Billy watched dozens of hopper cars grinding their way across his field of view, each piled higher than the brim with a mound of ebony grit. He loved to watch trains, but Mr. Hamilton’s story kept pulling him away from the long line of rolling fuel. “What controversy?” he asked.
“Oh, opinions from every side. Some historians say he didn’t exist. Some say he was a dark sorcerer, called to do Lucifer’s bidding. To others he was simply a wise counselor to the king, and to a few he was a fiery prophet of the Christian faith, working miracles from the Lord. You put all these together and you get the legend—a mysterious and magical wizard. You would be amazed at how serious some people still are about these legends.”
“So how can you know what’s true and what’s not?”
“Research. Lately, a particular interest of mine has been in the sword, Excalibur. One obscure but reliable source says that if its bearer has faith and a pure heart, Excalibur will make him invincible. You see, according to my source, God bestowed a special power on the sword such that it responds to the bearer on its own, as though it has a will. Since a sword cannot really have intelligence, it must have a material property that reacts with the holder, a sort of link with someone who emanates holiness. Therefore, the sword’s power can be stolen if an evil man somehow counterfeits purity.”
The train’s wheels screeched, and the rumbling cars slowed to an agonizing pace. Mr. Hamilton took a deep breath and continued, raising his voice to compete with the noise. “Of course, I don’t believe there was a Lady of the Lake to give and take back the sword, so there must be another source of its origin and disappearance.”
“Disappearance?”
“Yes. According to my research, the sword really existed. I assume it was stolen, but the perpetrator probably could never use it to its full potential. Thieves don’t have pure hearts, as you might imagine. It has been a dream of mine to find that sword and restore it to Arthur’s rightful heir.”
At that point, Mr. Hamilton chattered on about Arthur’s knights, the “real” story of the Round Table, and several tales about his hero, Sir Gawain. Billy became so enthralled as the teacher’s excitement grew that he forgot all about the train. He was fascinated by Mr. Hamilton’s breadth of knowledge and inspired by how he talked about God.
Are teachers allowed to do that?
After the last train car finally made its way across the road, the two drove on, and Mr. Hamilton launched into a storytelling mode, sounding like one of the radio narrators Billy had heard about from his father, filling the air with oral sound effects and shifting voices, from knight to damsel to king.
Mr. Hamilton became more like a bard than a teacher. His story song held Billy in a trance, the words transforming into an oracle, even telling of the future, that Arthur would reappear to help his countrymen during their greatest need. Whether that appearance would be in body or in spirit, Mr. Hamilton didn’t know, but he suspected that the spirit of Arthur would reside in one of his descendants who would assume a throne, perhaps a symbolic or a spiritual one, and reinstate Arthurian rule with all of its power and moral authority.
Just as Mr. Hamilton built the story to a new crescendo, he pulled the station wagon into Billy’s driveway and stopped his tale abruptly, reverting to his normal voice. “If I’m not able to do anything about your suspension, I will let you know about any new developments in class. Shall I assume that your e-mail address is in your file?”
“It oughta be. I put it on my form.”
“Very good. You will hear from me soon.”
Billy wasn’t really ready to leave, but when he thought about his mother possibly noticing the strange car in the driveway, he jumped out quickly. “Thanks, Mr. Hamilton.” He waved as he hurried away. “So long!”
Hearing the sound of his teacher’s car rattling away, Billy remembered the morning’s strange events. He glanced back to see if that mysterious Cadillac might still be in the neighborhood.
No sign of it.
He turned again and ran around the house, deciding to enter the back door and go through the kitchen.
If Mom’s still on the phone, she’ll be in Dad’s office. Why disturb her work?
Besides, he needed time to decide how to explain why he was home so early. He planned to tell the truth, but he wasn’t sure what to say about the fire sprinklers. Could his breath really have set them off? Was it time to let them know his secret?
He grabbed an apple, then headed toward the stairs, ready to hole up in his room to work on the English assignment from the day before. Mrs. Roberts gave them till next week, but he decided he might as well get it done. No use wasting time. He paused at the bottom step when he heard voices coming from the living room. Considering the circumstances, he decided to listen to gauge the mood of his parents. He didn’t normally hide anything from them, but the day was especially strange so far. He slowed his breathing and tuned into the sounds.
