Chronicles Vladimir 01 - Eighth Grade Bites Page 15

  She looked at him, her blue eyes twinkling, and when she smiled again, Vlad felt like he was flying. “Hey, Vlad. How are you?”

  “I’m great.” He cleared his throat and glanced around before meeting her eyes. “But I’d be better if you went to the Freedom Fest dance with me.”

  Her lips parted, a glimpse of white porcelain as her smile spread into a grin. “I’d love to.”

  Vlad’s heart drummed out an elated beat, and as he uttered the most ridiculous thing possible (Did I just say thank you? he asked himself), Mr. Otis entered the room, ushering in the final stragglers so they could get down to the business of their last day. “Good morning, class. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  Otis dropped his bag on his chair and leaned against the desk. “After today, you are all finally free of my tyrannical grasp and now-infamous pop quizzes. Pressing matters are taking me away from the town of Bathory, despite much pleading on the part of the school board. So after the game this afternoon, I’ll bid you all a fond farewell.

  “But never fear. It may be my last day here . . . but you are collectively beginning an exciting journey. I’m sure the coming years in Bathory High will prove far more fascinating than any one of my classroom hours.” Otis smiled at his students, pausing for a moment with his eyes on Vlad.

  Outside the open door stood Henry, most likely on his way to the final student council meeting of the year. He’d already been elected president of the ninth-grade student council beginning the following term, a big promotion from treasurer. He waved frantically at Vlad, who returned the favor. Henry held up a finger and turned his head for a moment. When he looked back at Vlad, he was wearing a pair of cheap plastic fangs and dancing around like such a dork that Vlad could no longer contain his laughter.

  Mr. Otis looked at Vlad, then Henry. There was a silent pause before the door closed with a slam. Otis offered Vlad a wink. “Must be the wind.”

  Otis turned to the board and began scratching out details that needed to be addressed before the end of the day and the beginning of Freedom Fest.

  Vlad leaned forward in his seat and pressed his cheek against his palm. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his new tattoo glow slightly. Poking out of his backpack was his father’s journal, carefully bookmarked where Vlad had left off reading. Beside it was a composition notebook.

  Scribbled on the cover was The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod.