heart.
“Of course for a long time all anybody in England seemed to be interested in was finding the right husband for Elizabeth,” Angela says, glancing over at Mr. Erikson like she’s proving a point. “Everyone doubted that she’d be able to rule by herself.
But she turned out to be one of the best and most revered monarchs in history. She ushered in a golden age for England.”
“Yeah, but didn’t she die a virgin?” asks Tucker from the back of the class.
Angela doesn’t waver. She immediately launches into her stuff about the Virgin Queen, the way Elizabeth used the image of the virgin to make her unmarried status more attractive.
Tucker is standing against the back wall, smirking.
“Sir Tucker,” I say suddenly, interrupting Angela.
“Yeah?”
“I believe the correct response is, yes,
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says sarcastically.
“Have a care, Sir Tucker, lest you find yourself in the stockades.”
He scoffs and looks at Mr. Erikson. “She can’t do that, can she? She’s not the ruler of this class. Brady is.”
“She’s queen today,” says Mr. Erikson, leaning back in his chair. “I’d shut up if I were you.”
“You could strip him of his title,” suggests Brady, apparently not minding at all that I have usurped his throne. “Make him a serf.”
“Yeah,” says Christian. “Make him a serf. Being a serf blows.”
As a serf, poor Christian has already been killed several times in our class. Aside from dying of the Black Plague on the first day, he’s starved to death, had his hands cut off for stealing a loaf of bread, and been run down by his master’s horse just for kicks. He’s like Christian the fifth now.
“Or you could get rid of him altogether. Throw him in the Tower of London. Have him drawn and quartered. Maybe the rack. Or a red-hot enema,” says Mr. Erikson, laughing. You have to admire a teacher who’d suggest death via red-hot enema.
“Perhaps we should put it to a vote,” I say, looking coolly at Tucker, remembering how he almost got me burned as a witch. Sweet revenge.
“All in favor of death to Sir Tucker the heretic, raise your hand,” says Angela quickly.
I look around the classroom at the raised hands. It’s unanimous. Except for Tucker, who stands in the back with his arms crossed.
“Red-hot enema it is,” I say.
“I’ll mark it down,” says Mr. Erikson gleefully.
“Now that that’s settled,” says Angela, looking at me sharply, “let me tell you about the defeat of the Spanish Armada.”
I cast a triumphant glance at Tucker. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. He nods at me, as if to say,
Point: Clara.
Go me.
“What was
“The thing with Tucker? I know! I can’t figure him out.”
“No, the thing where you spaced out in the middle of your speech and left me hanging in front of the entire class.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I had the vision. How long was I out?”
“Only like ten seconds. But it was the longest ten seconds ever. I thought I was going to have to slap you.”
“Sorry,” I say again. “It’s not something I can control.”
“I know. It’s fine.” We burst into the girls’ bathroom and stand in the handicap stall while Angela disassembles the dress and I step out of it. She unties the corset and I gasp in relief, finally able to take a full breath.
“You saw the forest fire?” she asks, peeking out to make sure we’re alone.
“No, not this time.”
She grins wickedly as she hands me my sweatshirt. “You saw Christian.”
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.
“Yes.” I carefully remove the headpiece and hand it to Angela, then pull the shirt over my head.
“So you were like, looking at Christian in class and then you were looking at him in the future. That’s wild, C.”
“Tell me about it.” I pull on my jeans and walk over to the mirror to survey the damage to my hair. “Ugh. I need a shower.”
