Read My Own Revolution for Free Online Page A

thing to do. The secretary is already holding out her hand, so I skip it.
    The bell rings, trilling through the chatter, the stamp of feet on the stairs.
    My first class is the history of ancient Greece. Mr. Noll writes the timeline of the Peloponnesian War — 431–404 BC — on the blackboard. I wonder if Bozek is in the same mathematics class as Danika. I wonder if they’re passing notes when Mrs. Hathazy’s back is turned. If they’re risking standing in the corner for passing notes.
    A new and horrifying thought comes to me that maybe I won’t find her after school. Maybe he’ll whisk her away. And then I remember her violin lesson at Lada’s house. Lada, the girl with the braces and thick ankles who plays first violin with the orchestra. Lada, who gives lessons in her apartment on a narrow side street.
    “In the Peloponnesian War, democratic Athens was roundly defeated and dominated by oligarchic Sparta,” says Mr. Noll.
    Like us now with Russia,
I think. I wonder if Mr. Noll is trying to let us know that he can’t stand the stinking Russians. I look at him more closely with his curly blond sheep hair. Is he a
real
teacher and not just a propaganda machine?
    But then Mr. Noll says the Spartans were strong and disciplined, and I understand that I got my hopes way too high. He likes the occupying Soviet Russians just fine.
    At break time, when we march around the gymnasium, Danika marches in the opposite direction, and as we pass, I catch her eye and make a funny face. She makes a funny face back. But she thinks we are just being kids together.
    Bozek marches on the opposite side of the gymnasium, swinging his arms with gusto.
    In my last class, which is botany, I tell the teacher I have a dentist appointment.
    Mr. Ninzik asks, “Where is the note from your mother or father?”
    I pretend to look in my pockets while hating doing this to Mr. Ninzik, who is the only teacher I like. He’s the kind of guy who would hate the Spartans. I shrug, saying, “I can’t find it.” I open my mouth and point to a back molar:
“Cavity.”
    He looks out the window and back at me and nods.
    I grab my books and head out the door, down the hallway and stairs and outside, where I lie in wait beside a lilac bush, my heart thumping like a dog’s leg when it scratches fleas.
    The bell rings, and kids start to come out. I put my hand on my heart to keep the sound in. Will she come out with Bozek? Will he be telling her all about the wonders of Bratislava, where you can hear little snatches of Beatles songs and where boys have electric guitars and play the Beatles — muffled in a back room — whenever they want. With no Mrs. Zeman banging on the ceiling.
    But no. Today is the day of the violin lesson. She must go to Lada’s. It wouldn’t be right to keep Lada waiting.

She comes out, the sun full on her face, the violin case in her hand. My heart spins, swirls, stops, then marches on. There is no Bozek by her side.
    I step out, hoping Mr. Ninzik isn’t looking out the window.
    “Patrik! What are you doing here?”
    I take her violin case again, my sweat soaking the handle. “I’m here to walk you to Lada’s.”
    “But you don’t
have
to.”
    “I want to.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bozek coming down the steps, surrounded by boys who want to hear more about Bratislava and the Beatles.
    “I have a surprise for you,” I say, hurrying her away with the violin case banging against my leg. There’s a tiny park on the way to Lada’s.
    “What kind of surprise?” she asks.
    “You’ll see.” Out of habit I’m about to set down the violin case and books and yank my red scarf off. But then I don’t. Danika is still wearing hers and seems to like it.
    We come to the park blooming with tulips, and I say, “Let’s go through here.”
    “But that will make me late, Patrik. Lada won’t . . .”
    “Let’s go through here,” I order. “I have something to tell you.”
    “If it’s about Dr. Machovik, I