Ember Gods

Chapter 17

The next two weeks passed in a whirl as Jacob waited to hear back from Teegan. He attended classes, turned in homework assignments, learned fighting techniques from Sweet Pea, and helped pull people from the scented air. He got home every night so exhausted, he could barely keep his eyes open while checking on Hazel. They rarely talked—she was even less of a "people Minya" than Early and September. Jacob gave her honey and she was content to stay in her box.

Nightmares about Aloren and Dad wouldn't leave him alone, so he didn't sleep well most of the time. They still hadn't found anyone who'd come from Maivoryl. The people they'd pulled out so far were staying in the Makalos' farm area, in small bungalows hastily created. Most were to the conversing point, but didn't know anything about Maivoryl City.

The worst day for Jacob was when he got in trouble in Mr. Coolidge's class again. He hadn't had much sleep the night before, he was sore from the fighting techniques he and Sweet Pea were now practicing, and he'd absentmindedly started curling the edges of his desk.

"Mr. Clark!" Coolidge yelled. "Your desk! What . . . what have you done?"

Jacob jerked his hand away from the wood, unable to believe he hadn't been more discreet. Or that he'd done it at all. "Sorry, sir . . . I—"

Coolidge slammed the eraser against the whiteboard, erasing vigorously. "See me after class."

The next forty-five minutes crept by so slowly, Jacob was sure time had stopped. He tried to fix his desk, but he'd strengthened it while molding it, so was only able to repair it a little. It would have permanently curled edges. The bell finally rang and everyone left the room. He looked at the clock longingly, realizing he'd be late for his next class.

The algebra teacher seemed to know what Jacob was thinking. "I'll give you a note to take to your teacher." He sat on the edge of his desk. "Jacob, you have potential. If you weren't so busy destroying school property—in . . . in really weird ways—you'd be a much better student."

For a moment, an expression of curiosity crossed Mr. Coolidge's face, and Jacob cringed, waiting for the inevitable questions about his ability, but the teacher quickly hid it. "I'm not going to allow you to slack off in my class. From now on, I want you here, in this room, forty-five minutes early. You'll meet with me to do extra work."

"What?" Jacob stood. That was cutting into his sleep! There was no way he'd ever learn hand-to-hand combat if he wasn't letting his body recuperate. And pulling people out of the scented air was difficult! "You can't—I don't have—I swear I'll focus better in class. I . . . I'll do anything. Please, Mr. Coolidge, I really need my sleep!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do. Those video games are so important."

"That's not fair—I haven't played a game, besides basketball, since school started!"

Mr. Coolidge studied Jacob from over his glasses. "Then this isn't so much of a sacrifice, is it?"

"But—"

"You can go now." He sat at his desk, pulling a book toward him. "If you hurry, you'll still be on time for your next class—take this just in case." Mr. Coolidge held out a piece of paper.

Jacob took the paper, shoved it in his back pocket, picked up his bag, and stormed from the class. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn't continue to argue—he wouldn't win against a teacher.

He growled to himself. This was completely unfair.

***

The next day, Jacob wandered into class forty-five minutes early, still trying to keep his eyes open. Mr. Coolidge was sitting at the edge of a desk, shuffling through papers. He looked up. "Ah, Mr. Clark. Here—you may start with this."