Academic Assassins Read Free Page B

tightened as I read it. But this wasn’t another hunger pang.
    This was déjà vu.
    Another passage popped out at me:
    â€œLet’s face it, Thoreau; you can’t live in America today and be quietly different. If you are going to be different, you are going to stand out, and people are going to hear
about you; and in your case, if they hear about you, they will remove you to the city or move to you and you won’t be different anymore.”
    The more I read, the more I began to believe this book was also about me. Not just “about” me, but like it had literally been written ABOUT me. Things that happened to Sam Gribley
were happening to me out here.
    Is this some kind of practical joke?
Who is this Craighead anyway and why is she plagiarizing my life?
    I flipped to the copyright page.
    Nineteen fifty-eight.
    Close your eyes and count to ten, I thought. When you open them, you will be back at home—
    What home?
    In your own bed in your own room—
    Which bed?
    And you’ll realize that this has all been a very, very bad dream.
    Ten…
    There’s no Tribe.
    Nine…
    No Jaws. No Firefly. No Klepto.
    Eight…
    No Mr. Simms. No Assistant Principal Pritchard.
    Seven…
    No Yardstick.
    Six…
    No Compass.
    Five…
    No Sporkboy.
    Four…
    No Peashooter.
    Three…
    No Sully.
    Two…
    No Spencer.
    One
.…

???
    I have run out of matches. I tried to make each last as long as I could. I had to ration them, striking them only when I absolutely needed to. I saved one match—one final
match—just for an emergency.
    I kept a candle lit at all times so I wouldn’t have to ignite another. Then I was down to my last one. The wax had dwindled down to a stub. There was barely an inch of wick. Once that
flame snuffed, this cave would go dark. Then nothing. Ashes, and that’s about it.
    A bonfire, I thought. I could start a bonfire and make sure it never went out. I left the cave to fetch some firewood—but the second I came back, I walked into blackness. The candle had
snuffed.
    Oh no oh no oh no
.
    I used my very last match to get a bonfire going. I had to keep the flames alive at all costs.
The fire won’t last if I leave. Have to scan the cave. Search for something that can serve
as kindling.
    The books.
    I immediately felt sick with myself for even thinking it. How could I even ponder such a thing? Books are sacred. Books are your allies. Your friends. Even Peashooter refused to burn his
books.
    The light of the fire was already dimming.
    Just one measly book
, a voice in my head whispered.
Just to keep the flames going while you look for firewood
.
    It sounded an awful lot like Firefly. Was he here? With me? Maybe I wasn’t alone after all ….
    Pick one at random
, he said.
But don’t look. That way, once it’s burning, you won’t know which one it is.
    I tossed my tattered sleeping bag into the fire. It was cinders in seconds. If I didn’t act fast, the fire would go out and I wouldn’t have anything—no fire, no warmth, no
reading light.
    All would be lost if I didn’t make a decision.
    And dark. And cold.
    I decided to pick a book that I had already read. Something I could let go of.
    Fahrenheit 451
by Ray Bradbury. What were the odds?
    I averted my eyes from the cover for as long as possible, but the back flap slipped open and I saw Ray staring back at me from his author photo, almost pleading—
    How could you do it to me, Spencer? How could you?
    Forgive me, Ray .…
    I held the book over the famished bonfire. The flames sensed the fresh kindling above, as if they could smell the pages, ripe for burning. Each flickering tongue reached out for the book in my
hand, pleading—
    Fee­dme­fee­dme­fee­dmef­eee­eee­edm­eee­ee­ee
.…
    I guess I wasn’t the only one starving. Fires need to eat, too.
    Please don’t make me do this, I said to myself. Please