Waiting For Sarah Read Online Free PDF

scowl still on his face. The scowl was one he had practiced in the mirror. It was ugly. It was meant to keep people away.
    But not Cowley. “So we’re putting out a special millennium golden jubilee edition of the school yearbook. I’m editor-in-chief. The alumni association and student council are shelling out extra funding.” She flashed him a bright, triumphant smile.
    He glared at her.
    â€œI know you said you’re not interested in theyearbook committee, but we need your help, Mike; the alumni association needs your help, the student council needs your help, Carleton High needs your help, and ... ” She fixed him with a bright owlish stare. “... I need your help.”
    â€œI’m busy.”
    â€œBut history is your thing. You’re good at it. You get As off old Dorfman, which is the same as winning gold medals at the Olymp — ”
    â€œNot any more, I don’t.”
    â€œWell you used to. Anyway,
we
, the committee want you — you were top choice — to write a history of Carleton High for us. For the yearbook. For posterity. For the millennium!”
    He started to move away, but she followed him.
    â€œWe need you, Mike. It needn’t be long. A few thousand words. With pictures if you can find any. Your name will be on it, of course: Mike Scott, author. What do you say?”
    Cowley’s voice was loud even for the noisy cafeteria. He swiveled his chair away, turning his back on her, starting to flee, but in his haste bumped the table ahead of him. A pop bottle crashed to the floor. He didn’t apologize. His lunch bag, empty except for a banana peel, slipped off his lap onto the floor. He ignored it, trying to extricate his chair and escape from Margaret Cowley. Cowley picked up Mike’s lunch bag. Then she picked up the boy’s bottle, still in one piece, replaced it on the table and handed Mike his brown paper lunch bag. “What do you say, Mike? Will you help us out?”
    â€œNo.” He started towards the exit once again.
    She danced ahead and blocked his way. “I can try and get you out of Dorfman’s class for as long as it takes to do the job.” Her earnest face took on a smug look with this demonstration of her power and importance.
    He stopped. Getting out of Dorfman’s history class was about as easy as breaking out of Alcatraz.
    Cowley almost fell over the wheelchair when it stopped so suddenly. But she could see him hesitate, and pounced. “Agree to work on Carleton’s history, Mike, and I’ll do my best to spring you from Dorfman’s class. What do you say?”
    He didn’t really need to consider the question. It would be trading seventy-five minutes of boredom for hanging out in the library every day. He would never admit it to Cowley, but he used to enjoy poring over old magazines and newspapers and files and pictures — the real stuff of history, not mind-numbing pages of notes from an overhead. He suddenly felt enthusiastic about Carleton’s golden jubilee, but pretended to consider the question, frowning and rubbing his chin, not wanting Cowley to see how pleased he was or to think she was doing him any favors. “Hmm,” he mumbled. He glanced around. Most of the kids, lunches finished, had wandered out into the late November fog. He could see over Cowley’s shoulder that Robbie was coming their way, carrying a bag of French fries. If Mike were a painter, which he was not, and he had the job of painting a portrait of Robbie, it would show him nursing a bag of fries close to his more-than-plump middle while he pushed a fistful into his round, happy face.
    He returned his scowl to Cowley’s hopeful face.
    â€œWell, Mike?” she said. “Will you go along with the project? For the school?”
    â€œOkay,” he said flatly. “I’ll do it. But only if you get me out of Dorfman’s class.”
    She smiled.
    â€œFor the rest of the