Robert Spiller - The Witch of Agnesi (Bonnie Pinkwater series)

T HURSDAY WAS SHAPING UP INTO ONE OF those days that made Bonnie Pinkwater wish for a dart gun, the kind used to put rhinos, or in this case teenagers, to sleep. She brushed a gray tendril of hair from her forehead and held up her hands, palms toward her twenty-six student class, the signal for quiet. One at a time.

Stephanie Templeton shook back her Barbie-doll tresses. Just explaining to Morticia Addams here that The Witch of Agnesi doesnt have anything to do with witches.

The headache excavating the inside of Bonnies cranium ratcheted to six on the Richter scale. Her finger twitched at the trigger of her fantasy pistol.

The other girl, Ali Griffith, opened her mouth to speak.

Stephanie cut her off. It probably got its name because the curves look like witchs hats.

Play nice, Stephanie. No name calling. Bonnie pointed with her chin toward the other girl. Your turn.

Ali bristled.

Straight, jet-black, shoulder-length hair, black eye shadow, nail polish and lipstick, Alishort for Alexandriabristled better than most. Her dark eyes flashed, and she looked every centimeter the witch she claimed to be. It was easy to believe she might turn a sneering debutant into a spotted salamander.

Alis ebony lips curled in disgust. I never claimed The Witch of Agnesi had anything to do with the craft. I just said it seemed a weird name for a curve. Then this, this... Her mouth formed around a Bword.

Bonnie was sure the word in question had nothing to do with Beelzebub. Though she agreed with Alis unspoken assessment, she gave the girl a warning look nonetheless.

Im getting too old for this shit.

Red-faced, Ali waved her hand at Stephanie and drew a long breath. When I told Stephanie, she pulled a Cruella DeVille on me.

Stephanie huffed.

Ali shot her a threatening glare.

Time to take a nap, ladies.

A pair of well-aimed darts from Bonnies fantasy pistol sent the two arguing girls into the arms of Orpheus. They slumped across their desks, hands dangling each to a side, a look of angelic peace glowing on their unlined faces.

From the hip, no less.

Unfortunately, the real Ali and Stephanie remained painfully awake.

The wall clock showed ten minutes until the end of first period.

Not likely to get more done anyway. All right, I meant to work with some of the actual math of the curve today and save the story until tomorrow, but what the heck.

Several students settled themselves into their seats, giving Bonnie the vague fear that in her impending senility shed become one of those teachers who could be distracted into wasting time. To quell a guilty conscience, she wrote both the Cartesian and parametric representations of the Witch of Agnesi equation on the board then drew the corresponding graph.

As a matter of fact, you two, each of your points is well taken. She pointed to the Cartesian representation. This implicitly defined equation and its corresponding curve have nothing to do with witch-craft, per se. However, how The Witch of Agnesi got its name makes an interesting tale.

The door to her classroom burst open. Edmund Sheridan, a tall Asian boy with blond-tinted spiked hair lurched into the room. Missus P, Jesse Pooles beating the crap out of Peyton Newlin.

The roar of hallway commotion echoed into the classroom. Bonnie fixed a hand on Edmunds shoulder.

Go get Principal Whittaker.

Hes not in the school.

Check the Adbuilding. She let go of Edmunds shoulder then turned to her class. Ali, youre in charge until I get back. Call down to the office on the intercom. Tell them whats happening.

When Bonnie saw Edmund still standing in the doorway she shoved him. Get going. Take the back hallway.

She legged it out of the classroom. At the far end of the gymnasium/library hallway, past yellow lockers lining both sides, a raucous crowd screamed derision and encouragement.

What the hell, dont their teachers wonder wherethey are?

Opening and closing her mouth like an oxygen-starved goldfish, the new librarian, a twenty-something blonde who looked maybe fifteen, gazed out of her wire-glass window at the chaos in the hall.

Bonnie shook her head and strode toward the up-roar. Im definitely too old for this. Grappling shoulders and pulling herself through, she worked her way into the deafening crowd. All right! she bellowed. Step aside.

Jesse Poole, a bull-necked, teenaged Neanderthal with a glistening bald head sat astride the chest of a bloodied Peyton Newlin.

Bonnie grabbed Jesses arm.

His meaty paw shoved her back.

She lost her footing and fell into the crowd, her beige wool skirt flying high across her chest. A bolt of pain lanced between her eyes as her headache notched to Richter seven. She rejected assistance and struggled to her feet. Smoothing down her skirt, she shouted, Mister Poole, stand up immediately!

A silence fell over the crowd. All right, thats morelike it.

Jesse stood. Chest heaving, fists balled at his sides, he faced her. Tears poured from his red and swollen eyes. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his shaved head. He locked eyes with Bonnie for an eternal moment then advanced, stopping an arms length in front of her.

Not liking this much.

You dont know shit. He brushed past her and pushed through the crowd. None of you know shit! he screamed. Waving his hands as if fending off a swarm of gnats only he could see, he lumbered, hunched over for a few more steps. Then with a loping gait, he ran toward the back door and slammed through it.

No way did Bonnie consider challenging him. The satisfaction of control shed felt moments before gave way to numbed shock. Jesse Poole was a force of nature when angered.

Back off, people. Let me through. Principal Lloyd Whittakers nasal voice rose above the crowd murmurs. A white handkerchief in his hand, he knelt and wiped at the blood pouring from Peytons nose.

As Bonnie approached, Lloyd looked up.

I was over at Admin speaking with the superintendent. What happened?

She spread wide her hands. Jesse Pooleat it again. With a tilt of her head she pointed back the way Jesse had run.