Where I'd Like to Be Read Online Free

Mr. Virgil Willis taught me. Every morning he’d bring over the Johnson City Press , and we’d read through the sports section. As a result, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball, which hasn’t come in handy so far, but you never know.
    “I’m in Mr. Sanders’ class. We sit next to Mrs. Cattrell’s at lunch,” I told Murphy, “and they don’t care if we mix up tables. So we can eat together.”
    “Girl, you talk too much in the morning,” Donita said, reaching out her foot to kick melightly on the shin. “Fact is, you talk too much all the time.”
    I knew she was just joking, because if she hadn’t been, she would have kicked me a lot harder. Me and Donita had always gotten along real well, even if we weren’t best friends. She and Kandy had naturally gotten matched up together, on account of them arriving at the Home at the same time and both of them from Knoxville. But I liked how Donita always had some interesting project going on. Last summer she started a green-bean business, growing beans in our garden and selling them to the congregation of the First Baptist Church after Sunday services, and lately she’d been talking about taking a correspondence course in how to speak Japanese so she could be an international businesswoman one day.
    “I’m just trying to give Murphy some important information about her new environment,” I told Donita. “I’m trying to be helpful here.”
    “Miss Murphy Oil Soap can eat lunch without your help,” Donita said, kicking my othershin. “She don’t need you there to hold her hand.”
    “I’ll see you at lunch, don’t forget,” I called to Murphy after we arrived at school, and she was headed toward the main office with Dan and Corinne. She nodded without turning her head, but I was pretty sure she’d heard me.
    When lunchtime came around, I carried my tray, with its taco, salad, beans, and Jell-O square, out into the cafeteria, searching for Murphy. I expected that she’d be sitting all by herself, looking lonely, hoping that I’d be there any minute to save her from the humiliation of eating alone.
    Which was why it was such a surprise to see Murphy with her head thrown back, laughing like she’d heard the funniest thing in the world, and Logan Parrish beside her chewing on a taco, smiling and smiling.

Chapter 4
    O ne day last spring, when the beautiful May morning was begging all us kids to come out and play, and our teacher Mrs. Harris kept hinting she was going to turn us loose for recess ten minutes early since most of us had done real well on the math test, Logan Parrish threw a fit because he’d gotten a ninety-eight instead of a one hundred. He stood in front of Mrs. Harris’s desk waving his hands around like a crazy person, while everyone in the classroom moaned and groaned and yelled out, “C’mon, Logan!” and “Save it for after school, Logan!”
    By the time Logan was done, we could look out the window and see all the other fifth grade classes already on the playground. We’d missedseven minutes of a beautiful spring day recess on account of Logan Parrish, but he ignored the boos that came his way as he walked back to his seat, the ninety-eight unchanged on the top of his test paper, still fussing and fuming under his breath.
    That was just the sort of misfit Logan Parrish was. He didn’t even try to get on anyone’s good side, the way poor old pimply Molly Dietz did, handing out Twinkies at lunchtime and writing book reports for people. You couldn’t even feel sorry for him. He couldn’t care less whether you did or not.
    “What are you laughing about?” I asked, setting down my tray, trying to hide my disappointment that Murphy was eating lunch with the most despised person in the sixth grade. “Did I miss a good joke?”
    Murphy tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh, we were just discussing Mrs. Cattrell. She explained how to multiply square roots in class today. It was pretty painful.”
    “She has to use a