Read Online The Dead Don't Dance by Charles Martin - Free Book Online

don’t usually start with the A ’s.”
    â€œOh, tha’s cool.” He looked around at the other students. “I’s jus’ lettin’ you know. Thought you mighta forgot.” My new friend smiled, showing a mouthful of white teeth.
    I returned to the roll. “Russell Dixon Jr.?”
    â€œYeah.”
    A deep voice came from my left. Against the window, front row. Big, broad shoulders. Sitting sideways. Looking out the window. Never looked at me.
    â€œEugene Banks?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    Left side next to the window. Two back from Deep Voice. Looking out the window. Also never looked at me.
    â€œThat was enthusiastic. Marvin Johnson?”
    â€œYo.” It was my alphabetically conscientious friend. Front-and- center and liking it. Smiling. Big ears. Sweatpants. Tall and athletic. Shoes in a tangle.
    The contrast between my non-air-conditioned room and his sweatpants room struck me. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Aren’t you hot?”
    â€œWho, me? Naw.” He waved his hand. “See, dis’ what I wear.” The kid was a walking attitude, an uncrackable nut—or so he hoped.
    â€œAmanda Lovett?”
    â€œYes, sir. Both of us.” A sweet, gentle voice rose from next to the window. Front left, against the window, in between Uh-Huh and Deep Voice, and . . .
    â€œBoth?”
    She patted her stomach gently. “Joshua David.”
    I admit it, I’m not proud of my second reaction—the one that questioned her morals. I thought it before I had time to wish I hadn’t thought it, but it didn’t last very long.
    â€œJoshua David?”
    â€œYes, sir,” she said again, holding her hand on top of her stomach.
    â€œWell,” I said, recovering, “you make sure that young man makes it to class on time.”
    She broke into an even larger smile that poked two dimples into the sides of her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
    Laughter rippled through the room. Somebody against the window said, “Yes, sir” in that mocking tone that kids are so good at. I looked up and waited for him to finish.
    â€œKaitlin Jones?”
    â€œKoy,” a voice from the right rear of the class said quietly.
    I looked up at a young woman whose face was nearly covered by a combination of sunglasses and long hair.
    â€œKoy?”
    â€œK-o-y.”
    â€œI could see you better without those sunglasses.”
    She half smiled. “Probably.” She didn’t move a finger.
    Uh-Huh, Deep Voice, and Front-and-Center laughed, but I didn’t push it. The first day was not the time to draw lines. I finished the roll, noted the changes and preferred nicknames, and leaned back against the desk. There I was again, in the front of a classroom. Roped in by Maggs and Amos.
    â€œMy name is Dylan Styles.”
    Marvin interrupted. “Professuh, is you a doctuh?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œSo, we should call you Doctuh?”
    I checked my seating chart, although I already knew his name. “Marvin, my students have called me Mr. Styles, Professor Styles, Professor, or Dr. Styles. Do you have a preference?”
    My question surprised him. When he saw that I was serious, he said matter-of-factly, “Professuh.”
    â€œFair enough.” I paused. “My wife . . .” Bad way to start. “. . . calls . . . me Dylan, but school administrators don’t usually like students and teachers operating on a first-name basis. So the rest of you can pick from the list. This is English 202: Research and Writing. If you’re not supposed to be here, you may leave now, or if you don’t want to embarrass yourself, just don’t come back after class is over. I suppose if you don’t want to be here, you can leave too.”
    A voice from the back, next to the window, interrupted me. Its owner wore dreadlocks down to his shoulders, and when he had passed my desk on the way in, I was hit by a strong smell of