Trollhunters Read Online Free PDF Page A

in front of her so that she emerged again and again from smoke like a rock star, and she happened to glance my way. I, of course, was ogling. Her lips twisted
into a wry smile.
    “Cheers, Mr. Sturges,” she said.
    That accent never failed to turn my body parts traitor. This time, it was Mr. Right Hand who betrayed me. It shot up in an overzealous wave, as if Claire were a mile away, and Señor
Stupid Mouth got in on the act, too:
“Cheers to you, too, Claire!”
    “Is that you, Jim?” Pinkton asked. “What a nice change. Let’s see if you can untangle this knot.”
    My grin wilted and I faced the equation. It looked as if both the alphabet and the number system had puked all over the board. I grimaced; the bruise on my cheek stung. I considered displaying
my wounds and explaining how I could not possibly walk all the way to the board without breaking into wails of the greatest suffering. Instead I gave Pinkton my best pleading look.
    She “gave me the chalk,” as we called it, holding up the chalk in her fist like a middle finger.
    I steeled myself, stood, took the chalk, and walked until my nose practically touched the board. Without having any idea what I was going to do, I raised my arm before realizing that Pinkton had
written the equation at Claire’s upmost reach, which was a good four or five inches above my own. I couldn’t even reach the problem, much less solve it. I bore the laughter rising
behind me and let my vision lose focus so that the eraser-swirls of chalk became a fog. A London fog, where girls like Claire Fontaine walked around kicking ass in berets and solving dangerous
calculations in between forceful kisses with short, courageous men.

It has been confirmed again and again throughout time that nothing strikes fear into the hearts of uncoordinated kids like a rope dangling from a gymnasium ceiling. Tub went so
far as to lodge a formal complaint with the front office last year, scheduling a meeting with Principal Cole and everything. It was barbaric, Tub insisted. And a liability, too—what if some
kid fell twenty feet and became paralyzed for life? Baseball, fine. Volleyball, okay. You might conceivably run across those sports later in life. But when you’re an adult, when the hell are
you going to encounter a rope that desperately needs to be climbed? According to Tub, he had Principal Cole in the palm of his hand until he let that
hell
slip. Cole had a no-tolerance
policy for cussing. Tub was out the door and the ropes remained.
    Tub and I were the only two who had yet to reach the obligatory halfway point on the rope. While the rest of the boys shot hoops, I floundered four feet off the ground, trying to figure out how
the Steve Jorgensen-Warners of the world operated all four limbs independently. I held my breath and shimmied up a couple more feet. My palms burned and my legs wobbled. All I could think about was
how to protect my sensitive parts if I fell.
    “That a way, Sturges!” Coach Lawrence shouted. “Momentum is the key to success!”
    I heard a grunt and checked the rope to my right. As opposed to my unpredictable lurches, Tub was moving steadily, though at a glacial pace. Sweat popped from his every pore and he bared his
metal teeth in strain. His entire body was trembling as if it might explode.
    “That’s it, Tub!” In his excitement, Coach Lawrence had forgotten to use Tobias’s proper last name. “You’re going to kick this rope’s butt! Don’t
you give up! Men do not give up!”
    “Please, Lord, take me now,” Tub whimpered. “Or Satan, anyone.”
    “Four more feet,” I grunted. “Put your shoulders into it.”
    “The hell’s that mean?”
    “No idea.”
    “Then quit with the motivational speaking.”
    “Okay,” I rasped. “Man, I wish this rope had a noose.”
    “Oh, wow, that’d be great. Quick, easy death, no pain.”
    Below us had arisen a chant:
Tub! Tub! Tub!
I glanced down and caught Coach Lawrence wincing; it was his use of the