Southern Cross by Patricia Cornwell

agonized.
    “Wouldn’t be as practical if you ever plan to shoot it.”
    “I sure as hell do. Winchester 115-grain Silvertip high-power.”
    “How come you ain’t in school?” Muskrat asked Smoke.
    “Free period. In fact, I gotta get back.”
    Muskrat waited until Smoke was in his car, driving off.
    “You notice that boy’s eyes?” Muskrat said. “Looked like he’d been drinking.”
    “As if you and I didn’t at that age,” Bubba said. “So what d’ya think? This urethane hard enough yet?”
    “Should be. But don’t get your hopes up.”
    They used the air hose and spray bottle again. The leak was still there. Muskrat took his time studying the problem until he’d figured it out.
    “You got a hairline crack in the roof line,” he said.

6
    W EED REFUSED TO read his story, causing Mrs. Grannis to doubt that he had written one. This disappointed her greatly, and the other students in the class did not know what to think. Weed had always been so eager, the little boy-wonder in art class. Now, suddenly, he was uncommunicative and uncooperative, and the more Mrs. Grannis pressed him, the more obstinate he got. Finally, he was rude.
    “Why I did the fish is my business,” he said, reaching under his desk for his knapsack.
    “You had an assignment, just like everyone else,” Mrs. Grannis said firmly.
    “No one else did a fish.” Weed looked up at the clock.
    “That’s all the more reason we want to hear about yours,” Mrs. Grannis answered.
    “Come on, Weed.”
    “Read it to us.”
    “Hey, it’s not fair. You heard ours.”
    It was 1:48. Fifth period ended in three minutes. Mrs. Grannis felt terrible. Weed was impossible, sitting rigidly in his chair, head bent, as if he were about to be beaten. His classmates shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the bell.
    “Well,” Mrs. Grannis broke the silence. “Tomorrow we start watercolors, and don’t forget, we have a special program next period.”
    Henry Hamilton was the star pitcher of the baseball team, and he hated any activity that kept him sitting past two in the afternoon. He made a face, slumped in his seat and sighed loudly. Eva Grecci did the same because she had an aching crush on Hamilton. Randy Weispfenning wasn’t happy, either.
    “We have two very important police officers who have been sent to Richmond by the National Institute of Justice,” Mrs. Grannis said. “They have generously agreed to come today and talk with us.”
    “About what?”
    “Crime, I suppose,” Mrs. Grannis said.
    “I’m sick of hearing about it.”
    “Me, too. My mom won’t even read the paper anymore.”
    “My dad thinks I should start wearing a bulletproof vest to class.” Hamilton laughed, ducking when Weispfenning tried to cuff him.
    “That’s not funny,” Mrs. Grannis said.
    The bell rang. Everyone jumped up as if there was a fire.
    “Off to see the wizzz-aarrrddd . . .” Hamilton sang and started skipping down an imagined Yellow Brick Road.
    Eva Grecci laughed too hard.
    “Weed,” Mrs. Grannis said. “I need to see you for a minute.”
    He sullenly shuffled up to her desk. The room emptied, leaving the two of them alone.
    “This is the first time you’ve not turned in an assignment,” she softly said.
    He shrugged.
    “Do you want to tell me why?”
    “Because.” He shrugged again as tears smarted.
    “That’s not an answer, Weed.”
    He blinked, looking away from her. Feelings boiled up in him. In an hour he was supposed to meet Smoke in the parking lot.
    “I just didn’t get around to it,” he said as he thought of the five-page story hiding inside his knapsack.
    “I’m very surprised you didn’t get around to it,” she measured her words.
    Weed said nothing. He had spent half of Saturday writing four drafts of it before painstakingly making the final copy in black felt-tip ink, letters perfectly formed in the calligraphy that he had learned from a kit and then modified to his bold, funky, completely unique style. The second