Read Online Wild Cat by Dandi Daley Mackall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dandi Daley Mackall
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halls aren’t crowded enough? Puppy love has to hold hands so nobody can get by?”
Hank laughs. “Didn’t realize you were so anti–hand holding.”
But I think I get it. When you don’t have a best friend or a boyfriend, it can hurt to watch people who do. Maybe Dakota wishes she had someone.
I know better than to say that to her though.
The picture of a father holding his kid’s hand flashes to my mind. “Dakota, I’m giving you a verse for today—a verse about hand holding.”
“See? I always thought you had a verse for everything. Now I’m sure.” She grins at me, waiting.
“It’s from Psalm 37. ‘Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.’”
Dakota stares at me, her eyes narrowed to slits. For a second, I’m afraid I’m about to be on the receiving end of Dakota’s sarcasm . . . for the first time. It’s one first I’m not looking forward to. Then, like sunlight bursting out of clouds, she smiles. “Kat, you always know exactly the right thing to say. Do you come in a pocket version? I’d like to take you with me.”
“You don’t think she’s pocket-size already?” Hank says, sounding relieved. He pulls up to the junior high loading zone. Groups of girls huddle all across the lawn. A guy and girl walk by holding hands. Three girls hop out of the car in front of us. Everybody looks high school to me. I was the smallest kid in sixth grade, and I haven’t grown much. I probably look like I missed the elementary school bus.
We don’t say anything as we sit in the loading zone. Nice Junior High and Nice High School are side by side. The cafeterias overlap even, with a shared central kitchen in the middle. Still, I know it’s two different worlds. I don’t know what Dakota and Hank are thinking as we sit in the truck, but I’m thinking that all I want is to make it through this school day without getting sick.
My mind kicks into pray-without-ceasing mode, and I open the door.
“Show ’em who’s the dominant mare in this school, Kat!” Dakota calls as I climb out.
Hank honks the horn and turns in to the parking lot.
My elbow hurts when I wave, but I keep it up until the truck disappears into the mass of cars trying to park in the student lot. I wonder if Wes is here yet.
I hate the minutes in the hall before that first class begins. Having cancer makes you a bad choice for small talk. Like people are afraid they’ll ask me how I’m doing and I’ll answer, “Oh, I’m dying, thanks. And you?”
When the first bell rings, I take my time getting to room 121, my first-hour social studies class. I know where it is because Mom and Dad and I met with my teachers during the summer to work out a system for me to make up work when I’m absent.
I stand outside the classroom, listening to the buzz of voices. Their words crash against each other like waves. But the waves are all part of the same ocean. And I’m just passing through their ocean.
My stomach flutters, but I think it’s nerves. I sure hope so. The last thing I need is to puke all over the classroom on my first day. I hike up my book bag, walk in, and look around for an empty seat.
“Take your places, ladies and gentlemen!” Ms. Buffenmyer shouts. She’s younger than Mom, taller, and a lot thinner. Her brown hair is caught up in a banana clip.
I edge to the middle of the room. Desks to the left, desks to the right. Makes me think of the parting of the Red Sea.
Ms. Buffenmyer is messing with her briefcase, so I don’t think she’s seen me yet. But everybody else has. I know most of them from elementary school. A couple of kids from church smile at me, and I smile back, but their row is full. Across the aisle, a whole row of girls stare at me. When I smile at them, their heads swivel away in unison, like they’re on the synchronized stare team.
Maybe I have a big letter C , for “cancer,” on my forehead today and didn’t notice.
I need a seat. My legs twitch. They
Hank laughs. “Didn’t realize you were so anti–hand holding.”
But I think I get it. When you don’t have a best friend or a boyfriend, it can hurt to watch people who do. Maybe Dakota wishes she had someone.
I know better than to say that to her though.
The picture of a father holding his kid’s hand flashes to my mind. “Dakota, I’m giving you a verse for today—a verse about hand holding.”
“See? I always thought you had a verse for everything. Now I’m sure.” She grins at me, waiting.
“It’s from Psalm 37. ‘Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.’”
Dakota stares at me, her eyes narrowed to slits. For a second, I’m afraid I’m about to be on the receiving end of Dakota’s sarcasm . . . for the first time. It’s one first I’m not looking forward to. Then, like sunlight bursting out of clouds, she smiles. “Kat, you always know exactly the right thing to say. Do you come in a pocket version? I’d like to take you with me.”
“You don’t think she’s pocket-size already?” Hank says, sounding relieved. He pulls up to the junior high loading zone. Groups of girls huddle all across the lawn. A guy and girl walk by holding hands. Three girls hop out of the car in front of us. Everybody looks high school to me. I was the smallest kid in sixth grade, and I haven’t grown much. I probably look like I missed the elementary school bus.
We don’t say anything as we sit in the loading zone. Nice Junior High and Nice High School are side by side. The cafeterias overlap even, with a shared central kitchen in the middle. Still, I know it’s two different worlds. I don’t know what Dakota and Hank are thinking as we sit in the truck, but I’m thinking that all I want is to make it through this school day without getting sick.
My mind kicks into pray-without-ceasing mode, and I open the door.
“Show ’em who’s the dominant mare in this school, Kat!” Dakota calls as I climb out.
Hank honks the horn and turns in to the parking lot.
My elbow hurts when I wave, but I keep it up until the truck disappears into the mass of cars trying to park in the student lot. I wonder if Wes is here yet.
I hate the minutes in the hall before that first class begins. Having cancer makes you a bad choice for small talk. Like people are afraid they’ll ask me how I’m doing and I’ll answer, “Oh, I’m dying, thanks. And you?”
When the first bell rings, I take my time getting to room 121, my first-hour social studies class. I know where it is because Mom and Dad and I met with my teachers during the summer to work out a system for me to make up work when I’m absent.
I stand outside the classroom, listening to the buzz of voices. Their words crash against each other like waves. But the waves are all part of the same ocean. And I’m just passing through their ocean.
My stomach flutters, but I think it’s nerves. I sure hope so. The last thing I need is to puke all over the classroom on my first day. I hike up my book bag, walk in, and look around for an empty seat.
“Take your places, ladies and gentlemen!” Ms. Buffenmyer shouts. She’s younger than Mom, taller, and a lot thinner. Her brown hair is caught up in a banana clip.
I edge to the middle of the room. Desks to the left, desks to the right. Makes me think of the parting of the Red Sea.
Ms. Buffenmyer is messing with her briefcase, so I don’t think she’s seen me yet. But everybody else has. I know most of them from elementary school. A couple of kids from church smile at me, and I smile back, but their row is full. Across the aisle, a whole row of girls stare at me. When I smile at them, their heads swivel away in unison, like they’re on the synchronized stare team.
Maybe I have a big letter C , for “cancer,” on my forehead today and didn’t notice.
I need a seat. My legs twitch. They
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