Game Changer (5 page)

There weren’t any computers in the homeroom classroom.

There weren’t any
desks.

The room had been transformed into a vast, open space, its floor covered with the same kind of blue, foamy mats the phys ed teacher used for gymnastics units.

“Come on, kids, enough with the standing around. You know the drill. Stretches, everyone,” the teacher, Mrs. Whitbourne, hollered from the front of the room.

The other kids, grumbling, slid down to the floor. KT watched, confused. She told herself to go into the same kind of crisis management mode she used in risky moments on the softball diamond. Coach Mike had taught her the strategy:

“You don’t need to process every piece of information around you. Does it matter that the sky is blue? No. Does it matter it that you didn’t get as much playing time in the last inning as you thought you deserved? No. Does it matter that your boyfriend came to watch you play for the very first time?” That one had drawn a laugh from all the girls, and made Coach Mike shake his head even more emphatically. “That doesn’t matter either—unless it makes you play better. In which case, yeah, remember that Loverboy Romeo is sitting in the stands. But don’t let him distract you. Don’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t matter. Be a softball-playing machine!”

It didn’t matter that KT couldn’t figure out what was going on in homeroom. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t figure out any of the other oddities that had occurred this morning. All that mattered was finding out what had happened in the championship game yesterday.

She walked toward Mrs. Whitbourne.

“Mrs. Whitbourne, may I—,” she began.

“No, KT,” the teacher interrupted. “You may not.”

“But I haven’t even said what I—”

Mrs. Whitbourne tucked her clipboard under her arm and ticked off possibilities on her fingers.

“You may not do a more advanced stretching routine than the rest of the class. You may not demonstrate that you might be better at those particular stretching routines than
moi
, your teacher. You may not do anything except get down on that mat and stretch, exactly like I tell you to, exactly like every single other student in this class.” Mrs. Whitbourne was practically eyeball to eyeball with KT. “Got it?”

Six years of dealing with high-strung, championship-seeking softball coaches had taught KT that there were certain times when it wasn’t wise to argue with grown-ups.

Now appeared to be one of them.

“Yes, ma’am,” KT said.

She slid down to the mat and obediently stretched her arms toward her toes, just like all the other students.

But Mrs. Whitbourne couldn’t control the thoughts stretching through KT’s mind. What if Mrs. Whitbourne’s hissy fit wasn’t just a fluke, just a teacher upset that it was Monday? What if it was something else? What if KT needed to pay attention to what Mrs. Whitbourne had said?

Why does she act like those are all things that I’ve done before?
KT wondered.
We’ve never stretched in homeroom before! We always just sit at our desks and listen to boring morning announcements and then go to class. And—Mrs. Whitbourne likes me! At least—I thought she did. She used
to play softball herself, so she always likes hearing about my games! She lets me come in late and doesn’t even count me tardy!

The next time KT dipped toward the ground she dared to turn her head a little to the right and whisper to the girl beside her, “What was that all about? What’s wrong with Mrs. Whitbourne? And why are we doing stretches? What happened to all the computers and desks?”

The girl, Maria, let out an exasperated snort. She didn’t answer KT, but the next time Maria dipped in the other direction, KT heard her tell the girl on the other side of her, “Don’t you love it when teachers see through those teacher’s-pet routines?”

Teacher’s pet?
KT thought indignantly.
I’m not a teacher’s pet!

“People! Your form is awful!” Mrs. Whitbourne called from the front of the room. She tapped a finger impatiently against her clipboard. “You do this wrong, you’re going to get hurt. Look at . . .” She sighed. “Look at KT. She’s the only one doing it entirely correctly. KT, would you demonstrate?”

“Uh, sure,” KT said. She made sure her left foot was tucked against her rear, and stretched her arms toward her right shoe. She inched down slowly, just like she’d learned in softball. “Like this?”

“Naturally,” Mrs. Whitbourne said, tossing her head scornfully. She was an older woman with short, gray hair—her hair didn’t even move. “Okay, people, every single one of you should be doing exactly what KT’s doing. Now get to it!”

Maria, the girl beside KT, dipped down alongside her
and hissed, “Show-off!”

“But—she asked me to,” KT muttered back.

“Hmph,” Maria snorted contemptuously.

What’s her beef?
KT wondered.

Dimly she remembered that Maria had tried out for the school softball team last year, in seventh grade, and had been cut in the first round. She hadn’t even bothered trying out this year, so KT figured she didn’t really care.

But was Maria still holding a grudge from last year? Was she jealous that KT was the star pitcher and Maria wasn’t even good enough to make a seventh-grade team?

KT had been sitting next to Maria in homeroom all year. They didn’t usually say much to each other beyond “Hey” and “What’s up?” But Maria had never acted jealous before. Why was she so bitter now?

And why were the other kids around them nodding and glaring at KT, like they
all
agreed with Maria?

The bell rang, signaling that it was time for everyone to go to first period.

Not me,
KT thought.
At least—not yet.

She darted out of the classroom and around the corner. She wasn’t going to take the risk that her first-period teacher, Mr. Huck, wouldn’t let her use a computer either. She was taking matters into her own hand. She’d sneak into the library, check out the Rysdale Invitational website on the computer there, and
then
go to first period.

She turned a second corner. Past the lockers and then . . .

KT stopped.

Wait—this isn’t the way to the library. It’s . . .

She backtracked, almost completely back to homeroom. Start over. Left, then right,
then . . .

She’d ended up in the wrong hallway again.

“KT?” a voice called behind her. “Is everything okay?”

