Teacher's Pet by Laurie Halse Anderson

crate in the back of the van. On my lap rests a poster board covered with a maze of toothpicks, a tactile map of the middle school. Zoe helped me with it after school yesterday. And hiding in my backpack are my notes about the circulatory system. Gran helped me write them up last night.
    Gran slows the van to a crawl as we enter the fifteen-miles-per-hour zone in front of the middle school. A beige Mercedes passes illegally, then cuts in front of us. The driver is yapping into a cell phone and studying a notepad on his steering wheel.
    â€œLook at that idiot! ” Gran exclaims. She blows her horn. “He’s going to cause an accident! ”
    The traffic light in front of the school turns yellow, then red. The Mercedes driver slams on his brakes and screeches to a halt. Gran stops behind him and honks her horn again. She rolls down the window and leans out. “Hang up the phone! she yells.
    The bad driver glares at her in his rearview mirror. Gran glares back. The man looks away, but he keeps talking on the phone.
    â€œI’ll call the chief of police,” Gran mutters, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “He owes me a favor.” She turns to me. “We saved his toy poodle, remember?”
    Gran doesn’t mind pulling strings to stop bad things from happening.
    â€œHey,” I say, pointing to the corner. “There’s Mr. Carlson and Scout.”
    After stepping down from the bus idling on the other side of the intersection, Mr. Carlson and Scout pause at the crosswalk. Scout checks to make sure that all the cars are stopped, and Mr. Carlson listens carefully. The road is clear.
    I glance at the clock on the dashboard. “They’re early today,” I say. “I’ll have time to show Mr. Carlson the map.”
    They step off the curb.
    â€œI’ll come in with you,” Gran says. “You can’t carry the box of animals and the map. I’ll set up the meeting with your guidance counselor, too.”
    â€œSure,” I agree. We had a long talk last night about my quiz grade and my middle-school problems. Gran agreed with Mr. Carlson, which was good. I’m going to have a whole team pulling for me.
    The guy in the Mercedes dials his cell phone again and props it between his ear and shoulder. Mr. Carlson and Scout are crossing in front of his car. The driver glances down at the notepad on his steering wheel. He must think the light has changed—he’s not looking. The car moves forward.
    He’s running the light—he doesn’t see them!
    â€œLook out! I scream.
    Gran leans on her horn. “Dear God!” she gasps.
    I cover my eyes. There’s a thud, a shout, a yelp of pain, and then ...
    Silence.
    Gran pulls the van over to the side of the road and is out the door before I dare look. When I do, I see her kneeling over Mr. Carlson and Scout, who are lying in the middle of the road. The driver of the Mercedes stands next to his car, staring at what his stupidity just caused. He is still holding his cell phone.
    The noise starts up. Horns honk, people shout, car doors slam. People come from all directions to help.
    I run over, too, my heart pounding.
    Are they... ?
    My teacher and his dog are sprawled in the middle of the crosswalk. There is a little blood on Mr. Carlson’s forehead, but Scout looks fine. Except his eyes are closed and he’s not moving. Gran puts her fingers on Mr. Carlson’s wrist to check his pulse. His eyes flutter and open.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asks weakly.
    â€œDon’t move,” Gran warns. “You were in an accident. I’m Dr. MacKenzie, your vet. You were crossing the street in front of the school, and you were hit.” She glances angrily in the direction of the Mercedes. “Lie still. Help is coming.”
    â€œScout? Where’s Scout?” Mr. Carlson says.
    â€œHe’s right next to you,” Gran says. “I’ll take care of him.”
    The