Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,9

High student who can get this far into a day without Ambrosia’s name coming up. As always, she looks completely serene, the After from a commercial about taking a sun-drenched, massages-around-the-clock vacation in some paradise.

She takes her time putting her books into her backpack, and I swear that she’s savoring the moment, lolling around in the sheer pleasure of everything that just happened.

What did just happen?

She straightens the creases in her skirt, sways her back, and tucks some loose strands of long, dark hair behind her ears. Big hoop earrings, her trademark, catch the light and glitter real gold, not the filled kind.

This next part, I’m sure of it. I’m not imagining it. Ms. Pallas glares at Ambrosia, who holds up three of her fingers with their long, red-painted nails. It’s like she’s flashing the teacher some kind of gang symbol. The letter W? The number three? It happens fast and then it’s over.

Ambrosia then peers over her shoulder.

At me.

Her eyes narrow like a cat catching a glimpse of a mouse. Her lips press together and I can tell she’s humming. I can’t hear the melody, but …

Ambrosia winks.

The hairs on my arms stand up like bristles on a brush.

5

For the next few days, there’s a break in the school weirdness. Things quiet down. I notice a lack of heart in the zombie imitations of me, and then they totally taper off. There’s no more strange weather and no more winks from Ambrosia. Ms. Pallas has gotten her classroom back under control. Pox is just Pox. Alix does her suspension time and comes back to school, a little less pumped up with anger and adrenaline than usual, it seems to me.

As far as my own venture into the world of shifting reality, it’s like the whole intense, swirling, humming, hating event only happened in a dream. I could almost believe that. The only tangible change I notice is Ms. Pallas, and maybe that’s not connected to any of this other business. Talk about intensity. She’s fine-tuning her reputation for toughness, piling on extra homework and deducting major points if we slough off in any way. Twice in the past two days there have been pop quizzes, and when Pox complains, she lashes out: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it!” She seems to be on a mission to make us as passionate about ancient everywhere and ancient everything as she is.

She’s also on a democracy kick, quoting Thucydides, a Greek historian whose famous quote is “The secret of happiness is freedom.”

For me, that raises a lot of interesting questions. Such as, what is freedom anyway? Can things ever truly be free or fair? What happens when one person’s right to do something bumps into another person’s right to have them not do it? Everything gets tricky as soon as real, live human beings are involved.

So I give Ms. Pallas a lot of credit for trying to make democracy work in high school. It’s definitely a major time suck. For instance, today half the class is eaten up with voting. Do we want weekend homework, or to have her pile it on during the week? By an 80 percent majority, We the People of Hunter High approve a resolution to limit oral reports to fifteen minutes. For our next major assignment, Ms. Pallas lets us work in groups with the freedom to pick our own partners.

She’s wearing a silvery, almost metallic tuniclike top over flowing black pants, and the shiny material swishes when she turns to read aloud the list of possible topics that are written on the board: “The influence of ancient architecture on our buildings today. The role of women in the visual arts of the ancient world. The great lovers of the myths. These are just suggestions. Use your creativity.”

“Ms. Pallas, does this mean we can report on anything we want?” someone asks.

“As long as there’s a sharp focus. Nothing like ‘A Huge Mishmash of Plagiarized Info about Greek Life.’”

“No fair! That was my topic,” one of the wiseasses whines.

She writes the due date on the board and underlines it twice. “No late papers accepted. Five to six references, but only two can come from the Internet.”

The Double Ds, who consider books to be dust collectors that cause their mascara to run, raise their hands, but Ms. Pallas covers her eyes. “No, no, no. I don’t see you. This is where democracy ends and teacher rule begins. We’re not getting into another discussion about