The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (48 page)

“Goodenough,” he said, stopping just a few inches from where the school property ended.

I walked over to the sidewalk, standing in front of him, my fingers tense as if he might grab me and toss me back in the school. This was it. Our turning point. If we caved … if we showed weakness … the spell would break. Students would disperse, hopeless.

I wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.

Principal Sanders sighed. “Get everyone inside.”

“No. Not until our demands are met.”

He raised one eyebrow. A breeze tussled his thinning hair. He wasn’t as intimidating out here, I realized. It was as if the strength of his power came from his office, where he was safe and in charge.

Out here? Out here,
we
were in charge.

“Joey Harrington will receive detention for what he said,” Principal Sanders offered.

The crowd of students booed. He turned to them, surprised, his jaw dropping just a bit.

“We want him
suspended
,” I said. “And if he bullies any student again, we want him
expelled
. We want a committee made up of students and teachers tasked with reviewing incidents of bullying and we want
them
to have the power to decide the punishment, since
you
are obviously incapable of being fair. And we want this written into the school charter, so that every new class of students is protected from bullies.”

He took a deep breath, turned, and walked back into the school.

Everyone started texting. More students snuck out between fourth and fifth period, and even more simply stormed out of the lunchroom, announcing that Mr. Whitmann—the monitor on duty—had refused to stop them. Seth arrived, bringing with him a handful of younger students who played percussion in the marching band.

“Holy Wonderbread,” Kayla said, staring at her phone. “My parents are totally coming down to join us! Everyone text your parents!” she called out. “And tell them to bring blankets because it’s getting
freezing
!”

Everyone in the crowd got on their phones.

Between fifth and sixth period, more students poured out of the school.

Then the police arrived.

Principal Sanders came out to meet the two officers, pointing directly to me as he hurried down the stairs. “Arrest them all!” he said, one hand clutching his striped red tie to keep it from flapping in the breeze. He was sweating—I imagined him pacing his office, staring out the window every few minutes.

The officers looked at me.

“We’re just peacefully assembling,” I said.

“They are
truant
,” Principal Sanders snapped. One finger was still pointing right at me. “They must be arrested and sent to jail.”

“Jail?!” I pointed a finger back at him. “All we want is to
not
be bullied! That’s it!”

“You, young lady, are on the verge of being
expelled
!”

“Wait, hold on.” One of the police officers—a middle-aged woman with dark black hair—held up both hands. “You want us to arrest more than a hundred students who are out here because they’re sick of being bullied?”

“Yes.”

She looked at her partner, smirking. “You want us to club them too? Maybe pepper spray them? I mean, they’re obviously pretty dangerous.”

Principal Sanders gave her the evil eye. “Are you going to arrest them or not?”

“No, sir. But we’ll stick around and make sure they don’t burn down the school if it makes you feel better.”

Principal Sanders, furious, stomped back into the building.

School got out. More students joined us, but not the bullies. Joey Harrington and his friends got into their cars, peeling out of the parking lot and kicking up smelly tire smoke that wafted into the crowd. In one of the cars, I saw Trish. I wasn’t surprised. Sad, but not surprised.

Parents began arriving. Some brought blankets. A few tried to convince their kids to go home, but just about everyone refused. None of the parents seemed sure of what to do except stand around and either hold a sign or wander into the building to get some answers from Principal Sanders.

Then
my
parents arrived. Mom looked horrified. Dad had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, examining the crowd. I didn’t say anything to them. I just held up my sign:

WE DESERVE A BULLY-FREE EDUCATION.

Dad smiled.

Mom looked around at the mass of students camped out, surveying it all. She put her hands on her hips. “We’ll need pizza.”

Six o’clock came and went. None of the teachers had left the building yet—we knew because all their cars were still parked in the parking lot. Principal Sanders stayed in his office. Sometimes, he came to his window and the students’ chants got louder.

OK. This wasn’t perfect by any means. A few parents went inside the building and came back out, announcing grimly that Principal Sanders’ door was shut and locked, and it sounded like a number of the teachers were in there with him. Some of the students refused to hold signs because their hands would get too cold. Seth spent an entire hour repeatedly touching a 9-volt battery with his tongue. Jasmine passed around a game on her cell phone. A couple students balked at the pizza dinner ordered by the parents and wandered off to find something more appetizing, not quite getting the idea that in order to protest something, you sorta have to stick around and suffer a little bit.

But
most
of them came back. And we stood together.

7:00 passed.

Then 8:00.

Finally, Principal Sanders walked out of the building. He had his coat on. At first, we thought he was leaving, but then he called some of the parents over. They talked heatedly. Finally, my mom said in a loud voice: “I think you should talk to your students, not us.”

We cheered.

Principal Sanders frowned. Under the light of the streetlights, he looked positively orc-ish, which only steeled my resolve not to give in. I met him on the sidewalk with Rachel. Anton from the basketball team came, too, wheeling Chase in front of him to remind Principal Sanders that we had athletes in our crowd, too.

We had everybody. That was what made us so strong.

“Joey Harrington will be suspended,” Principal Sanders said. “He won’t play Friday’s football game, as per the rules of the school charter. I’ll leave the anti-bullying measures up to the Student Senate. Will you please go home now?”

I turned to Rachel. She nodded. “We agree.”

“Wonderful,” he said in a low voice, stepping around us to get to the parking lot.

We turned back to the massive crowd of students and parents. Rachel smiled.

“We won,” she said.

The crowd cheered.

Last Chapter – For Real!

OK, one more ending. Just one more! I know I’ve got a whole
Lord of the Rings
thing going here with so many different endings, but there’s still one thing we have to wrap up.

The fencing tournament.

So let me set the scene: an arena, its bleachers filled with family and friends cheering like crazy. Four fencing matches going on at once, each one taking place on a red rectangle in one section of the arena floor. Blinding hot lights shining down from overhead, lights normally used for basketball and hockey games. An incredibly dull-sounding announcer who definitely spoiled the whole
Karate Kid
mood.

And an invisible rabbit, watching quietly from the rafters.

Sweat dripped down my forehead, gathering above my eyebrows. I held my breath, watching my opponent step forward. I tried to anticipate her next move, but she surprised me by going inside, stabbing at my stomach. My hot breath bounced off the mesh mask. I parried with my saber, stepping back, feeling my opponent’s blade slip through and tap against my chest plate. The electronic bell sounded, signaling a point.

I bent the blade of my saber, trying to straighten it as best I could. It had already dished out a lot of points for me and had begun to lose its straight shape.

“Come on, Alice,” I whispered into the mask.

“Remember the whale!” Chase shouted from behind the judges’ desk. Lots of people were shouting—there were four matches going on at once in the massive arena, after all, and the stands were jam-packed. The noise level reached a crescendo anytime anyone scored a point.

“The whale,” I muttered, stepping back onto the mat. I wished I’d never told him the full story of that whole experience. All day, every point I gave up was a “Remember the whale” moment.

“Killer instinct,” I whispered, checking my stance and holding out my saber. The referee—also known as the “Director,” as he proudly informed us—shouted “En garde!”

I stepped forward quickly, advancing on my opponent’s position, stabbing quickly; my blade grazed hers, sending her off-balance. She tried to regain her footing, counter-riposting by extending her blade high. This was my moment. Sweat dripped from my eyebrows. The muscles in my right arm burned but I fought through, initiating a
stop-cut
, preventing my opponent from making another attack. Her blade bounced away from her body and for a split second, just a fraction of a breath, I saw my opening plain as day. My blade was already in position. I stepped forward, stabbing her in the chest.

The tip of the blade bounced off her protective plate. The bell chimed. Seth and Clyde and all the entire boys’ fencing team stood up, cheering. My parents screamed at the top of their lungs.

I’d won. I’d taken first place in the women’s saber event. I shook my opponent’s hand, then the hand of the Director. He gave me a quick nod, a sign of respect. I looked up, toward the rafters. Briar was there, leaning on one of the big spotlights. He gave a little wave with his bandage-free paw.

“We’re not done yet,” I told Chase, pulling off my mask. He smiled, tossing me a hairband so I could tie my hair back.

We hurried behind the line judges’ tables, making our way to the other side of the arena where Rachel was playing for third place in the foil round. Jasmine had taken second place with the foil. Margaret had taken third place with the epee, which was the strongest of the three types of blades. We were doing better than the boys despite having two fewer fencers to compete. No other team had as many fencers finishing in the top three. We could take first place overall with Rachel’s points.

If she won.

“Beautiful!” Mr. Whitmann called out. We followed his voice, moving around another judges’ table to the other side of the arena floor. Mr. Whitmann was standing beside the judges’ table, moving so that the Director didn’t obstruct his view of the two fencers dancing on the platform that stood about a foot higher than the floor of the arena.

Behind them, Margaret and Jasmine stood cheering our teammate on.

The bell chimed. Rachel’s opponent cheered, stepping back and bending the blade of her foil back into place.

