Michael Vey: Prisoner of Cell 25

Chapter 4: The Cheerleader

That Wednesday felt like one of the longest days in school ever. I had no idea that it wasn't even close to being over. After the final bell rang, Ostin and I walked to our lockers, which were next to each other.

"Want to come over and play Halo?" Ostin asked. "Can't. I've got detention, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I'll knock on your door when I get home."

Ostin and I lived just two doors from each other in the same apartment building.

"I won't be home. I have clogging lessons at four."

"Ugh," I said. It was hard to imagine Ostin doing any physical activity, but dancing with a bunch of seven-year-old girls wearing black patent leather tap shoes was like a bad car wreck-gross, but you just have to look. "You've got to get out of that, man. If anyone here finds out, you're ruined for life."

"I know. But the clogging teacher's my mom's cousin and Mom says she needs the money and I need the exercise."

"It's still cruel," I said, shutting my locker. "I'll see you tomorrow." He put out his fist. "Bones."

"Bones," I said, bumping his fist even though I was sick of doing it-I mean, it was okay the first million times.

The hallways were crowded with students as I walked with my backpack down to the lunchroom. Ms. Johnson, a young, new English teacher, had just been assigned to supervise detention, which I thought was a good thing. She was reputed to be cool and nice, which, I hoped, meant she might let us out early.

I walked up to her. I had to force myself not to tic. "I'm Michael Vey. I'm here for detention."

She smiled at me like I'd just arrived at a dinner party. "Hi, Michael. Welcome." She looked down at her clipboard and marked my name on her roll. "Go ahead and pick a table."

The smell of lunch still lingered in the air (which was a punishment of its own), and I could hear the lunch workers behind the metal window screens preparing for tomorrow's disaster.

There were three other students in detention: two boys and one girl. I was smaller than all of them and the only one who didn't look like a homicidal psychopath. As I looked around the room for a place to sit, the girl looked at me and scowled, warning me away from her table. I found a vacant table in the corner and sat down.

I hated being in detention, but at least today it wouldn't be a complete waste of time. I needed to study for Poulsen's test. As I got my books from my pack, I noticed that my shoulder still hurt a little from being crammed into my locker. I tugged on my collar and exposed a bright red scrape. Fortunately, I had gotten my fingers out of the way just in time to not have the door slammed on them. I wondered if anyone would call my mom about the incident. I hoped not. She had a stupid job she didn't like and I didn't want to make her day any worse than it already was.

Just twenty minutes into detention, Ms. Johnson said, "All right, that's enough. Time to go."

I scooped my books into my pack and threw it over my shoulder. "See you tomorrow," I said to Ms. Johnson.

"See you tomorrow, Michael," she said pleasantly.

Outside the cafeteria, the halls were now empty except for the janitorial crew that had moved in and were pushing wide brooms up and down the tiled corridors. I stopped at my locker and grabbed the licorice I'd stowed in there after lunch and had looked forward to all day. I peeled back its wrapper and took a delicious chewy bite. Whoever invented licorice was a genius. I loved licorice almost as much as Rice Krispies squares. I swung my pack over my shoulder, then walked out the south door, glad to finally be going home.