Chapter One

“Here you go sweetie,” said the secretary and handed Mason her updated schedule. Williams was printed boldly in the seventh period slot.

            “The first day here is always hectic,” she said. “And the new scheduling program is goofy. Classes were not balanced. Yours was an easy fix.”

“What happen to Phillips? I had Phillips for Freshman English seventh hour?” The secretary buzzed some more words about teachers and the changes and hustled Mason out the door. “Good luck, sweetie.”

            Good luck? had thought Mason. I get Worksheet Williams and you say ‘good luck’? She looked at her schedule. For sixth period, she had to go to Algebra again. And you call me Sweetie?

Her brother had tormented her with the legendary torture of “Worksheet Williams,” the one teacher she should avoid at all costs. In the morning, Mason’s schedule had brought a smile to her face because she had been assigned Phillips for seventh period. She had heard good things about her and was relieved that she had avoided Williams.

            Therefore, in her dreaded approach to room 161, the classic curse of collision with another hit her hard, literally. Her notebook and pen flew out of her hands as she spun and stumbled, avoiding the all out sprawl on the floor. This curse, however, was rectified, in Mason’s eyes, with the also classic romantic gesture of her notebook being handed to her by a dark curly-headed boy that she had not seen before.
            He wore a faded denim jacket, and there was a shadow of a bruise around his left eye.

“Here you go.” He smiled warmly. “The hallways can be crazy.”

“Uh, yeah,” she stammered. Her cheeks felt hot. “Crazy.” She took her notebook. “Uh, thanks…”

“Leo,” he said.

“…Leo,” she repeated. The bell rang. “Oh crud.”

His eyes crinkled. “Don’t sweat it,” he said as he moved past her. “Most teachers are cool the first day.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Two steps further she heard him say, “Unless…” Mason looked over her shoulder. “…you got Williams.”

            Mason’s smile turned to a grimace as she turned back to 161.
            Carefully, she approached the door. The class was seated and students were talking quietly. The room was full of tables, chairs and students. Books and boxes were scattered about along the walls. It seemed that the room was in some kind of reconstruction. Two bulletin boards were sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. There was an extra large trash barrel just inside the door.
            “Please move on in,” said a voice from behind.
            Mason stepped to the side. “Sorry,” she said quickly.
            In walked a man carrying a box with books. He handed it to Mason. “Set that by the wall, would you?”
            Mason juggled the box in her arms along with her notebook and set it by the wall. The man went to the white dry erase board.
            He pointed to the board where it read Williams.
            “I am Mr. Williams,” he said. “I will be your freshman English teacher.”
            The class was silent. Stunned, actually, a bewildered, good kind of stunned.
            “I know. I know,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “I’ve been hearing it all day. You were expecting different Williams.” He laughed. “I’m a newer, different version.”

He stood proudly in front of all of them. He wore a gray tweed jacket, a black crew neck shirt and blue jeans. His hair was light from a mix of blond going gray. He had a goatee and odd colored hazel eyes.

He looked at Mason. “Thanks,” he said. “I think there is a seat over at that table.”

Mason nodded. She quickly went to the table and sat down. Then it hit her. She was sitting with D.T. He wore a dark shirt, grungy jeans and sat in a slumped position with one arm in the middle of the table. He did not move his arm when Mason sat, so she felt crowded.

Mr. Williams, once she was seated, went into motion.

“As you can tell,” he said, “I am not the Williams you were expected. She had a stroke of good luck with the Lotto two days ago and changed her life plans rather suddenly. I am happy for her and for me, since now I can be your teacher. ” He looked about the room. “Fate can be a kind mistress after all.”

He went to the board.

“Let’s get started.”

He turned and wrote, “What’s on your mind?”

With a whirl, he moved among the tables. “Get out some paper and a pen. You will now write for ten minutes about ‘What’s on your mind?’” He stopped, noting that no one moved. “Let’s go! Paper over there. I have extra pens on my desk.” The room broke into motion. Kids got up and grab paper, some grabbed pens, and most, like Mason, opened their notebooks.

“What do we write about?” said someone.

He was moving again. “What ever is on your mind as long as the pen doesn’t stop.” He swung by D.T. and Mason. “Just keep writing, even if the same line repeats over and over, keep writing it.” He got to his desk. He sat down and started writing too. Mason noticed that some kids watched him for a minute. Two girls started to whisper.

He growled. “No talking. I am trying to write.”

Some kids laughed. He growled again. It quieted, and all were writing.

Mason took her pen to her pad. She wrote about the day, but mostly the curly-headed boy that had picked up her notebook. She wrote how she thought he was definitely older, and he how he had a bad boy prince personality. She laughed quietly. She knew it was a little silly, but that what was on her mind. Her writing took on a creative angle as she found herself writing about the boy’s troubled past in another country.

She flinched when Mr. Williams yelled, “Times Up.”

Kids all over the room were grinning, nodding or flexing their hands. There was a buzz of voices.

“Let’s share.” The buzz died instantly.

Mason casually covered her notebook with her arms.

“I will go first,” said Williams.

            And off he went. He wrote from the perspective of a student sitting in class wondering who the new teacher was that told everyone to write. He even wrote, “Who the hell is this Williams guy, and why is he making us write so much?”
            Kids laughed at what he wrote. It was clever. It sounded like a ninth grade kid wrote it, bad grammar and slang included.
            When he finished, he looked about the room. Everyone was quiet. He said, “Thank you for letting me share.” He nodded. “When we do a free writing like we just did, we will share. No comments will be made, just a ‘Thank you for sharing’ will be given, and then we move on.” He paused, eyeing the class some more. His eyebrows were a wiry mess. “Who wants to share?”
            Four hands went up.
            Mason inadvertently glanced at D.T. and his paper; he only had written a sentence or two. The rest of the page was a drawing that sent a chill over Mason. It was of a dark hand reaching out of a door in the middle of a neighborhood and grabbing a girl.