Down and Out in Bugtussle Read Online Free Page A

frowns at me.
    “I tried that,” she says. “Took the test three times.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. Chloe is shaking her head at me now.
    “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing,” Stacey says, only “thing” and “wing” come out “thang” and “wang.” Chloe grimaces and I hold my breath for a second so I don’t giggle. Stacey continues. “I have to finish my degree first anyway, so I just consider the tests I already took to be some really expensive practice.” Chloe is smiling again. At Stacey. Not at me. “My transcript is under review right now by the University of Alabama because I don’t know if they’ll let me use the credits I earned back then or not.”
    “Well, they should,” Chloe says.
    “Yes,” I say. “They certainly should.”
    “If I don’t have to start all over from scratch, I’m moving to Tuscaloosa this summer and finishing that bad boy up. Finally gonna be a college graduate.” She grins. “Roll Tide!”
    “Roll Tide! Go Bama!” I say with a fist pump that draws another sharp look from Chloe. I decide to tone it down. “So, what do you want to teach?”
    “My certification will be in music, and I’d really like to work with the band.”
    “That sounds like a great plan,” I say, and then the bell rings to begin first period. I look at Chloe. “Man, I haven’t heard that sound in a while.”
    “I know,” Stacey says with a snort. “It totally took some getting used to for me, too.”
    I look at Chloe. She smiles and tells us both to have a good day. Stacey Dewberry and I leave the conference room and make our way through the crowded lobby to the double doors of A Hall.

3

    S everal students speak to me as I make my way down the hallway. Some teachers smile and wave; others pretend not to see me.
    “Who are you covering for today?” Stacey asks.
    “Mrs. Davis.”
    “She has pretty good classes, except fifth period is a little rowdy and—” She presses her lips together and looks at me, clearly uncertain about finishing her sentence. I raise my eyebrows and nod, inviting her to continue, and so she does. “I’ll tell you the truth, Ace—uh, Ms. Jones. Her third-period class is awful. Just awful. It’s all eleventh and twelfth graders, and the last time I was in there, they all started acting crazy! Plumb crazy, I tell ya! They were tripping and falling all over the place. It was terrible. They knocked over a bunch of desks and I had to call Mr. Byer on the intercom. He put a bunch of them in detention, so they all got mad at me.Like it was my fault they started acting like loony zoo animals.” She looks around, I assume, to make sure no one is eavesdropping on our conversation, and, sure enough, not a soul appears to be concerned about what the substitute teachers might be discussing. “And that first period is a first-class pain in the bamboozle,” she whispers.
    “Bamboozle?” She doesn’t answer, just points to her floral-clad rump. “Oh,” I say, nodding. I glance at her, careful to keep my eyes off that hair. “Whose room are you in?”
    “Mr. Tad’s,” she says with a smile. “He has small classes, so I’ll have an easy day.”
    We part ways at Mr. Tad’s door and I head down to Mrs. Davis’s room. When I walk in, the students get quiet, which is seriously not normal. In the silence, I start to feel apprehensive about my decision to come back here and do this. Some of the kids recognize me, a few speak, and there is a lot of whispering going on. Just as the tardy bell rings, five students hustle into the room. Four rush to sit down and one stops to glare at me.
    “Who are you and where is Mrs. Davis?” she demands.
    “I’m Ms. Jones and Mrs. Davis is out today,” I say with a smile.
    “Where is she?” the girl asks. She props her hand up on her hip and scowls at me.
    “I’m sorry, what’s your name?” I ask.
    “Brittany Franks,” she announces with no small amount of pageantry. “Who are you again?”
    “I’m Ms.