Broken Wings (Broken Wings 1)

When the bell rang at the end of the day, the teachers were out there herding the students into the buses to keep them from loitering in the hallways. Mr. Cody promised to have my test results first thing in the morning and then design a program for me.

“Every student gets his or her own program to fit his or her special needs,” he explained after the others had left. “That way we can be sure we’ll strengthen your weaknesses. Sound good?” he asked.

“Sounds like you think I’m sick,” I retorted.

His lips held the friendly smile, but his eyes turned a little dark and cold. He was obviously someone who expected to be appreciated.

“Well, in a way that’s what’s happened. We take your mental temperature and treat your problems and make you a better student,” he said, obviously proud of his answer.

I didn’t say anything else. I left the room and followed directions to the exit where my bus was waiting. Barbara Ann was standing by the bus, looking for me.

“You gotta hurry so you don’t miss the bus or don’t get a good seat,” she chastised.

That was just what I needed to finish my day—an eight-year-old bawling me out. She stomped onto the bus ahead of me, expecting I would sit beside her. Instead, I slipped in next to a white boy with curly light brown hair who was glaring out the window like he was fixing to smash it with his fist. He didn’t even notice I had sat beside him until we were under way. Barbara Ann was sulking in the rear with her friends. I supposed she had bragged how she was going to boss around a high school girl.

Finally, the white boy turned and looked at me. His eyebrows rose and then dipped in at each other.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“The Queen of England,” I replied. He stared a moment and then laughed.

“I wish I was in England,” he said. “I wish I was anywhere but here.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You just come to school here?”

“That’s right, and not because I wanted to, either.”

“Well, where you really from?”

“Atlanta. I’m living with my aunt and uncle for a while.”

He nodded as if that was something very common.

“I know why I hate being here. What’s your problem?” I asked him.

He looked out the window again and then turned back to reply.

“I just got thrown off the basketball team. My father’s going to bust an artery.”

“Why’d you get thrown off?”

“Got caught with these,” he said, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “In the locker room. Didn’t think the coach was anywhere nearby so I went into a shower stall and lit up. No second chances with Coach McDermott. I was on the starting five, too,” he added.

“What’s your name?”

“Ashley Porter,” he said. “Or it used to be. Now it’s Mud.”

“Can I have one of those?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“A cigarette. Can I have one?”

“You can’t light up on the bus. You’ll get me suspended on top of everything else.”

“It’s for later,” I said. “I couldn’t bring any from Atlanta. My aunt put me through a metal detector and a body search when I came to her house.”