13 to Life Read Free

late.”
    Something prickled along my spine at his tone.
    The eldest in the group smiled broadly and wrapped his arm around Peter. “Of course he won’t be late, Officer Kent,” he guaranteed. “Peter is very glad to be at Junction High.”
    Peter did not seem so convinced.
    Officer Kent said, “We can’t have people
avoiding
an education.”
    “We were
getting
one,” the other boy—according to his name tag, Maximilian—muttered.
    The eldest cuffed him on the back of the head, attempting comedy, but I sensed a threat in the display.
    I took the slip of paper and quickly compared it to my own. I looked from the officer to Peter and back to the schedule. Handing my pass over for a signature, my eyes paused on Peter again. He glowered darkly before me, a sharp contrast to the eldest male’s bright smile.
    I should have forged Mr. Maloy’s signature after all.
    “Okay,” I said, more to myself than to my silent ward. “We’re both in Ashton’s lit class. Let’s head in that direction, for starters.”
    Peter gave one brief nod of his head, but his face was a tight mask of disinterest.
    Exiting the office, I tried to keep my curiosity in check while I steered him by locations he’d need to know as a student at Junction High. I pointed and explained until my arms were tired and my mouth was dry. He never said a word. Never responded with more than a nod. Bathroom, library, cafeteria, art, shop, band, gym, main office, nurse . . .
    In-School Suspension . . .
    I eyed him, speculating. Who knew how fast somebody like him could land in ISS? He had that could-be-trouble look. And obviously he came with baggage of the police-escort type. But surely he wasn’t dangerous. . . . The cops would never let me lead a real criminal to classes, would they? I continued walking and explaining, gradually increasing the distance between us.
    If he noticed, he never mentioned it.
    The thought he could be dangerous made me nervous. And when I get nervous, I get talkative. I glanced at his scheduleagain. “Oh. Your name’s not Peter,” I said, wondering if I’d been pronouncing it at all correctly.
Huh. P-i-e-t-r.
“It’s Pie-eater—”
    He winced.
    I read it again. “No, Pee-yoh-ter—”
    He stared at me.
    “Pay-oder?” I tried. I was determined to get it right. Mr. Maloy had obviously botched this like everything else. My mouth twisted, ready to go one more round with the name, but he raised a hand, staring at me like he was in shock. Or maybe pain. I felt my ears go tomato red.
    “I have never heard so many—
creative—
pronunciations of my name.” He smiled, but only briefly. “Peter,” he said. “The pronunciation is the same. Just not the spelling.” He tugged off the misspelled name tag and crumpled it up.
    “Oh.” He didn’t
seem
dangerous. . . . “Weird,” I said suddenly. “You know, it’s actually kind of spelled like my worry stone. . . .” I dug into my jeans pocket and pulled out the large, flat bead I carried. Gold, silver, and milky white threaded through dark blue. “This is pietersite. P-I-E-T-E-R.” I held it out in my open palm and thought I saw momentary interest in his eyes.
    “A worry stone?”
    “My dad’s idea. It’s also called Tempest Stone. People say it’s good for a lot of stuff, like dealing with change and transformation. Oh. And your gallbladder, I think. Or spleen.” I shrugged, slipping it back into my pocket. He definitely looked interested now. Maybe he had spleen issues.
    “What do
you
think it’s good for?”
    “Rubbing, when I’m stressed.” I shrugged again. “Besides, like Shakespeare said, ‘What’s in a name,’ right?”
    He looked past me. “
Romeo and Juliet.
I
hate
that play.”
    “Well.” How could
anyone
with a brain hate a classic like
that?
“A good writer should get people to feel
something,
I guess.” I started walking again, hoping to catch his attention. Even when he spoke directly to me, he seemed distant. Unreachable.