Do Not Resuscitate. Charley BrindleyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      I slipped in through the door in the back of the classroom and took the only vacant seat.

      “Who are you?”

      It was my first day at Fordland High School. The squat little man in front of the class stood glaring at me. He was dressed in a dove gray suit, with a black vest and wide floral tie. I’d never seen a male teacher before.

      “Ch-Charley Brindley.”

      “Wonderful. Brindley boy number five. Are there any more of you?”

      I didn’t know what he meant. Any more brothers, or any more Brindleys? I shook my head.

      Why is everyone looking at me?

      I heard a girl giggle. I slumped down, staring at the huge English textbook on my desk.

      Can I just crawl under it and die?

      “All right.” The teacher turned to the blackboard. “We’ll try to proceed without the benefit of your input.” He picked up a piece of chalk. “Mr. Winter Coldstream,” he said as he wrote his name on the board. “Yes, my mother had a great sense of humor.”

      He dropped the chalk in the tray and dusted his hands. “Who can name the eight parts of speech?”

      Six hands went up. All of them girls.

      Mr. Coldstream looked around at the smiling girls. His eyes fell on me. “Brindley?”

      No one had ever called me by my last name. I looked down and swallowed.

      “Can you name them?”

      I didn’t even know speech had parts. “Um…” I grabbed my textbook and flipped it open.

      “You should have learned this in fourth grade.” He looked around the room. “You, what’s your name?”

      “Ember Coldstream.”

      “I thought you looked familiar. Name them.”

      The others lowered their hands.

      Ember smiled and named off the parts of speech.

      She’s so cute, and smart, too.

      “Very good, Ember.” He glanced around the room. “What’s an adjective?”

      The same six girls raised their hands.

      “Brindley?”

      Oh, my God. Why does he keep asking me this stuff?

      I stared at my open book, keeping quiet and not moving, hoping I’d disappear from the surface of the Earth. I felt my face flush, and I knew everyone was watching me, probably laughing to themselves about my stupidity.

      “Well, I guess Brindley is so deep into mathematical calculations, his ears have blocked out all external stimuli.”

      Several kids laughed, one boy louder than the others. I knew who he was.

      Henry Witt. He probably doesn’t even know what stimuli is. I sure don’t.

      “What’s your name?” the teacher asked another student.

      “William Dermott.”

      “All right, William. What’s an adjective?”

      Why does he call me by my last name and everyone else by their first?

      “Um…” William looked at his hands, the floor, the window. “Um…a person, place, or thing?”

      “Wrong. Does anyone know the part of speech for a person, place, or thing?”

      The same six girls again.

      Mr. Coldstream strode across the front of the room and stopped before a girl with her hand in the air. “Who are you?”

      “Juliet Dermott.” She lowered her hand.

      “Really? Do you know Mr. William Dermott over there?”

      “I wish I didn’t.” She glared at William.

      “Can you answer the question, Juliet?”

      “Noun.”

      She’s pretty, and smart, like Ember.

      “Correct. What are most words ending in ‘-ly’ known as?”

      Please don’t ask me again. I don’t know any of this stuff.

      “Adverbs,” Juliet said.

      “Right.”

      I never knew time could pass so slowly. Hey, I did an adverb.

      “Let’s talk about diagramming a sentence, shall we?” Mr. Coldstream wrote on the board, ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’

      Diagramming? That’s about a fox and a dog.

      The fifty-five minutes in Mr. Coldstream’s ninth grade English class seemed like fifty-five hours. The ringing of the bell was music to my ears. I grabbed my book and hurried out into the hall.

      “Hey, Clod Hopper.”

      I turned to see a tall boy leaning against the wall. He had red hair and about a thousand freckles.

      “What are you doing here?”

      Another boy and two girls were with him. They stared at me, waiting for me to say something.

      “Going to history class.”

      “No, what are you doing in high school?”

      I didn’t know what he meant. I shrugged.

      “You’re supposed to go to junior high first.”

      The one-room school I came from had grades one through eight, but no junior high. “Oh.”

      “What an idiot,” the other boy said. It was Henry Witt.

      “He doesn’t even know what junior high is,” Ember said.

      All of them laughed at me.

      “Love your overalls,” Ember said, then giggled.

      I turned, wanting to run from the building and go home, but I forced myself to walk away slowly.

      I’ve got to find my history class.

      I walked down the hall, then turned back.

      I must have missed it.

      I heard some girls singing. “Pee wadley Pasty, huge big fatsy.”

      Turning a corner in the hallway, I saw a group of four girls facing an overweight girl.

      “Pee wadley Pasty, huge big fatsy,” they sang, then laughed at the big girl as tears streamed down her cheeks.

      The poor girl was backed up against her locker, with no place to go. Her sky-blue eyes were clouded with tears. She wiped her face on her sleeve and turned to lean her head against the locker. Her long blonde hair curled down over her shoulders. She was big, probably over 250 pounds, but why did they tease her?

      Other students walked by, some laughing or making mean remarks as they went on their way. I felt as if I should say or do something, but one of those girls was Ember Coldstream. I didn’t want her to remind everyone of my humiliation in English class.

      Apparently tiring of their torturing of Patsy, the four girls went on their way, still singing their silly ditty. After they left, Patsy opened her locker and found a handkerchief.

      What