Zeke Bartholomew Read Online Free

the gizmo, turned a few dials, then placed it on top of the sandwich. “You simply enter the dimensions of your sandwich, and it automatically cuts the edges off to your exact specifications.”
    â€œWow. I don’t know how I’ve lived so long without one of those,” he said.
    â€œYou laugh now, but this machine will save you precious sandwich-crust slicing time. Behold.”
    I pressed the Enter button on the watch. The device made a soft snick sound. “That’s the retractable blade,” I told Kyle. “It doesn’t descend until you press Enter.”
    â€œOr until it gets jostled in your pocket and stabs you in the thigh.”
    â€œYou’re so cynical,” I said. “Just watch.”
    I placed the device at the edge of the sandwich, keyed in the sandwich dimension, and pressed Enter again. Suddenly the machine began to whir—way too loud. It began to saw its way around the sandwich, making an awful scree scree noise as it did. Even Mr. Statler noticed. Then Isabel Berg, a freckled, pigtailed girl and the quietest kid in our homeroom, clapped her hands to her head and began to scream like her ears were on fire. And when Isabel Berg made any kind of sound, something was definitely wrong.
    When the device was finished cutting the sandwich, it stopped. It had cut a perfect square around the sandwich edges. I looked at Kyle triumphantly.
    â€œSee, I told you it…”
    At that moment the sandwich disappeared, falling through a sandwich-sized hole the device had cut through the desk itself. I felt my face grow hot. Kyle and I peered through the square hole in my desk to see the sandwich resting peacefully on the classroom floor.
    The classroom went quiet, except for one voice.
    â€œThis is Stefan Holt, reporting live from the scene.”
    I groaned. Stefan Holt sat three chairs over from me. He had sandy blond hair and always wore a long dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Every time something out of the ordinary occurred, he acted like he was some kind of television reporter, holding a pen to his mouth like he was speaking into a microphone and being broadcast all over the world. Funny when it was about someone else. Not so funny when he was “reporting” about you.
    â€œThere appears to be an equipment malfunction in the homeroom class of Mr. Reginald Statler. The perpetrator, one Ezekiel Bartholomew, could not be reached for comment.”
    â€œYou didn’t even ask me,” I said.
    â€œVideo of Mr. Bartholomew shows the young mad genius red in the face at his latest debacle. Reactions are pouring in from around the globe, and most are appalled at this lack of civility.”
    â€œLack of what?” I said.
    â€œThere are rumors, unfounded so far, that Mr. Bartholomew has also peed his pants.”
    A healthy laugh went up from the kids in the room. Mr. Statler tried to calm them down, but couldn’t be heard over the roaring. If my face wasn’t red before, it was probably a deep purple now.
    Finally the room quieted down. Stefan Holt had put his pen back in his desk. Guess the cameras had turned off.
    Then I heard a quiet, cocky laugh. I looked up to see the smiling face of Derek Lance. He was staring right at me. Waiting until his mocking could be heard. It was a belly laugh, almost like he was trying too hard, but there was something beneath it, as though his mocking was personal in a weird way.
    â€œMr. Bartholomew?” Mr. Statler said.
    â€œI know, I know,” I sighed. “See you in detention.”
    Mr. Statler nodded. “And no more of your gizmos in homeroom, otherwise I’ll see you in detention every day for a month.”
    Derek Lance had stopped snickering, but the cocky smile remained on his face. It was imperceptible to anyone else, I think, but he shook his head slightly. Disdainfully. The head shake said one thing: amateur.
    For some reason, this mocking cut me deeper than Donna Okin, the