Private (Private 1)

and rubbed them, surveying the room. I could tell by the expres-

“B-Brian Marshall,” the towheaded kid in the front row

sions on my classmates’ faces that none of them were actually

answered. I was surprised he didn’t pee on the floor.

pleased to see him. From the sarcastic gleam in his eye, it was clear

“From Mr. Marshall left is team A. The rest of you, team B.” Mr.

that he was also aware of this fact.

Barber said with a dismissive flick of the wrist. He picked up a

“For those of you who haven’t already heard all the nasty rumors pebbled notebook from his huge wooden desk. “I have here the

about me, my name is Mr. Barber and I am a by-the-book type of

class roster. When I ask you a question, I expect an answer within man,” he said, his voice booming from somewhere in the vicinity of ten seconds. Answer correctly, your team gets a point. Answer

his navel. As he spoke, he twisted off the top of his Thermos and incorrectly, I’ll take a point away,” he said, eyeing us.

poured himself a cup of steaming liquid. The pungent scent of black A couple of kids smirked. A couple more looked scared. I had no

44

K A T E

B R I A N

P R I V A T E

45

idea what to think. No teacher of mine had ever spoken like this

“Here,” a chunky guy near the door answered.

before. This guy had more authority in his little finger than the

“Mr. Simmons, who was the first woman executed in the United

entire faculty at Croton High combined.

States and why?”

“Let’s get started,” Mr. Barber said. He looked up and down his Okay. That I do not know.

class list as he approached the board. Every one of us prayed not to I started to sweat.

hear our name. “Miss . . .”

“Uh . . . oh. I know this,” Simmons said, clutching a pencil in Crap. Crap. Crap.

both hands.

“Talbot.”