“I waited to tell you, because I wanted to be sure it wasn’t just my imagination.”
That’s Mom. She’s getting dramatic. She must be upset.
“When I saw the welt, I knew our lives would never be the same. Is there any word from the others?”
“No,” another voice replied. “Irene knew we moved to Castlewood, but there’s still no message, not even a peep. Maybe the worst has happened, like we feared.”
That’s Dad.
His voice always seemed to carry better than Mom’s. It echoed through the house with masculine resonance.
“This is why I didn’t marry for the past fifteen hundred years,” his dad went on. “I didn’t want to put anyone through the same kind of danger.”
What?! Fifteen hundred years? What in the world is he talking about?
“But when I met you, I knew that, whether I was a dragon or not, you were the person I’d marry.”
Dragon? What dragon?
Billy knew he must have missed something, so he bent over to try to hear a little better.
“Is Billy in any danger?”
That’s better. Mom’s coming in loud and clear now.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. If his breath develops a flame, he could kill himself. He can’t possibly know how to control it yet, and he doesn’t know how to protect himself.”
“Jared, Billy has to know. When are you going to tell him?”
The sound of his mom’s choked sob lingered in the air, and sadness cut into Billy’s thoughts, bringing tears to his eyes.
They’re talking about me!
After a long pause, his dad finally replied. “I don’t think we can wait any longer. We should tell him as soon as possible. I think he can handle it. He’s always acted more grown-up and mature than most kids, but that’s to be expected since he has dragon blood. I don’t think he’s likely to have scales in his mouth, so if he could burn you, he must be feeling something. I also don’t see how he’ll be able to use normal dragon safeguards, being a—a half-breed, I guess you’d call it. He may be able to find a way to protect himself, but I can’t be sure. And there are the other students to think about. It’s definitely too dangerous to let him stay in school much longer. We may have to homeschool him. And remember that nosy guy driving around in the Cadillac that Carl told us about. If someone’s spying on us, they’re bound to find out about Billy’s breath sooner or later. We may even have to leave town.”
“So when he gets home, what do we say to him?”
“Nothing yet. I have to consult the books. But I know I’ll have to figure out what to say real soon.”
After a short pause, Billy heard the sounds of someone walking.
The books? Does that mean Dad’s heading for the stairs?
Billy sneaked up to his room, absolute dread filling his mind. He hurried to his dresser mirror and stared at his reflection. “A dragon?!” he asked out loud. “A half-breed dragon?!” He looked at his hands and felt the smoothness of his skin. No hint of scales. He opened his mouth and surveyed the inside. No scales there, either, but the roof of his mouth felt weird again, hardened and insensitive to touch.
Okay, Billy. Get a grip! You’re not a dragon. That dream about the knight really was just a dream.
He stood in the middle of his room, petrified, afraid even to walk for fear of being heard. A large, purring cat stretched out from under the bed, and Billy knelt to pet Gandalf, looking deeply into his attentive eyes. “Do you have any idea what’s going on? I had a dream about a dragon, but I don’t remember much about it. Maybe I’m dreaming now.” Talking to the cat and stroking his long silky fur calmed Billy down. “It can’t be a dream, Gandalf. I know I’m awake. It just sounds like my parents have gone crazy or something. Is this some kind of bizarre joke?”
Billy glanced out his door, having left it open a narrow crack. He could see nothing but an empty hall and the top of the stairs. “It can’t be a joke on me; they don’t even know I’m here.” He lifted his hand and blew on it softly, drawing it closer and closer until he couldn’t stand the heat.
Ouch!
The sting ran through his body like an electric shock.
He wiped sweat from his brow and picked up Gandalf, hugging him close. With one arm under the cat’s soft body, he continued to stroke his furry head, talking to his feline friend as though he understood every word. “It’s like seeing your parents pull off masks, and finding out they’re aliens underneath!”
Chapter 4
Bonnie felt a sudden, painful jerk on her thick braided hair. “Ow!” She whirled around in her desk to see Adam glaring menacingly at her.
“That’s for snitching on me, Bonnie Backpack. You’re lucky Old Lady Roberts is coming down the hall or I’d really let you have it.”
