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Authors: Ray Garton
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began pulling him hard toward the house.
“No!” David shouted, trying to jerk his hand away. “What are you doing?” He wrenched his hand from his dad’s grip. David could hear the distant rumble of the bus rounding the corner down the road.
Dad’s cold smile dissolved into a mocking sneer. “What’s the matter, son,” he said, “afraid of something?”
David took a broad step back, staring up in disbelief at his dad. The tiny smile wrinkles on his face no longer seemed warm and friendly, and his eyes were like a stranger’s, unfamiliar and uncaring.
The bus slowed as it neared, and finally stopped in front of the driveway. The sound of the doors clattering open brought a rush of relief David never thought he’d feel at the arrival of his school bus. Hitching his backpack up with a shrug, David backed toward the bus.
The man standing in the driveway was not his dad. He looked like him; he wore his clothes. But David knew that George Gardiner was not behind those eyes.
As David put one foot on the bus step, Dad grinned, lifted a hand slowly, and waved.
“See you this afternoon,” he said. Then he added, in a tone that was somehow not right, that had behind it the sound of glass being cut, “Champ.”
David stepped up into the bus and the doors closed. He could not have felt more threatened had there been a gun at his head.
C H A P T E R
Six
W hen David got to class that morning, there were dead frogs split open like pomegranates on the desks. Other frogs, very much alive, threw themselves against the glass sides of the jars in which they were trapped on Mrs. McKeltch’s desk, as if they sensed their fate.
David plopped down at his desk, frowning. His stomach was upset and one foot kicked the desk leg nervously. He could not erase the image of his dad standing in the driveway, looking a mess, waving his hand and smiling falsely as David boarded the bus. The way he felt, he dreaded sitting through classes that day. But he also dreaded going home.
Mrs. McKeltch divided the students into pairs as they came in and assigned each pair to a dissected frog.
David’s partner was Heather. She sat beside him, her brown hair in a ponytail, and stared with a curled lip at the frog.
“That’s disgusting,” she whispered.
Although he did not feel like talking, David said, “It’s just a frog.”
“But all its . . . its insides are showing.”
“You have them, too, you know.”
She turned to him and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to know.”
When the last bell rang, Mrs. McKeltch stood before her desk holding a stack of papers to her bosom. Her face was stern and her gray hair was arranged in its usual tight curls and sharp little waves. The friendly morning chatter among the students was silenced by her stare.
“These papers,” Mrs. McKeltch said, “are consent forms for the upcoming field trip. Your parents must sign them or you will not be allowed to go and you will get an F for the day.” She began walking up and down the aisles between the desks, passing the papers to her students. “So, have your parents sign them tonight and bring them back to me promptly in the morning.”
When she came to David and held out the paper, she gave him a glare that seemed to warn: Behave today, or else.
When she was finished, Mrs. McKeltch returned to her desk and gestured to the frogs hopping around in their jars. “I collected these fresh specimens yesterday from the marsh area adjacent to Copper Hill. When we’re finished here this morning, these frogs—” She pointed to those on her desk, then to the dissected frogs before the students. “—will look like the frogs you have before you.” She lifted a shoe box from her desk and took from it a small object with a shiny blade. “This is a scalpel. It is very sharp so be extremely careful when using it.” As she passed out the scalpels, she said, “Before we start the dissection, we’re going to review what we’ve
“No!” David shouted, trying to jerk his hand away. “What are you doing?” He wrenched his hand from his dad’s grip. David could hear the distant rumble of the bus rounding the corner down the road.
Dad’s cold smile dissolved into a mocking sneer. “What’s the matter, son,” he said, “afraid of something?”
David took a broad step back, staring up in disbelief at his dad. The tiny smile wrinkles on his face no longer seemed warm and friendly, and his eyes were like a stranger’s, unfamiliar and uncaring.
The bus slowed as it neared, and finally stopped in front of the driveway. The sound of the doors clattering open brought a rush of relief David never thought he’d feel at the arrival of his school bus. Hitching his backpack up with a shrug, David backed toward the bus.
The man standing in the driveway was not his dad. He looked like him; he wore his clothes. But David knew that George Gardiner was not behind those eyes.
As David put one foot on the bus step, Dad grinned, lifted a hand slowly, and waved.
“See you this afternoon,” he said. Then he added, in a tone that was somehow not right, that had behind it the sound of glass being cut, “Champ.”
David stepped up into the bus and the doors closed. He could not have felt more threatened had there been a gun at his head.
C H A P T E R
Six
W hen David got to class that morning, there were dead frogs split open like pomegranates on the desks. Other frogs, very much alive, threw themselves against the glass sides of the jars in which they were trapped on Mrs. McKeltch’s desk, as if they sensed their fate.
David plopped down at his desk, frowning. His stomach was upset and one foot kicked the desk leg nervously. He could not erase the image of his dad standing in the driveway, looking a mess, waving his hand and smiling falsely as David boarded the bus. The way he felt, he dreaded sitting through classes that day. But he also dreaded going home.
Mrs. McKeltch divided the students into pairs as they came in and assigned each pair to a dissected frog.
David’s partner was Heather. She sat beside him, her brown hair in a ponytail, and stared with a curled lip at the frog.
“That’s disgusting,” she whispered.
Although he did not feel like talking, David said, “It’s just a frog.”
“But all its . . . its insides are showing.”
“You have them, too, you know.”
She turned to him and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to know.”
When the last bell rang, Mrs. McKeltch stood before her desk holding a stack of papers to her bosom. Her face was stern and her gray hair was arranged in its usual tight curls and sharp little waves. The friendly morning chatter among the students was silenced by her stare.
“These papers,” Mrs. McKeltch said, “are consent forms for the upcoming field trip. Your parents must sign them or you will not be allowed to go and you will get an F for the day.” She began walking up and down the aisles between the desks, passing the papers to her students. “So, have your parents sign them tonight and bring them back to me promptly in the morning.”
When she came to David and held out the paper, she gave him a glare that seemed to warn: Behave today, or else.
When she was finished, Mrs. McKeltch returned to her desk and gestured to the frogs hopping around in their jars. “I collected these fresh specimens yesterday from the marsh area adjacent to Copper Hill. When we’re finished here this morning, these frogs—” She pointed to those on her desk, then to the dissected frogs before the students. “—will look like the frogs you have before you.” She lifted a shoe box from her desk and took from it a small object with a shiny blade. “This is a scalpel. It is very sharp so be extremely careful when using it.” As she passed out the scalpels, she said, “Before we start the dissection, we’re going to review what we’ve
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