Face the Dragon by Joyce Sweeney

Author:Joyce Sweeney
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504004282
Publisher: Open Road Media

10

Mary Thornton edged her way to the front of the room, touching desks as she passed them. Eric hated it when it was her turn to speak. She was the worst student in the class, and Mr. Drake had no patience with her.

While his students recited, Mr. Drake usually sat on a conference table at the back of the room, smoking, swinging one leg, and sometimes jotting notes on the students’ performances. You could always tell by his face how you were doing. Before Mary even got to the front of the room, he was frowning.

Today’s assignment had been to memorize something and recite it. It could be a poem, a political speech, or a soliloquy from a play. Eric, naturally, had recited from Beowulf, and Mr. Drake had showered him with praise. Paul, ever the show-off, had recited Patrick Henry’s “Give Me Liberty” speech. When he was finished, Eric was just about ready to go to war against England, but Mr. Drake said Paul’s performance was marred by his tendency to overdramatize. Paul got a B to Eric’s A. Not that Eric was keeping score.…

It was near the end of the period now, and Mary was the last student to recite. She was always one of the last ones. You could watch her, all through class, checking her notes and wringing her hands, working herself into a terror frenzy. Eric couldn’t imagine why she didn’t volunteer to go first sometimes and spare herself all that agony.

She faced the class now, trembling. Her right hand clung to her left hand. “This …” she said. Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. “This is ‘The Voice,’ a poem by Walter de la Mare.”

“Speak up, please,” called Mr. Drake.

Eric glanced back and saw that Mr. Drake was reading through his grade book, not even looking at Mary.

Mary flipped her hair out of her eyes. She was very blond and pale. Even her eyebrows were blond. She had one of those haircuts that form a curtain to hide a girl’s face if she leans forward. She cleared her throat again. “‘The Voice,’” she repeated, straining to speak louder. “As I sat in the gloaming, I heard a voice say …”

“Let go of your hand, there,” Mr. Drake said. “Don’t hold hands with yourself.”

Mary looked horrified with herself. She put her hands down at her sides. Her fingers instinctively plucked at the edge of her skirt. Then she realized she was doing that, and her fingers froze. She looked miserable. “Should I start over?”

“I would say so, yes,” said Mr. Drake. “Just don’t give us the title again. I think we’ve got that.”

Mary closed her eyes briefly, like someone receiving a painful injection. Then she opened them again, looking determined and resolute. “As I sat in the gloaming, I heard a voice say, Weep no more, sigh no more, come, come away.”

“What is your foot doing?” Mr. Drake cried.

She looked down. She was standing on one foot. Her other leg was bent at the knee, the foot creeping up the front of Mr.

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