“Shrug it off!” Mr. Whitmann said gruffly. His blue collared shirt was stained dark under the armpits. “That’s an order, by the way!”

Rachel’s shoulders slumped. I looked at the score and realized why: one more point, and she lost.

But it was close. She only needed two consecutive points to win.

“Stop thinking about your feet so much,” Mr. Whitmann said. “You always think about your feet too much!”

Rachel, armored head to toe, simply shrugged.

“Use your
strength
!” Mr. Whitmann urged, crushing his hand into a fist.

Her masked face turned to Chase. He held up three fingers.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Chase didn’t answer. He simply nodded to Rachel, who nodded back, lifting her shoulders.

She got back into position inside the carefully marked red rectangle. She was definitely bigger than the other girl. Not just bulkier, either—
taller
. She had the reach, that was for sure. Her opponent was winning because she could dance like someone running across hot coals. Rachel needed to turn that into a disadvantage somehow.

“En garde!” the mustachioed Dictator called out.

Rachel took two big steps, closing the gap before her opponent could do any fancy footwork. They locked blades, and Rachel used her strength to push her opponent back.

“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann called out, nearly ecstatic.

Rachel stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. She parried, lifting her sword up to deflect a blow, then another then took another step …

Thump!

She brought her foot down hard, and her opponent—thinking she was going to attack—stopped her own advance, hesitating. Rachel took advantage of the opportunity, going on the offense, the blade of her foil sliding left and right, the sound of their blades clanging together again and again and again, so fast it was impossible to know what was happening.

The bell chimed. The little light on Rachel’s helmet lit up. Everyone cheered.

“An
appel
?” I asked Chase. “A
foot stomp
?”

He shrugged. When she looked at him, he held up one finger.

Rachel closed the distance between them again, no longer hesitant. She stabbed wildly, keeping her opponent off-balance, overpowering her with sheer strength and willpower.

“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann yelled. “Yesssss!”

The crowd behind the judges’ table cheered louder. Rachel had her opponent on the ropes, their foils crossing and clanging together in a flurry of attacks and counter-ripostes. Rachel’s strokes had no pattern—
zero
pattern. It was as if she and Chase had planned it that way, as if it was a carefully designed series of attacks. A series of attacks so furious that her opponent could only defend, stepping back again and again while her foil went up, down, left, right. Rachel’s foil slid left, slid right, then very gently poked her opponent’s ribs.

The bell went off again. The light on Rachel’s helmet lit up.

Mr. Whitmann screamed at the top of his lungs. Rachel tore off her helmet, a big grin plastered across her face. She shook hands with her opponent, then stepped off the stage. I gave her the first hug. Then everyone else from our team was pushing me aside to get theirs in, too.

“We won!” Chase said, laughing hysterically. We’d placed first overall in the girls’ tournament and second overall in the boys’ tournament.

I grabbed him by the shoulders. We looked each other in the eyes. Before I knew it, I was falling into him. Our lips touched. Opened just a bit. His hand clutched mine. White-hot dragon’s fire coursed through my body.

I wish I could say this was a totally awesome, absolutely one hundred percent happy ending. But this is the real world, not a fairy tale.

“Everyone settle down, settle down,” Mr. Whitmann announced in our locker room once we’d all reconvened and packed up our gear. He grunted, examining us, kicking aside one of the duffel bags after tripping on it. “You did a fine, fine job. I’m proud of you all. But we’re not done.”

We looked at each other, confused. The tournament was over.

Mr. Whitmann smiled. “I just received word that we’ve been invited to the International Fencing Tournament in Romania!”

“Woah!” said Bobby, pulling back his blond hair. “That’s where Dracula lives!”

“He’s not real,” Jasmine snapped.

Mr. Whitmann held up his hands, quieting us down. “We’re going during winter break. Two weeks. And here’s the best part. We have a sponsor, which means everything will be paid for.”

Chase smiled, glancing at me. “Free trip to Europe? I’ll take it.”

“This sounds too good to be true!” Margaret exclaimed, her eyes fluttering.

A sharp pain stabbed me in the gut, warning me of danger.

“I’d like you to meet our sponsor,” Mr. Whitmann said. “And give him a round of applause before he rethinks his kind gesture. Mr. Sam Grayle!”

The dwarf walked into the locker room, greeted by thunderous applause. He grinned, giving everyone an obligatory wave, unbuttoning his shiny gray suit coat and taking a bow.

I felt my stomach drop.

Sam Grayle turned to me, grinning wider.

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