Get Even Read Online Free
Author: Gretchen McNeil
about the mean-spirited bullying that went on at his school. And if he wasn’t going to do anything about it, Don’t Get Mad would.
“Now, to introduce a short video presentation by the leadership class, your student body vice president, Kitty Wei.”
Six inches taller than Father Uberti, Kitty had to tilt the microphone all the way back and bend forward at the waist to reach it. “Good morning, DuMaine Dukes!” She smiled wide, her voice steady. “Let’s face it, there’s a part of each of us that kind of envies DGM.”
A buzz of whispers swelled through the gym. It sounded to Bree like the students of Bishop DuMaine agreed.
“But we want to make sure our school is a safe, caring environment for everyone,” Kitty continued. “So we’ve put together a short video about what we can do to honor and uphold the name of Bishop DuMaine.”
Kitty straightened up. Quickly, casually, she tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her right ear. It was an innocuous movement, one every girl in school made a dozen times a day without noticing.
It was the signal Bree had been waiting for.
Kitty smiled. “I hope you’ll enjoy our little presentation,” she said, and backed away from the microphone.
Kitty watched Father Uberti out of the corner of her eye as he pulled an oversize remote control from the depths of his cassock and aimed it at a small window near the top of the far wall. The video player inside the AV room whirred to life, projecting a clear, ten-foot-tall image of the Bishop DuMaine logo on the screen above her head.
Generic Muzak played as a montage of photos faded in and out, depicting students of every shape, size, and color laughing, posing, eating lunch around the outdoor quad. It was the kind of teen utopia adults envisioned for their kids, all perfectly understanding and cooperative and nice, the parental illusion of a modern high school. Only the students at Bishop DuMaine knew better. High school was a vicious place.
The Muzak faded and a light voice chimed in. “At Bishop DuMaine, we’re a family, a team working together for the good of our school and of each—”
Kitty’s heart leaped to her throat. The image on the screen froze, then blipped as the piggybacked player Bree had installed over the weekend took control of the playback.
As promised, Margot’s tech had worked perfectly.
A new image popped onto the screen: a bedroom, messy and disheveled. A sinewy arm yanked a chair into view and the burly figure of Coach Creed plopped down in front of the camera.
“I’m Richard Creed,” he said, his best shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “But you can call me Dick.” He wore a blue wifebeater two sizes too small, and his bulky arms looked as if he’d oiled them up with an entire tub of Crisco. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “And I’m here”—he paused and pointed to the camera—“to give you three reasons why I’m going to win America’s Next Fitness Model .”
“Oh my God!” Coach Creed’s roar pierced the silence of the packed gym. Kitty couldn’t see him, only hear the general ruckus from the upper bleachers as he pounded his way downstairs.
Father Uberti grabbed Kitty roughly by the shoulder. “What’s going on?” he hissed. “What is this?”
Kitty looked down at him and desperately wished she had even an ounce of Olivia’s acting skills. “I have no idea,” she said, trying to sound utterly bewildered. “The video started and then . . .” She let her voice trail off, and her eyes drifted back to the screen.
The video jump-cut to a new scene of Coach Creed seated behind an ornately carved wooden desk. Behind him, full floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked each side of a large window. The blinds were open to bright sunshine cascading across the front lawn of Bishop DuMaine Preparatory School.
The entire gymnasium heaved one air-sucking gasp. Everyone recognized that view.
“My office?” Father Uberti growled.
“Reason number
“Now, to introduce a short video presentation by the leadership class, your student body vice president, Kitty Wei.”
Six inches taller than Father Uberti, Kitty had to tilt the microphone all the way back and bend forward at the waist to reach it. “Good morning, DuMaine Dukes!” She smiled wide, her voice steady. “Let’s face it, there’s a part of each of us that kind of envies DGM.”
A buzz of whispers swelled through the gym. It sounded to Bree like the students of Bishop DuMaine agreed.
“But we want to make sure our school is a safe, caring environment for everyone,” Kitty continued. “So we’ve put together a short video about what we can do to honor and uphold the name of Bishop DuMaine.”
Kitty straightened up. Quickly, casually, she tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her right ear. It was an innocuous movement, one every girl in school made a dozen times a day without noticing.
It was the signal Bree had been waiting for.
Kitty smiled. “I hope you’ll enjoy our little presentation,” she said, and backed away from the microphone.
Kitty watched Father Uberti out of the corner of her eye as he pulled an oversize remote control from the depths of his cassock and aimed it at a small window near the top of the far wall. The video player inside the AV room whirred to life, projecting a clear, ten-foot-tall image of the Bishop DuMaine logo on the screen above her head.
Generic Muzak played as a montage of photos faded in and out, depicting students of every shape, size, and color laughing, posing, eating lunch around the outdoor quad. It was the kind of teen utopia adults envisioned for their kids, all perfectly understanding and cooperative and nice, the parental illusion of a modern high school. Only the students at Bishop DuMaine knew better. High school was a vicious place.
The Muzak faded and a light voice chimed in. “At Bishop DuMaine, we’re a family, a team working together for the good of our school and of each—”
Kitty’s heart leaped to her throat. The image on the screen froze, then blipped as the piggybacked player Bree had installed over the weekend took control of the playback.
As promised, Margot’s tech had worked perfectly.
A new image popped onto the screen: a bedroom, messy and disheveled. A sinewy arm yanked a chair into view and the burly figure of Coach Creed plopped down in front of the camera.
“I’m Richard Creed,” he said, his best shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “But you can call me Dick.” He wore a blue wifebeater two sizes too small, and his bulky arms looked as if he’d oiled them up with an entire tub of Crisco. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “And I’m here”—he paused and pointed to the camera—“to give you three reasons why I’m going to win America’s Next Fitness Model .”
“Oh my God!” Coach Creed’s roar pierced the silence of the packed gym. Kitty couldn’t see him, only hear the general ruckus from the upper bleachers as he pounded his way downstairs.
Father Uberti grabbed Kitty roughly by the shoulder. “What’s going on?” he hissed. “What is this?”
Kitty looked down at him and desperately wished she had even an ounce of Olivia’s acting skills. “I have no idea,” she said, trying to sound utterly bewildered. “The video started and then . . .” She let her voice trail off, and her eyes drifted back to the screen.
The video jump-cut to a new scene of Coach Creed seated behind an ornately carved wooden desk. Behind him, full floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked each side of a large window. The blinds were open to bright sunshine cascading across the front lawn of Bishop DuMaine Preparatory School.
The entire gymnasium heaved one air-sucking gasp. Everyone recognized that view.
“My office?” Father Uberti growled.
“Reason number
Readers choose
Brian E. Miller
James Salter
Patricia Veryan
Oscar de Muriel
Terry Pratchett
Kathleen Alcott
Rita Herron
Emily Camp