KT hesitated. She squinted at the walls around her, willing the doorways and cut-throughs and classrooms to unscramble and reassemble and look familiar again. She’d been going to Brecksville North for three years. How could she have done what sixth graders always feared on their very first day?

She’d gotten completely lost in her own school.

“KT?” the voice behind her said again.

KT whirled around. This nightmare of a morning instantly got worse: It was Mr. Huck, her social-studies teacher. The one whose class she was skipping.

She tried putting on her game face.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Huck,” she said brightly, with what she hoped was an innocent-looking smile. “I know I’m late to first period, but—”

Mr. Huck gave her a light, conspiratorial punch on the arm.

“Well, no, technically you’re not late yet,” he said. The bell rang in the emptying hallway around them. Doors slammed; the hallway fell silent. Now it was just Mr. Huck, KT, and the cinder-block walls.

“
Now
you’re late,” Mr. Huck said. “But I am too, so I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Mr. Huck had never been quite this . . . friendly before. He was an okay guy, but most of the time in his class KT
had the sense that he was just waiting for the school day to end so he could get to what he really loved: coaching the boys’ lacrosse team.

KT could respect that. She felt the same way about getting through school to get to softball.

But it didn’t make social-studies class very interesting.

“I wanted to talk to you anyhow,” Mr. Huck said. He leaned against the wall, as if trying to make their conversation even more private.

They were already standing close together in a deserted hallway.

Is he hitting on me?
KT thought with a mix of amazement and disgust. She knew several girls who had crushes on Mr. Huck, because he was kind of good-looking, and it hadn’t been that long since he’d been a student at Brecksville North himself. But he was probably twice her age.

KT thought the girls who got crushes on teachers were stupid.

“
Are
you okay?” Mr. Huck asked, his eyebrows wrinkling into worried-looking wedges.

KT forgot her suspicions about him hitting on her. This was more like . . . like he really respected her.

“Nobody’s giving you a hard time about that e-mail, are they?” Mr. Huck asked.

E-mail?
KT thought.
What e-mail?

“Um,” KT said.

Mr. Huck lowered his voice.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Mr. Arnold showed it to me in confidence.”

Mr. Arnold was the principal.

“He did?” KT said, because she had to say something.

“Yes,” Mr. Huck said. He clenched his hand and turned his wrist like someone swinging a pretend lacrosse stick. KT thought she understood the motion, because she always flicked her wrist like she was throwing a pretend softball any time she got stuck in an awkward conversation.

In fact she was doing that right now.

“Why?” KT asked. The word came out more forcefully than she meant it to. She wished Mr. Huck could tell her why Maria had called her a show-off, why Mrs. Whitbourne had been so mean, why they’d done stretches in homeroom, why Facebook and her cell phone and the Rysdale website were messed up, why Mom had acted so weird—and most of all why KT couldn’t remember anything after the start of the fifth inning of the championship game yesterday.

And, of course, how the game had ended.

“Let’s just say, I am very sympathetic to your viewpoint,” Mr. Huck said. “But you came on kind of strong in your accusations, and Mr. Arnold was a little offended—he was quite the chemistry standout, in his day.”

Chemistry?
KT thought.
What’s that got to do with anything?

“I told Mr. Arnold I remember feeling just like you do when I was in middle school,” Mr. Huck said. He gave a sad chuckle. “Not that I was ever brave enough to call anyone out, like you did. Certainly not the school administration and all the coaches!”

Administration? Coaches? What was he talking about?

KT couldn’t ask. Asking would be like admitting she’d suddenly forgotten how to find the library in the school
she’d been attending the past three years. Or like admitting that she’d forgotten an entire chunk of her life yesterday.

Or—if he’s talking about some e-mail I supposedly sent Mr. Arnold, did I maybe forget more than the last half of yesterday? Did I forget something that happened last week, too?

KT remembered last week. She’d had intense softball practice every day.

“Mr. Huck,” KT said firmly. “I think you have me mixed up with somebody else.”

Mr. Huck frowned and shook his head.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “We can be honest here. This school does have its priorities mixed up sometimes, and it’s the talented students like you who get hurt. It’s a crying shame we eliminated the gifted program in those budget cuts a few years back. We do have to gear the education system to the most basic level, to try to make sure everyone passes the state tests at the end of the year. I know that makes everything boring for students like you, who want to soar above the crowd, and . . .”

Now KT
knew
Mr. Huck had her confused with someone else. Nobody had ever accused her of being a talented student before, or of belonging in a gifted program. She was usually on the honor roll, but that was mostly just because they made it easy for anyone to be on the honor roll. If you did badly on a test, there was always a chance to retake it, or do extra credit, or find some other way to get your grades up.

KT zoned out a little, because Mr. Huck was going on and on about how “the school really doesn’t mean to clip your wings” and “part of it’s just the nature of middle school
and middle school students” and “I promise you, it’ll get better in high school. Or at least by college. You’ll find your peer group eventually, people who care as much as you do about schoolwork . . .”

He’s whacked,
KT thought.
A total nut job.

She’d heard teachers complain, “You guys are going to send me into a nervous breakdown!” But she never thought she’d actually witness it.

She started inching away from him.

“Uh, Mr. Huck, don’t you think we should go to class?” she asked. “Everybody’s going to be wondering where you are.”

“It’s okay—I told them to get started without me,” Mr. Huck said. He put his hand on KT’s arm. “Look, I know this is an uncomfortable conversation, but I promised Mr. Arnold I would talk to you. Because I do understand. And I’m on your side. But there are some things you could do to help yourself. To, well, not stand out so much. Like, for example . . . what’s your real name?”