Xander and the Lost Island of Monsters Read Free Page B

how much he startled me. “Of course it’s not art class. This school doesn’t
have
an art class.”
    Clarissa giggles softly. Mr. Stedman’s nostrils flare. He yanks my notebook away, turns to a blank page, and puts it back on my desk. He narrows his eyes. “You’re on thin ice, Mr. Miyamoto.”
    â€œLike sharks by the frozen volcano?” I ask before I can help myself. Whoops.
    This time both Clarissa and Peyton, who’s sitting a few rows back, snort.
    Mr. Stedman bares his teeth like he’s in some teen werewolf show. I sigh and nod. “Sorry.” I manage to sound like I really mean it. And I do. I know he’s going to spend the rest of class time watching me, and I hate that.
    He stalks to his desk. “Get into your groups. I don’t want to hear too much noise, or this exercise will be over.”
    The good news is, five more minutes have passed. I make more hash marks. Only thirty more to go and we’re on spring break. Freedom. I can’t wait.
    We move around to do our group work. Peyton throws four newspapers on the table. “You look through two; I’ll look through two.” He sits in his chair backward, the way teachers always tell you not to do. But Peyton’s Peyton, so nobody corrects him. His blond-brown hair sticks up in the middle, and he smooths it down, which only works for a second before it springs back up again in a feathery plume.
    Peyton’s taller than most people’s dads, though he’s not thirteen yet. He plays a ton of sports, and his size is an advantage for him, which is why somebody on the other team always demands to see Peyton’s birth certificate. Last year I went to his Little League play-off game, and a loudmouthed mother from the opposing team shouted, “No way that kid’s only eleven. Lookit them long arms and legs! Chicken legs!” (I thought that was pretty funny, but Peyton didn’t.) Also, under his pointy nose, Peyton has a mouthful of naturally straight white teeth. Oh, and he has a great voice as well. In class he isn’t too loud or too quiet, he stays on task, and he makes girls and teachers laugh instead of annoying them. He’s pretty much the mayor of Oak Grove Lower School.
    It’s a good thing I met Peyton when we were only four. Because if we’d met in sixth grade, I’m not sure the Number One Jock and the Number One Nerd would be such good friends.
    Allow me to demonstrate how well Peyton and I know each other.
    Phone rings. One of us answers. “Dude.”
    â€œDude.”
    â€œ7-Eleven. Ten minutes.”
    â€œYup.”
    Hang up.
    Boom. Done. That’s all we need.
    And most of the time, it doesn’t matter that I’m smaller than Peyton. If I can’t do something physical, my friend will do it for me.
    Like the time, back when we were seven, I thought it’d be fun to design a parachute out of bedsheets and clothesline and jump off the garage roof onto a pile of garbage bags stuffed with leaves and pine needles. If I’d been just a few inches taller, I could have climbed the wooden fence next to the building and pulled myself onto the roof.
    I could imagine how cool it would have been to leap from those gray asphalt shingles, the parachute billowing behind me. “Whatcha think?” I asked Peyton. Before I even got the words out of my mouth, Peyton had the parachute strapped to his back and was scrambling up the fence.
    My grandmother had emerged from the house just in time to see Peyton launching himself off the roof, his arms spread and his eyes closed, like he had every confidence in the world that those flimsy garbage bags would cushion his leap. And there I was, yelling, “Fly, Peyton!” and being more than a little bit jealous of what he could do.
    My eardrums still hurt from the sound of Obāchan’s scream.
    Oh, and by the way, the bags
mostly
held. Peyton only got one little fracture in his ankle and