Read Stones and Spark for Free Online Page B

outfit?”
    I yell back, "I need to get something!" I point to the doors behind him that lead into the main building.
    "Can't let you!"
    “Please?”
    He leans in close, so he doesn't have to yell. “By order from the queen vegetable." He frowns. "Or is she a tuber?”
    Parsnip.
    “But Mr. Galluci, I can’t finish my homework without it.” This is true. Until I find Drew, I can’t possibly think about homework. "I have to get in there."
    But he's not listening to me. Lifting his head, he gazes over the dance floor. The band's lead singer is whispering into the microphone, moving to a slow love song, and every single couple is pulled toward the gym's dark middle. They look like metal shards sucked toward a magnet. Mr. Galluci sets down the bowl of Doritos and falls in with the rest of the chaperones who are circling the lovefest.
    Call me an opportunist, but I pounce. Shoving the door open, I hear Mr. Galluci say, "Hey!"
    But I'm already running down the hall when the door slams behind me. By the first corner I'm flinging my arms wide, sliding around the turn like one of Drew’s beloved baseball players rounding second on a tight play. The floor is the usual Friday mess of cast-off litter. Flyers for basketball tryouts, lunch menus, hyped-up reminders for everyone to have a super time at tonight's dance. I can see one light shining up ahead. English. The Lit classroom. Drew hates English. But she'll do anything to keep her GPA a pristine 4.0. That whole “perfect number thing” obsesses her.
    I pick up speed on the straightaway and slide across the door, grabbing the doorframe for a stop.
    “You are out!” I cry.
    Mr. Sandbag looks up from his desk. “What is the meaning of this?”
    I want to ask the same thing, but it’s his classroom.
    “Sorry. I was looking for Drew.” And, in case he doesn’t remember his most difficult student, I add, “Drew Levinson?”
    “A rather impulsive inquiry.”
    “Assonance,” I sigh. You have to work with this guy. “Have you seen her?”
    “The more refined query is: ‘Does the road wind uphill all the way?’ ”
    Oh, God. Not now.
    I glance around the room. Chairs are twisted away from their desks. White paper spouts from the trashcan, testifying to how much frustration we feel with Mr. Sandberg, a.k.a. Sandbag.
    “Well, does it?” Sandbag demands.
    “’Yes,’” I reply, quoting the Rossetti poem we're supposed to memorize. It's called "Uphill" and right now that's how everything feels. “‘to the very end.’”
    "With feeling, Miss Harmon. Try to recite with feeling."
    If you pull out a dictionary and look up the word tedious , you'll probably find a framed photo of Sandbag. In addition to wearing his glasses on the tip of his nose, he’s one of those teachers who see everything as a “teachable moment.” If you bump into him on the street—God help you—his thin lips will peel back and he'll drop some drippy line. Right there, you’ve got to tell him whether he’s using assonance or alliteration or symbolism, and if you don't, he’ll call you out later in front of class.
    “Drew—have you seen her, anywhere?”
    He gazes at me over the glasses. “And the next line begins? . . .”
    “‘Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?’”
    “‘From morn to night my friend.’”
    “Her bike’s outside.”
    “Miss Levinson, I presume?"
    Who does he think I'm talking about, Christina Rosetti?
    "She did make an appearance this afternoon,” he says.
    “What time?”
    He reaches down, snaps open his briefcase. On the floor near his feet is one small black suitcase. “If memory serves, she was speaking with Miss Teager. Probably attempting to press the parameters of geometry into a cerebellum struggling with its synapses.”
    He gazes over the glasses.
    “Alliteration,” I reply.
    “Ah, but you neglected to note imagery, which could well appear on next week’s parts-of-speech test.”
    “What time did you see Drew?”
    “ At what