw Becky Smart sitting in the back. That only made Harrisonâs face glow, and he hunched over in the front seat, aware that he blocked the view of the person behind him.
âYour name?â
It took Harrison a moment before he realized the teacher was talking to him.
âHarrison.â
âHarrison what?â she asked.
âHarrison Johnson, maâam.â
âManners?â Mrs. Zebolt sniffed. âI know all about your past, Harrison.â
Harrison nodded and felt his cheeks warm.
Mrs. Zebolt turned back to the whiteboard, attacking it with her marker in little squeaky bursts.
Harrison felt a pencil eraser poke him in the back. The boy behind him whispered, âHey, you big, dumb retard. How many grades did you fail?â
Harrison shifted in his seat, ignoring the kid. He felt the anger building up inside him, but he remembered Coachâs words only a few minutes ago. It almost seemed like Coach had set him up, to test him. Thatâs what Harrison thought, and he was determined to pass the test.
After a few minutes, he felt another poke. âWhat are you, a retarded zombie? Whatâs with that bloody eye, you retard?â
Harrison heard the boy next to him and the girl behind him snicker together under their breath and glance his way.
Harrison saw red. He had a vision of himself turning around and punching the boy directly in the mouth, breaking his teeth, and then throwing him to the ground for a good stomping. He actually could see it happening in his mind, but he brought Coachâs words back to life in his head. He had to hold back.
But when the next poke came, Harrison couldnât help himself.
He had to do something, and he spun around.
Chapter Fifteen
INSTEAD OF FREEING THE punch that had coiled itself up inside his arm like a rattlesnake, Harrison snatched the boyâs pencil and snapped it like a matchstick in one hand. He laid the broken pieces on the desk, ignoring the look of shock on the boyâs face, and turned back toward the front.
Mrs. Zeboltâs marker squeaked out the final line to her problem and only then did she turn to face the class. âWho can tell me how to solve this?â
Silence greeted her. She scowled and headed for Harrison, holding out the marker. âWell, Mr. Johnson , in case youâre not the type to do your homework, itâll be good for you to know that if no one volunteers, I choose a person to do the problem. And, if they canât , itâs an F that gets added into their test scores for the marking period.â
Mrs. Zebolt was two steps from Harrison. The anger burning in him from being poked and teased was already simmering beneath his skin, and now this mean teacher was going to give him an F when heâd done nothing wrong?
The teacher took another step, then someone said, âI know the answer, Mrs. Zebolt.â
All eyes turned toward Becky Smart. She was already up and out of her seat. She whisked past Mrs. Zebolt and stood facing the board. She