Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Ezra’s grin fades as he reads, melting away by centimeters. A frown squeezes between his brows. He places the paper back onto my desk, slumps in his chair and starts scribbling in the margins of his notebook. The words are in Hebrew so I have no idea what he’s writing, but he presses so hard the pencil dents the paper.
“Ez.” My voice comes out like a hissing cat, low and irritated. “Don’t read my stuff.”
“Since when?” he mumbles, not bothering to look up, his wide mouth sulky. His shoulders are parentheses, bowed, bracketing his body like they’re holding him together. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. I thought you and Mona were just playing around. I didn’t know it was…”
He glares at the notebook and carves the Hebrew letters onto the paper, a torn black ribbon pinned to his T-shirt over his heart, a Jewish sign of mourning. It’s been a hard month for him. Bubbe died two weeks before Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah. The Sterns went up to New York right away for the funeral, even Ezra’s father who has never really gotten along with Mrs. Stern’s family. When they returned, we attended Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah at the synagogue, and the reception after. I didn’t understand everything that happened, but I knew Ezra worked hard to learn Hebrew and prepare for the ceremony. He excelled, like he does in everything. I researched the best things to give, and found out gifts in increments of eighteen are kind of like good luck, so I gave him eighteen Pixie Stix. Mrs. Stern isn’t usually strict about him keeping Kosher, but leading up to the Bar Mitzvah, he did. Pixie Stix are his favorite.
“Hey,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw knots.
“Ezra, I—”
“Miss Allen,” Mrs. Clay cuts in, her voice like a snapping turtle. “Since you want to talk so much, you can read the passage.”
What passage?
Crap.
I hate reading out loud. On paper, I can hold my own with any of the kids in our gifted classes, but when I read aloud, the words shuffle in my mouth and strangle my tongue.
“Um, n-n-no, ma’am.” I clamp my lips together and swallow hard, closing my eyes and breathing deeply like my speech therapist suggested. “No, I don’t want t-t-to t-t-talk. I’m sorry. I—”
“It was not a request, Miss Allen.” She leans against the chalkboard, apparently uncaring that she’s probably getting chalk dust all over her beige cardigan. “Read the passage.”
“Um, o-okay.” I gulp my fear down and study the board. “Which one exactly should I—”
“The one we’ve been discussing.” Mrs. Clay huffs a long sigh. “The opening lines of the book, please.”
I glance at the book on my desk, A Tale of Two Cities, and open it to the first page. Thirty pairs of eyes wait on me. The room is so quiet, I hear them breathing, hear my own shallow, panicky breaths. My dry lips will barely part to let the words out. I lick them and try.
“I-i-t was the best of times,” I manage, my voice a croak. “It was the—”
“Louder so we can hear you. And please stand. You know the drill by now.”
A drill I’ve avoided as much as possible the whole school year. I’m all sass and confidence in every other class and every other area of my life, but this one? Reading out loud? In front of everyone? Risking the disdain of the smartest kids in our school when my tongue lets me down? I’m terrified.
Picking up the book, I stand. “I-i-it was the best of times—”
Snickers break out behind me. I pause at my classmates’ amusement, drawing a deep breath and starting again.
“I-it was the best of times—”
Whispers. Chuckles. Gasps from behind stop me again. I look around, glance over my shoulder and find Mona’s eyes. They are wide, shocked. Her mouth hangs open and she covers it with one hand.
Before I can process the amused and surprised expressions all around me, Ezra stands and ties his windbreaker around my waist.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. “What’s—”
He grabs my hand and fast-walks me down the row of desks and out the door without speaking. I look back, expecting Mrs. Clay’s fury, but her face has softened. When her eyes meet mine, they’re compassionate.
“All right, class,” she says, her curt tone back in place. “That’s enough. Let’s get back to it. Darlene, would you read the passage?”
Ezra pulls me out the door and starts down the hall. I tug at my hand, trying to free it.
“What are you doing? Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer, but just keeps walking. I jerk my hand away and stop in the middle of the hall.
“Ezra, I know you’ve used your, like, twelve words for the day,” I say, hands planted on my hips, “but you better tell me what’s going on right now.”