Bonnie’s anger surged into her cheeks, and her voice matched her growing fury. “And you would’ve let Billy take all the blame for what you did, you coward!” She rose from her seat and stood toe-to-toe with Adam, staring with flashing, narrowed eyes into his, tilting her head slightly upward to compensate for the difference in height. “I’m not scared of bullies like you. You’re the one who’s lucky the teacher’s coming.”
A round of “ooohs” filtered across the school desks, and every eye in the classroom locked on the two combatants. Bonnie knew Adam would never back down in front of an audience. She had to hold her ground, too. Without a flinch she kept her fiery glare. “I heard you got suspended. What are you doing here, anyway?”
Adam pulled back a bit. “I told Whittier I forgot my English book, so he let me come back. But I really came to settle a score with you, you little snitch.” With a quick reach, he grabbed a corner of Bonnie’s backpack and used it to spin her around. “I’ve always wanted to see what you keep in that precious backpack of yours,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’ll bet you’re hiding some weird deformity, probably a big lump with gross, oozing sores.”
Adam searched for a zipper, and Bonnie twisted and pulled to get away. “Let me go, you creep!”
“Ah ha! Here it is.” Adam released the backpack to use both hands on the zipper, and Bonnie felt the sudden slack. She spun around like a spring-loaded catapult and landed a crushing right fist against Adam’s left cheek, sending him flying backward over the desk behind him. Adam rolled sideways off the desk and flopped facedown on the floor, sprawled out and whining.
The class erupted in whoops of laughter and cheers, but they turned into silent statues when a nails-on-chalkboard voice screeched, “Bonnie Silver! What’s the meaning of this?”
Bonnie turned slowly to see her teacher’s shocked expression, her full jowls pushing downward in a bulldog frown. Bonnie felt her own face changing again, probably to a sharp crimson by now, and her anger melted into tears that soon found their way down her hot cheeks. “Mrs. Roberts, I . . .”
The teacher rushed forward and knelt down next to Adam. The boy held his cheek and moaned, “Dr. Whittier said I could get my English book, Mrs. Roberts, but Bonnie slugged me for ratting on her boyfriend.” He looked up at her with sad eyes. “I guess I deserved it, didn’t I?”
She stroked him tenderly on the shoulder. “Of course you didn’t deserve it!” She glared back at Bonnie. “I can’t believe you punched him! How could you?” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Roberts crooned softly to the fallen bully. “Adam, dear, do you want me to call the nurse?”
Bonnie caught a glimpse of Adam’s evil smirk, and she couldn’t stand the injustice for another second. She stomped her foot and left the classroom in a huff.
“Report to the principal’s office, young lady!” Mrs. Roberts called after her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Bonnie slammed the classroom door behind her and stood in the hall with her arms straight down, her fists balled into tight weapons of rage. “Ohhh! That Adam Lark! He’s always getting people into trouble!”
Bonnie stalked down the hall, her clenched teeth displaying the anger she didn’t bother to resist. Why should she? After all, it was Adam who started the fight.
“Ohhh!” she cried out again.
First he gets Billy in trouble, and then he almost found out what’s in my backpack. If that secret ever got out, I would just die!
Lost in her thoughts, she nearly passed right by the principal’s door, but she halted just in time to take a sharp turn into the office. Once inside the anteroom, her rage melted into dread. The last time she was here, only a few hours ago, the office seemed bright and cheery. Now it took on a different air, dark and quiet, the dismal threshold that led to the torture chamber. The devices on the wall attested to a sadistic maniac within. And what about the pictures? She had noticed them before, but now they seemed to come alive, paintings from the Dark Ages, gothic and fearsome, shadowy knights and reddish brown, fire-breathing dragons in mortal combat.
The knights, most clad in chain mail, wielded shining broadswords, and some bore horrible wounds, open and dripping red. Some of the dragons had only two legs, some four, but all had magnificent broad wings that seemed to beat furiously in battle.
The wings, in particular, caught Bonnie’s eye, and she drew closer to one painting to study the dragon’s beauty.
Oh, those wings!
Supported by one large sinew that resembled a wiry arm, each taut canopy also boasted a network of rib-like struts. No wonder they held such fierce power. This dragon had a tawny beige hue and deep penetrating eyes. Bonnie was so entranced, she even raised a hand to touch the image.
“Miss Silver?”
Bonnie spun around to see Dr. Whittier standing at his office door. He stared at her with one eye half-closed and his hand rubbing his chin. “Why are you back? Did you forget something?”
Her throat tightened, and her legs felt like trembling toothpicks. “N—No. I was just . . .” She stopped short of explaining. Something about Dr. Whittier’s face brought a sudden fear that paralyzed her for a moment, something oddly familiar, like a phantom in a fleeting nightmare.
Dr. Whittier stepped forward, looking past Bonnie at the wall. “So you were admiring the painting?”
“Um, yes,” she stammered. “The dragon is awesome.”
Dr. Whittier frowned. “You like the dragon?”
“Yes, he’s a magnificent creature.”
Dr. Whittier glanced at Bonnie and then turned to the painting again. “She was a formidable one to be sure,” he murmured.
“She?”
“Never mind. Now, what can I do for you?”
At that moment, Mrs. Roberts marched into the office shaking her finger at Bonnie while glaring at the principal. “That girl!” she spat out angrily. “That girl knocked down another student with her fist!” She gave a roundhouse swing with her own fist, wrapping her arm around her ample waist in her follow-through. “Just like that!” she finished, letting out a short gasp for breath before stopping and staring at Dr. Whittier.
Dr. Whittier merely raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to Bonnie, a hint of mirth breaking through. “Is that so?” After a brief examination of Bonnie’s petite stature, he turned back to Mrs. Roberts. “Whom did she hit?”
“Adam Lark. She knocked him flat!”
Dr. Whittier’s eyebrows shot up again. “Adam? I told him he could come back for a book, but I thought he’d have done that long ago.”
“He’s a good boy. I’m sure he was waiting for me to give him his homework assignment.”
Dr. Whittier rolled his eyes. “I’m sure.” He then cast a doubtful stare at the rotund teacher and gestured toward a chair.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Roberts?”
She glanced at the chair but then resumed her fiery demeanor, her nose slightly lifted. “I prefer to stand.”
Dr. Whittier nodded and placed his hand on his chin. “Adam’s a head taller than Bonnie, isn’t he?”
“At least,” Mrs. Roberts agreed. “She was a vicious one. She went just like this . . .” Mrs. Roberts twisted around, drawing back her fist for another punch, but Dr. Whittier stepped forward to catch her wrist before she could demonstrate again.
“I have the idea, Mrs. Roberts,” he assured, releasing her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this matter. Please send Adam to me.” He scowled at Bonnie, making sure Mrs. Roberts noticed, then added a quick wink that only Bonnie could see.
As Mrs. Roberts passed by on her way to the door, she leaned over and whispered into Bonnie’s ear. “Trailer-trash ruffian. It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
The teacher’s insults burned like acid in Bonnie’s mind. Her ears grew warm, and her heart felt like it would melt away. Trailer trash? She didn’t live in a trailer, but she knew what the teacher meant. She was an orphan girl from the wrong side of town. Bonnie tried to hide a sniffle, and she tightened her chin before looking up at the principal. Would he notice her tears?
Dr. Whittier motioned for Bonnie to follow him out of the anteroom and into his office. When the door closed, he reached for a tissue from a box on the corner of his desk and handed it to her. She took it gratefully and wiped her eyes.
A big smile grew on the principal’s face. “You decked Adam Lark?” He laughed out loud, bracing himself against his desk. “He probably stayed to harass you for identifying the lighter, but then you—” He interrupted himself again with another laugh.
Bonnie shrugged her shoulders, but she couldn’t smile. She was glad the principal was trying to make her feel better, but Mrs. Roberts’ echoing words drowned any joy that tried to surface.
Dr. Whittier walked around his desk and sat in his chair, giving it a playful spin and laughing all the way around. When he faced her again, he leaned forward and folded his hands on the blotter. “That boy has needed a good, hard licking for a long time. I’ll bet he deserved it, didn’t he?”
A smile finally broke through. Bonnie nodded her head, her face flushed with embarrassment.
“Tell me, what did he do this time?”
“Well . . .” Bonnie began. She hesitated, wondering how much she could tell.
“It’s okay. I’ve heard it all. Go ahead and tell me.”
“He tried to open my backpack,” she blurted out.
