what the hell kind of name is the “Daring Do-gooder”? How daring could he have been with a lame-ass name like that? “Maybe that’s what you want to think happened, but it’s not—”
The bell rings, interrupting me. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief.
“I think that’s enough ’enlightenment’ for today,” Mr. Fitz says. “Read chapters two through four in your books tonight. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Except you, Mr. Locke. I’d like to have a word with you.”
I sigh and slide down in my seat, letting my legs stretch out past the edge of my desk.
“Don’t sit with me at lunch tomorrow,” Amelia says, almost tripping over my foot before hurrying out of the room with everyone else.
So much for solidarity. Not that I was planning to sit with her two days in a row. I have much better things to do than watch her inhale a turkey sandwich, like annoy Riley. I’m learning all sorts of fun things about him, like that he has a really hard time eating when someone is narrating everything he does. And that when he goes invisible, forcing me to start making things up in order to continue my narration, he gets really embarrassed when I get past a PG-13 rating.
Mr. Fitz puts his hands on my desk and leans forward, his beady little eyes meeting mine. “This is a classroom, Mr. Locke. Not a joke. I realize you’ve had a different experience than the rest of the students, but when you’re in my class—”
“I wasn’t joking. The book was wrong.” He was wrong. “I was correcting it.”
His eyebrows dart up. “Are you seriously trying to tell me you know more than the textbook?” He laughs.
“I know Professor Doomsworth was pretty crazy toward the end of his life. My girlfriend’s mom’s hairdresser used to date his cook. They almost got married, but then she found out he wanted her to quit her job and have, like, ten kids, so she said no way.”
He blinks at me. “Fascinating. And you think this person is more reliable than the textbook, which was written by experts ?” He says the word experts like no one could possibly rank any higher, especially not some hairdresser, even though she was there.
“The textbook was written exclusively by superheroes. You have to admit it’s biased. Maybe they got some of it right, but I’ve been looking through it, and the stuff they said about villains was pretty much made up.”
“Or perhaps you’re the one who’s biased. This is a superhero school, Mr. Locke. I don’t know how you failed to notice that, considering you’re enrolled here. But if you want to pass my class—and you have to pass my class if you ever hope to graduate and join the League—you will stop wasting everyone’s time with your ’corrections.’ There will be a test next week, and I can assure you it will be based on the textbook, not on your personal anecdotes. I suggest you study it. Understood?”
“You want me to lie. On the test. Doesn’t the League Treaty frown upon that?”
He clenches his fists. “You are not in this class to fill everyone’s heads with your colorful perversion of history. You’re here to learn what I tell you. So either you will mark down the answers from the textbook, or you will fail.”
“So, if I write down the truth, then I don’t pass the class?” That makes sense.
He shuts his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead in exasperation. “Let me put it in terms hopefully even you can comprehend. There’s a right way to get through this class and a wrong way. The textbook is the right way. Do you understand? ”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I understand perfectly.”
“Good.” He straightens the collar of his shirt, seeming pretty pleased with himself for supposedly putting me in my place.
“You want me to lie, and I’m not sure I can do that.”
His back stiffens. His nose twitches, his mustache quivering and threatening to eat his whole face. “Then I’m not sure I can give you a passing grade.” He says it in a
The bell rings, interrupting me. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief.
“I think that’s enough ’enlightenment’ for today,” Mr. Fitz says. “Read chapters two through four in your books tonight. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Except you, Mr. Locke. I’d like to have a word with you.”
I sigh and slide down in my seat, letting my legs stretch out past the edge of my desk.
“Don’t sit with me at lunch tomorrow,” Amelia says, almost tripping over my foot before hurrying out of the room with everyone else.
So much for solidarity. Not that I was planning to sit with her two days in a row. I have much better things to do than watch her inhale a turkey sandwich, like annoy Riley. I’m learning all sorts of fun things about him, like that he has a really hard time eating when someone is narrating everything he does. And that when he goes invisible, forcing me to start making things up in order to continue my narration, he gets really embarrassed when I get past a PG-13 rating.
Mr. Fitz puts his hands on my desk and leans forward, his beady little eyes meeting mine. “This is a classroom, Mr. Locke. Not a joke. I realize you’ve had a different experience than the rest of the students, but when you’re in my class—”
“I wasn’t joking. The book was wrong.” He was wrong. “I was correcting it.”
His eyebrows dart up. “Are you seriously trying to tell me you know more than the textbook?” He laughs.
“I know Professor Doomsworth was pretty crazy toward the end of his life. My girlfriend’s mom’s hairdresser used to date his cook. They almost got married, but then she found out he wanted her to quit her job and have, like, ten kids, so she said no way.”
He blinks at me. “Fascinating. And you think this person is more reliable than the textbook, which was written by experts ?” He says the word experts like no one could possibly rank any higher, especially not some hairdresser, even though she was there.
“The textbook was written exclusively by superheroes. You have to admit it’s biased. Maybe they got some of it right, but I’ve been looking through it, and the stuff they said about villains was pretty much made up.”
“Or perhaps you’re the one who’s biased. This is a superhero school, Mr. Locke. I don’t know how you failed to notice that, considering you’re enrolled here. But if you want to pass my class—and you have to pass my class if you ever hope to graduate and join the League—you will stop wasting everyone’s time with your ’corrections.’ There will be a test next week, and I can assure you it will be based on the textbook, not on your personal anecdotes. I suggest you study it. Understood?”
“You want me to lie. On the test. Doesn’t the League Treaty frown upon that?”
He clenches his fists. “You are not in this class to fill everyone’s heads with your colorful perversion of history. You’re here to learn what I tell you. So either you will mark down the answers from the textbook, or you will fail.”
“So, if I write down the truth, then I don’t pass the class?” That makes sense.
He shuts his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead in exasperation. “Let me put it in terms hopefully even you can comprehend. There’s a right way to get through this class and a wrong way. The textbook is the right way. Do you understand? ”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I understand perfectly.”
“Good.” He straightens the collar of his shirt, seeming pretty pleased with himself for supposedly putting me in my place.
“You want me to lie, and I’m not sure I can do that.”
His back stiffens. His nose twitches, his mustache quivering and threatening to eat his whole face. “Then I’m not sure I can give you a passing grade.” He says it in a
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