The Impossible Knife of Memory(12)

I fought a smile. “A trained assassin who babysits.”

“Only the Greene twins and only because their family gets every premium channel on the planet.” He paused to let a gaggle of freshman girls walk between us. “The skepticism on your face proves that my cover story is tight. That’s good, reduces the chance that civilians might be harmed.”

“Cover story? You mean the fact that you’re a skinny nerd in charge of a nonexistent newspaper?”

“In development, not nonexistent. I am almost single-handedly reviving it. Where are we walking, by the way?”

“English.” We swerved around a guy who was roughly the size and shape of a Porta-Potty.

“Ramos,” the guy growled.

“Nash,” Finn responded.

“Friend of yours?” I asked, once the guy was out of range.

“We train together. Cage fighting. You should hear him squeal when I get him in a Maynard’s Kimura hold.”

“You just made that up.”

“What?”

“Maynard’s Kimura. That’s not real.”

“It totally is.”

The bell rang just as we got to Ms. Rogak’s room.

“Wait!” He slipped between me and the door. “You promised.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You promised me an article.”

“Did not.”

“Did too, just before you ran away from my car and roughly ten minutes after you coerced me into cutting physics. ‘World of Resources at the Library,’ that’s what you promised.”

A small bell went off in my head. Duh. This was why he was bugging Gracie for my phone number last night. I’m an idiot. He wanted to harass me about the stupid article.

“I didn’t coerce you into cutting class. You offered the ride.”

“You pleaded.”

“I asked.”

“You made puppy-dog eyes. That counts as pleading.”

“I’ve never made puppy-dog eyes at anyone in my life. You’re a lunatic.”

“Gracie said you liked to tease. Hey there, Ms. Rogak. How’s Homer doing?”

“Finnegan,” said Ms. Rogak with a brief nod. “Do I have your permission to begin my class?”

“Exquisitely executed sarcasm, ma’am.” Finn said as he started to walk backward. “Well played.”

“And you, Hayley Kincain,” she said. “Were you just going to menace us from the doorway or join us?”





_*_ 16 _*_

The seat I wanted in the back row was taken, but not by Brandon Something, so I grabbed the empty desk by the drafty window. Ms. Rogak pushed a button on her laptop to show a picture of a buff, tanned guy with long, graystreaked black hair shoving a bloody sword toward the sky, his face tilted back, his mouth open in a victory scream.

odysseus, read the caption.

Before the giggling and obnoxious comments got too loud, she pushed the button again. A tiny, old woman, dressed in a white robe, her hair covered by a long, white cloth, was kneeling on the ground, her arms wrapped around a skinny, half-naked kid who looked on the brink of death. She was holding a cup to the child’s lips.

mother teresa.

The third slide showed the two images side by side. “Which one is the hero?” Rogak asked. “And why?”

I dozed with my eyes open the rest of the period.





_*_ 17 _*_

Finn was waiting for me in the hall after class. “Did you finish the article?”

“I never said I would.” I yawned. “Besides, did you think I’d write it in class?”

“Of course.” He stayed by my side all the way down the

hall. “What do you have now?”

“Gym.”

“Perfect! You’ll have it done in fifteen minutes.” I shifted my books to my right arm so I could accidentally

poke him with their sharp corners. “I’m not writing it.” “But yesterday . . .” He paused as we merged into the

traffic that flowed down the stairs. “How’s your dad, by the

way?”

“Fine.” I dodged a group of onlookers who had encircled a brewing fight, then doubled my pace in the hopes of losing Finn. I would have, except for a roadblock by the cafeteria caused by the food line, which had snaked into the

hall.

I sniffed. Taco Day.

Finn caught up with me in a flash. “I’m glad he’s feeling

better. I only need two hundred words.”

“I. Said. No!” I said.

Well, actually, I sort of screamed it.

The lunch crowd quieted and a few wide-eyed freshman boys with feather-soft baby mustaches scooted toward

the walls, opening a path for me. I put my head down and

jogged through.

Finn stayed at my heels. “It’s just that I really need the

help,” he said. “Cleveland says the newspaper is back on

the chopping block. Getting an article from an actual student-reporter might help him convince the board to leave

the paper alone.”

I stopped at the girl’s locker room door. “Why don’t you

write it?”

He drew back, wounded. “I’m the editor. I don’t write, I