Dr. Whittier eyed the backpack curiously. “Why did he do that?”
“He just wanted to see what was in it, I guess. Maybe he’s overly inquisitive.”
The principal’s brow wrinkled, and he clenched his right hand into a fist. “So you decked him for trying to look at your books?”
Bonnie bit her lip, not knowing what to say next.
Dr. Whittier’s expression tightened, almost as if he had suspicious X-ray eyes that penetrated the denim pack. “Do you have contraband in there?”
“Oh, no, Dr. Whittier. It’s just that . . .” She paused and lowered her eyes.
“I think you should tell me, Bonnie. If you have a good reason to keep a secret, I can make sure nobody bothers you again.”
Bonnie sighed deeply. After only a couple of weeks at this school, dozens of kids had asked her about her backpack. “Why is it so big? Why do you never take it off? Why do you wear it so high on your back? What are you trying to hide?” She had always been able to laugh it off before, but now she was in a tight spot. She had to tell the principal the truth.
“I . . . I have a deformity on my back, and if I don’t wear the backpack, it’s really obvious.”
“And that embarrasses you,” Dr. Whittier concluded.
Bonnie lowered her head and barely breathed out her answer. “Yes, it does.”
For a moment both were silent, Bonnie keeping her head down and wondering what terrible things Dr. Whittier must be thinking about her. She looked up through tear-filled eyes, raising her tissue to wipe them again. “I know I shouldn’t be so vain, but I—”
“Oh, no,” Dr. Whittier interrupted. “Don’t worry yourself about that. I understand completely. When I was your age, I always wore long-sleeved shirts to cover up an ugly birthmark on my arm.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a dark, reddish blotch on the underside of his forearm.
The mark resembled a misshapen club, the playing card variety, but it had an angry look, more like an old burn than other birthmarks she had seen. “That’s not so terribly gruesome,” she said while trying to maintain a tone of sympathy. “It’s really superficial.”
“Yes, you’re right, but to a shy adolescent, it was a disaster.”
Bonnie turned to the side, drooping her head again and whispering in response. “Mine’s much worse.”
“Don’t worry, Bonnie. I’m not going to ask to see it. I’ll discreetly pass the word around to the teachers. They’ll be more likely to support you if they know what’s going on.”
Bonnie just nodded her head. She knew that spreading the news couldn’t possibly be a good idea. The thought of revealing her troubles for everyone to gossip about was terrifying.
Dr. Whittier gestured toward the detention room. “Why don’t you sit in there until this period is over and then go to your next class?”
Bonnie nodded again and shuffled over to the side office, her head still tilted slightly downward and her long braid hanging over her chest. The plaited blonde and light brown bands were not quite as neat as they had been when she tied them that morning, and she felt the same way, drooping, haggard, and dismal.
Bonnie felt Dr. Whittier’s eyes following her as she walked. What was he thinking? She knew her clothes weren’t exactly the latest style, but they were clean and modest, so that wasn’t why he was staring. She glanced back, and the principal quickly turned his head.
He was watching!
When she reached the detention room, she peeked out the window. Dr. Whittier walked around his desk and into the file room adjacent to the main office. Several seconds later he returned with a folder and took it back to his desk. Just after he sat down again, Adam Lark sauntered into the room. With his hands in his pockets and his body tilted back slightly, the troublemaker exuded cockiness. Bonnie used her foot to keep the door from closing so she could watch and listen at the same time.
“Mrs. Roberts said you wanted to see me,” Adam said.
Dr. Whittier put the file down and folded his hands on top of it. The principal’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward to watch Adam’s expression. A purple bruise had grown on the boy’s face, and it swelled like a rodent’s cheek pouch. “Did you see what was in Bonnie’s backpack?”
Adam shook his head nonchalantly. “Nah. I just got the zipper open a little before she punched me. All I saw was a leather strap of some kind.”
“Hmmm. Leather, you say?”
Adam blew a large gum bubble and snapped it down between his teeth. “Yeah. Can I go now? You got the goods on Bonnie, and I should be getting home to do my assignments.”
Dr. Whittier breathed a deep sigh. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen your grades.” He paused for a moment and then shooed Adam away with a wave of his hand. “Don’t come back until your suspension’s over.”