Mr. Miles gave me a curious look. I chuckled. I had covered a vast and winding route to get to the proper social studies class. I pulled out my notebook and fumbled for a pencil. Hadn’t I organized them in math? Yeah, and dropped one at lunch. I promised myself, as I continued rooting around, next time I’d actually zip up the compartment I put them in. Anyhow, I was victorious! Pietr surely would learn a lesson in humility by getting lost, and now I just needed a pencil. . . . People began taking their seats. I could hear the groans and squeaks of the seats even with my head nearly in my bag. Someone tapped my desk. “What?” I asked, not looking up. Someone sat beside me. I pulled back from my backpack, only to see Pietr holding out a pencil for me. Defiant, I thrust my hand into my bag one last time and—aha! I withdrew the pencil and held it high in triumph. Mr. Miles boomed, “Whoever pulls the sword from the stone, wait—the pencil from the backpack—she shall be . . .”
