Borderline Read Online Free PDF Page B

on each other. And rumors got peopleburned at the stake.” Mr. Bernstein’s pretty entertaining, especially when his arms get going, but there’s forty-three minutes to go, and I couldn’t care less.
    I look over at Mitchell Kennedy. His lips are moving. Mitchell repeats everything teachers say as soon as they say it. He says it helps him remember things. Whatever.
    Forty-two minutes to go. Fridays, Andy and Marty have a last period spare, so Mr. J should have them here waiting for me by the bell. I close my eyes, imagine the smell of fish and pine, the sight of rock crags breaking water.
    Forty-one minutes, thirty seconds to go. I count the holes in the ceiling’s acoustic tiles. I look at the poster of George Washington; I think about his wooden teeth. He kissed with those things. Did he brush them? Sand them? Did he ever get dry rot?
    Forty-one minutes, twenty seconds to go. Why does time take forever?
    Ow.
    Eddy Harrison’s jabbed me in the back with his pen. Full name: Edward Thomas Harrison the Third. Yeah, The Third. That’s why I’ve nicknamed him Eddy Duh Turd. He’s on the football team and is majorly huge from doing weights. Not to mention steroids. The ’roids havebulked him up, but they haven’t helped his acne any. His zits are big as cauliflowers. He could enter them in a contest, win a prize or something.
    Eddy waits a minute and jabs me again. Dad says, “Bullies want a reaction. Ignore them and they’ll stop.” Dad’s stupid advice has nothing to do with bullies. It’s about keeping me out of fights, which would get me into trouble, which would hurt his precious reputation. As in, “What you do reflects on this family.” Meaning him.
    Eddy jabs me a third time.
    I turn in my seat. “Quit it,” I whisper.
    â€œOr what?” Eddy grins. Even his teeth have muscles.
    Mr. Bernstein claps his hands. “Harrison? Sabiri?”
    â€œSorry,” I say. “Just stretching.”
    Mr. Bernstein gives us The Look, then rears back his head and goes on about witch trials. “The accused could be tortured into confession. Evidence could be secret or based on hearsay. After all,” he tilts his eyebrows, “if the accused is guilty, who needs a fair trial?”
    Dave Kincaid, in the far aisle, throws up his arm. “But what about their rights?”
    â€œThey didn’t have any,” Mr. Bernstein says. “And that’s an important point, Kincaid. Thank you for raising it. We take our civil rights for granted. We shouldn’t. They’resomething our ancestors fought for.”
    Eddy pushes the seat of my chair with his toe.
    â€œName the civil rights we cherish most,” Mr. Bernstein challenges. He faces the blackboard, and scribbles down everything the class calls out: The right to free speech. Equality. Religion. Privacy. Assembly. A fair trial.
    Eddy leans into my ear. He stinks of salami. “You told Bernstein you and Daddy would be in Toronto today. Wuzzup? Your camel run out of gas?”
    I try not to hear. Try to copy the notes from the board.
    â€œYou deaf, Sabiri? Hunh?”
    My hand shakes.
    â€œYo, sand monkey.”
    I whirl around. “Go screw yourself!”
    Oh my god. Please tell me I didn’t just yell “Go screw yourself.” But I did. I can tell by the silence. The look on Mitchell’s face. And the clear, cold sound of Mr. Bernstein’s voice: “What did you say?”
    I turn to Mr. Bernstein, prepared to die. But he’s not staring at me. He’s staring at Eddy. “Harrison, I’m talking to you. What did you call Sabiri?”
    â€œNothin’.”
    â€œThink hard.”
    Eddy taps his pen. “Who cares what I said? He swore at my mother.”
    â€œWhat a cowardly lie!” Mr. Bernstein’s eyes burn. “Racism has no place in this class, Harrison. Report to Vice Principal McGregor.”
    Eddy gets up slowly,